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kylorengarbagedump · 2 days ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 28 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 27 here.

Summary: Look, you've never been good at "talking" or "sharing your feelings", so why should you start now?

Words: 9000

Warnings: choking, face-slapping, spanking, forced orgasm, overstimulation

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Hello! We hope everyone has had a good Pride month, if you celebrate! This chapter has been an absolute BEAST (second longest of the fic, I think) and we re-wrote it about 3 times hahaha. However I think we're pretty satisfied with the outcome! We also hope you enjoy :)

We've got about 10 chapters left, now, which is crazy. Truly want to thank everyone for their patience and engagement and just everything. We truly have the best and most thoughtful readers and it warms our hearts so deeply <3

SEE YOU SOON <3

For the third morning in a row, Grace stirred in your arms. Her eyes flicked wildly beneath her lids, her limbs trembling against an invisible tether. Wincing, you held her close, shushing into her hair, rocking her against your chest to wake her. With a jerk and a cry, she burst to consciousness, seeking out the monsters that had fled behind her eyes.

“It's all right,” you said, rubbing her back. You glanced around the room you shared with Lottie. She'd already risen for the morning. “It's all right. I'm here. You're safe.”

Grace blinked and shuddered before meeting your gaze, her face falling. “Goodness me,” she whispered, snuggling into you. “I can't help but disturb your sleep, can I?”

You shook your head. “Nonsense. I worry for you.”

“Well, I find it exhausting.”

“I'm sure,” you replied, then looked down at her. Her cheeks had regained some of their lively color since her arrival with Ferguson those few days past. But her countenance remained somber. Of the battle, she had said little. You knew only that the site had been King's Mountain, and the toll had been tremendous. “Tell me about them. Please?”

“Stop asking,” she grumbled. “They’re terrible.”

“It will help.”

“Nothing helps,” she groaned. “It is too awful to even think of.”

“But you’re thinking of it anyway,” you said, poking the side of her head. “So don't allow it to swim about in there all day.”

“I've no room for anything to swim in there!” she hid a half grin in your shoulder, batting your hand away. “You and Papa filled it with too much nonsense when I was a girl.”

“Very funny,” you said, finger jabbing the middle of her forehead and tipping her back to look at you. “Now confess your nightmares.”

She sighed, flicking your finger away with the most half-hearted of scowls before relaxing into you. “They're strange tangled webs,” she murmured. “Like the day itself happens out of order.” A pause as she chewed her lip. “But it always starts with Patrick getting shot.”

You nodded.

“He always falls. Sometimes off his horse, sometimes right into my arms. He's bleeding, bleeding everywhere, from his head and his mouth and his face is covered in dirt. And all I can do is plug his wounds with my hands as more appear.” Her voice tightened. “And he's gasping, saying my name, holding onto me. And then somehow he's shot again, and blood covers both of us.”

“Oh, Grace…”

“And I tear off my kerchief, and I rip my petticoats, and I tie off every wound I can find, but they keep opening, until the blood is like a river, and men are dying all around us, and I stop being able to hear his voice and it's just muskets and horses and screams and—”

She whimpered, drew in a shaky breath, and you squeezed her close, shushing her again. A sob choked through her.

“It was awful,” she said. And then, after a pause and a sniffle, “But it is less awful to speak of it than to think of it.” Finally, she exhaled, her muscles melting. “It seems my mind resolves to contort the horrors where my tongue lends them temperance.”

“Ah,” you said, grinning to yourself, “so you're saying I was correct?” You released a teasing, self-satisfied giggle. “Who could have anticipated this?”

Grace grumbled. “If only something might temper your pride!” she said, giving you a shove.

“I suppose I’ll refrain from gloating too much this time,” you said, grinning as you deflected her attempt to poke you in the ribs. A true smile of her own had broken through, and the sight lifted a weight from your heart. You allowed yourself to bask in the feeling for a few moments before tussling her hair and flinging the covers from you both. “Come, now. Shall we break our fast?”

She rolled over and stretched until her limbs popped, sighing. “That sounds more appealing than it has in days. And I want to visit Patrick, as well. He managed to speak a bit yesterday and I have hopes that we'll complete an entire conversation.”

“You’ve spent quite a bit of time at his bedside.” You began to ease out of bed, unraveling Grace from your protective embrace. “Is it really necessary to visit him for so many hours each day?”

Her eyes narrowed. “When he tires of my company, I shall relent,” she replied, flipping herself to sit. “Which is to say, I never shall.”

Grace sprang up and twirled away from the bed like a forest sprite. Though her mirth made you warm, her complete disregard of your concern coiled up to sting you behind the nose. With her back turned, you swallowed your smile and reached for your clothes in silence.

When both of you were laced, tied, and pinned from toe to collar, you set off together down the hall to exit the main house. Just as you reached for the door it burst open and two soldiers stomped through, nearly shouldering you aside. You rolled your eyes.

“What’s the bloody rush?” you mumbled.

Beyond the perimeter of the house, more noise, men’s voices clamoring, the rumble of feet and hooves. Grace stiffened beside you, and you grabbed her hand, pulling her through the house and out to the front.

The gate was splayed open, soldiers already filing into columns on either side of its entrance. Through the portal, flags whipped in the wind, a handsome, ornamented cavalry cresting the hill. At its front was a familiar gilded shape. You steered Grace behind the soldiers. His arrival could only be due to the King's Mountain debacle—something you could almost certainly attribute to Goddard’s intervention—and his presence put the both of you in even greater danger.

“Who’s that?” Grace whispered, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the men you’d positioned yourself behind.

“Lord Cornwallis!” proclaimed an officer you didn’t recognize, stepping forward to greet him.

“Food?” you said, ushering Grace away from the soldiers.

“The general?” She tried to tug herself from your grip. “God, he could be here to discipline Patrick. But it wasn’t his fault—”

You tightened your hold, dragging her. “That’s not our concern right now.”

The sound of shuffling, the clink of metal as Cornwallis dismounted his house. “Where is Colonel Tavington?”

Your heels ground the dirt.

“In his office, my Lord,” replied the officer.

“Take me to him,” Cornwallis replied. “Posthaste, if you will.”

“Right this way, sir,” said the officer.

Your mind leapt over a dozen hurdles at once. If Cornwallis was indeed here due to King's Mountain, then his communication with William, who was already suspicious of Goddard, meant that the target on Goddard was about to balloon. The size of such a target on Goddard inherently brought its edges closer to you. And that was a precipice you’d prefer not to walk, given the rather explosive manner in which you last left William.

You hadn’t spoken to him since that fight. You couldn’t so much as consider it these past days without a ripple of rage rising in your belly. He’d been such an arse. As if the distance you’d enforced had been unreasonable somehow. As if he were incapable of surmising how a discovery of this… whatever it was between you might devastate Grace and rend your relationship with her. It was not a rigorous leap of logic to perform. So why, on God’s most holy celestial planet Earth, was he clinging to such willful ignorance to the difficult position you occupied?

Yet somehow the most vexing part of it all was that those ripples of rage bore an undercurrent. An insurmountable pull. Beyond resentment of his absence, it was a subconscious prayer each morning that you would open your eyes to find that the warm presence beside you was his, and not your sister’s.

It made you sick. It struck a fissure down your heart that could not be tarred over by any application of rage or artificial apathy. And with Cornwallis’ arrival, a new shunt had induced its hemorrhaging: the fear that any day William would discover your lies, and you’d never awaken beside him again.

Grace hissed your name. “Are we going, or not?”

Whatever your feelings for William—and the danger those feelings presented—you needed to know what he and Cornwallis were discussing.

You shook your head, reorienting yourself. “Yes, yes,” you replied. “Let’s.”

The moment you and Grace arrived at the kitchen, you stopped in the entry, mumbling a curse under your breath.

“What?” Grace asked. “What is it?”

“I wanted to write a letter this morning to send off before noon,” you said, already turning back. “To update Dr. Moore on the situation here.”

“Oh,” Grace said. “Must you right now?”

“I'll forget, otherwise!” You waved her off. “I'll be back in a moment, save me some milk porridge!”

Holding your breath, you darted around to the back door of the main house, slipping through and pausing in the shadow of the staircase to listen. A bassy hum bled through layers of wood, the words indistinct but the timbres familiar.

You'd need to get closer.

Hands shaking, you ascended the stairs, deciding to make your way toward the water closet, since William’s office was on the way and it gave you as good an excuse as any to be up here should you be caught. As you crept to his office door, the cotton voices grew clearer, divided: a soft, tense baritone accompanied by a dissonant tenor.

“You’ll need to assume his duties at present, then, Colonel.”

“Ferguson’s remaining provincials have already been incorporated with the Legion,” came William’s voice. He added dismissively, “Those that have not fled.”

Cornwallis heaved a deep sigh. “I trust I needn’t impress upon you the gravity of this situation.”

“Indeed not, my Lord,” was the reply.

Heavy boots crossed the floor. “These bands of militia rabble are out of control,” Cornwallis continued anyway. “First your ghost, now these banditti from over the mountains,” he grumbled. “If more are allowed to gather, to organize, the Carolinas shall slip through our very fingers like water. That mustn't happen.”

“I agree entirely,” replied William, his tone tight.

“I depart tomorrow to Ninety Six. Upon my return, I expect a clear strategy in place for the enforcement of loyalty in this God-forsaken region. And bear in mind, Colonel,” a pause, a creak of the floorboards, and the general’s voice lowered. “The more blood you wantonly spill into this land, the more ghosts and banditti will come crawling out of it. Proceed accordingly.”

No response. You couldn’t tell if William was chastened or furious. Or both.

As you leaned closer, a pair of footsteps thumped the stairs behind you. You flailed and tripped forward, galloping into the hall, eyes straight ahead as you marched to the water closet door, opened it, and flung it shut behind you. Beyond it, you heard a knock on William's office. Your heart pounded in your temples.

“My Lord?”

“I'm occupied at present, General O’Hara. It can wait!” Cornwallis called without hesitation or even bothering to open the door.

“My Lord. I beg your pardon,” said the man—O’Hara, who you barely remembered from the ball at Middleton Place—and then, “I must speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

With that, you heard him disappear down the steps. You exhaled.

Easing the door open, you slid back into the hall, crept forward with feather steps until you could make out patches of conversation again.

“...must discern how these rebels discovered Ferguson’s position on King’s Mountain. How they acted so swiftly.” Cornwallis’ voice and footsteps crossed the room. He was pacing. Agitated. Perhaps Goddard had been right—perhaps this rebel victory held far more weight than you could have imagined. “Ferguson is a careful and deliberate man,” he continued, half-murmuring as if pondering a tricky cypher. “I doubt it was rashness that pushed him toward calamity.”

“Not rashness, my Lord.” William’s voice had remained fixed in the center of the room.

Cornwallis’ footsteps halted. “You speak as if you have an idea, Colonel.”

Silence.

“Out with it, man!”

“I suspect,” said William slowly, “that the rebels have an informant.”

“A spy?” Cornwallis scoffed. “Your dragoons have torn this countryside to ribbons. Surely they would have caught such a scoundrel.”

Another pause. When William spoke, it was as if through splintered glass. “Within our own ranks.”

More silence. Then Cornwallis took three slow, measured steps. “You are quite confident in this speculation?”

“It is only with such intimate knowledge that a massacre of this severity could have been achieved,” William explained, and you recognized in his tone a brittle yet carefully schooled deference to duty. Beneath the veil, you knew his blood boiled to say the words aloud. Your heart knocked your sternum. “The militia knew not only of Ferguson’s position but of his intended path. His plans to rendezvous with Your Lordship in North Carolina. The strength of his forces and the disposition of his arms and supplies.”

“I hope,” growled Cornwallis, “that by raising concerns regarding such an egregious oversight in your own leadership, you also assume the responsibility of resolving it.”

“I have—”

“Colonel, we lost almost one thousand men during this disaster. There is very little time and even littler manpower to be spent on this task. I expect you to see it done personally.”

“As was my plan, my Lord.”

“Excellent. Good day, Colonel.”

Cornwallis’s boots quaked the ground. You scrambled behind the water closet door again, listening for the office entry to squeal open and slam shut. Following it was the storm of the general as he pounded down the steps, his fury silencing the air.

You waited for what seemed like at least half an eternity, your ear pressed to wood, your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips. When you heard no other movement, you allowed a breath to leak through your nose and opened the door. Relieved, you stepped out into the hall and turned.

Straight into William Tavington.

At once, your chests collided, and he grunted, snatched you by the shoulders and held you at bay.

“William,” you breathed. “I—”

“What are you doing?” His gaze cut you like a scythe to grass, his face hardened. “Come to overhear something of interest, did you?”

Your cheeks lit up. “What? No! I wasn't—” You squirmed in his grip, which only caused his fingers to dig deeper. “Let go of me, you odious cur!”

“I loathe to imagine what that makes you, given the position I’ve found you in.” His eyes narrowed, his jaw shifted, and he pulled you closer. “I believe we are due a conversation, girl.”

“Is that right?” You laughed sharply, joy absent from your face. “I couldn't agree more!”

He growled, looming into your space, brow low over the obsidian point of his stare. “Then let us converse, hm?”

Footsteps on the stairs. Growing closer. “My Lord?”

William’s eye twitched, and he pushed you away, letting you stumble back to a respectable distance.

“Tonight,” he muttered between his teeth. “After sunset. At the redoubt.”

You shrugged off the tingling remnants of his hold. “Very well, Colonel,” you replied, chin tilted toward the air.

“Ah. Colonel,” said O’Hara with the enthusiasm of the grave. “I must speak with you.”

You gave William a curtsy. “Good day, Colonel Tavington,” you said, and with another stiff bow to O’Hara, brushed past him to scuttle down the stairs.

The pounding did not fade from your ears until well after breakfast, through the midday and past the sun’s zenith. It lent your hands an irritable flair as you attended your patients, earning complaints which oddly appeased the worst of your enmity. Then the pounding resumed as Grace struck up a cloying exchange with Ferguson, a correspondence which sent her spirits soaring and yours equally plummeting.

Thinking perhaps a correspondence of your own might absorb your distress, you trudged back to your room to actually write the letter you'd lied about earlier, since it was likely a good idea for Dr. Moore to get your report, anyway. Though you assumed that by now Cornwallis had already demanded Moore’s presence, you still didn't wish to add more lies to the pile you'd already told your sister.

Grace. Every minute spent around her only deepened the anger you felt toward William. Toward yourself. Yourself for betraying her and every value you'd impressed upon her, and William for being so… himself. Your despair would not be nearly as keen if he was a man who was kind, or generous, or gentle.

In other words, a man who would have never obtained your affections to begin with.

And that really was the crux of it, wasn't it? If you truly wanted to exorcise the wrath from your body, all you would need to do is never see William again, just as you'd threatened a few nights prior. You had no issue refusing his company for one night for Grace's benefit, and you'd gone a few days without it since.

You had refused yourself everything, in fact, for your father’s benefit, for Grace’s benefit, refused every last desire and instinct in service of something that seemed less and less tangible. Refusing it all, really, for reasons that seemed more and more asinine the longer Grace spent in your presence fawning over Ferguson. She had no compunction stirring your umbrage. All you had done was collect greater burdens without a moment of reward or gratitude. Unbidden, you remembered the exhaustion that had colonized your mother’s eyes.

Had fate placed your footsteps in hers? Were your efforts to be supped from, your own cares unheeded until you withered away just the same?

It was terror, then, that gripped you.

For every drop of living water you offered from your own cup, its returns seemed to diminish. It seemed a certainty that you would fail Papa. Even more a certainty that you would lose Grace. That no matter how adamantly you refused William, even if you refused him for eternity, nothing at all would come of it. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To give freely of yourself whatever was required and wish for nothing in return? It was what had always been expected of you. A burden that had brought you pride to bear.

And yet the idea of refusing William for eternity—never again burying yourself in his embrace, never again whining as his mouth burned your throat, never again seeing the crinkle near his eyes when fighting off a smile—made your stomach want to invert itself onto the ground.

Perhaps that was why you found your palms sweating as you watched the sun descend below the trees in the west, why your heart had become a bird flitting against its bone cage. You did not know how this conversation with William would end, but the circumstances under which it was demanded stoked an unfamiliar, wretched fear within you.

He had, you were sure, caught you in a dubious position one too many times.

His summons were to inform you that he could no longer withstand lying next to a woman who had deceived him as you had.

Death did not even enter your thoughts as a consequence. Instead you worried that the day you feared had come. The any day from which you might never awaken beside him again. Perhaps it would be akin to death.

Perhaps it would be worse.

Once the sky fully engorged itself in darkness, you excused yourself from your room, hands in fists. This was how they remained as you whisked through the main house to the front gates, which appeared to be conspicuously unmanned. A sign, you knew, that William had already made his way through, that he was waiting for you at the redoubt. Your tongue dried.

In the darkness, the abatis along the path raked up from the ground, like werewolves rising to feast in the moonlight. Your skin felt raw, vulnerable in their shadows—or perhaps it was the knowledge your own werewolf waited for you at the end of the path, star-blue eyes devoured by their own hunger.

As the redoubt came into clarity with its patchy stockade built into the earth, so too did this werewolf, cloaked now in the skin of a man. He stood with hands folded behind his back in the shade of the stubby earthwork, his gaze trained on you as any experienced hunter’s would be. His attention flicked to every potential unnatural movement of your feet, your hands, your throat. Like he was waiting for you to turn and run. Like he was waiting to give chase.

When your feet finally hit the dirt-weathered planks, your heart bounced. You stared at William Tavington, unwilling to speak first; even less willing to allow yourself to feel strangled by his presence.

“Well,” you announced, pushing the crown of your head toward the sky. “I’ve arrived.”

William stared. “Indeed you have.”

“You said we—”

“The same day Major Ferguson arrives gutted from battle,” he began, stepping toward you, “you arrive in my office with a prepared excuse to avoid me.” He drew closer, turned. Circled. “The same day we sustain massive casualties, you evade nearly all conversation with me as well.”

You frowned, twisting to follow his path with your eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I find it… curious.”

“Find what to be curious?” Hair prickled on the back of your neck. “There are a great many things that men have considered curious about me.”

He shrugged, as if offering a simple possibility. “The coinciding of these events.”

You rolled your eyes. He was going to dangle you like a fish from a line, watch your gills claw for air before gutting you. “If you’re to accuse me of something, then say it plainly.”

Spinning, he pinned you with his gaze. “Why must I?” he snipped. “I said it plainly enough this morning. Have I overestimated your intellect?”

“You…” You laughed, hoping the crow of your voice would conceal the break of nerves. “You must jest.”

William’s lip twitched, and he stepped closer. “So you admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“If you think me foolish enough to dismiss how I found you—”

You sneered. “Tell me how you found me. Say it aloud!”

“You are the only one with the knowledge, opportunity—”

“Opportunity?” you barked. “Are you absolutely mad? I’ve been half-dead with the agues these past weeks! You should be well aware of that!”

“—you are the only one with the rancor toward Ferguson to see it done—”

“And I saved the man’s life!” you snapped, throwing your hands to the air. “You believe I would orchestrate his death only to drag him back from the grave?”

William’s voice thinned to a blade. “I believe your efforts would have appeared far less admirable had your sister not been present.”

“Yes, the suggestion of being even suspected of incompetence utterly thrills me!” you snarled. “I could not have damned King's Mountain just as you apparently cannot catch your ghost!”

Fury flashed in his eyes, an expression which you matched in kind. Perhaps it was only the technical truth—you had spoken to Goddard and you had traded information—but his words stung like hornets nonetheless. And suddenly, in your furious mirror, you beheld a perfect reflection. Your jaw fell half-open.

“You accuse me of trading intelligence while deathly ill because you are hurt.” The words hardly made sense as you spoke them, yet they felt right on your lips. “You are hurt that I rejected you.”

He snorted, stepping back like you’d made a joke. “You cloak these decisions in advantageous excuses,” he replied, mock-thoughtful. “Were you not motivated, perhaps, by guilt?”

“Guilt!”

“For endangering the man your sister so dearly loves?” he said, lingering on the final words like honey. “For slipping in and out of my bed pretending to entertain my advances all while dispensing information that undermines the Crown?”

“You are mad!” The admission that he considered your affections a performance wounded you deeper than any other jab. “I feel no guilt for either of those things!” you hissed. “Because neither of them are true! But you are—you are so bound up in your own selfish pride that you cannot bring yourself to consider it!”

You laughed again, hands on your hips. The reality of your feelings was the only reason you stood before him, and it seemed he planned to discount them entirely.

“But if you truly wish to accuse me of deception and never risk me slipping in and out of your bed again, then so be it.”

William smirked, like you’d somehow proved him correct. “How assuaged of responsibility you’d be then.”

You advanced on him, hands aching to strike. “Assuaged of responsibility?” you cackled mirthlessly. “I’ve not known a day without it since my mother died!”

“Then you must ache for relief from it,” he replied quickly, meeting you step for step until your bodies were inches apart. “You must crave to escape from being beholden to anything inconvenient to you.”

“I do not and never have!”

“Is my presence not an inconvenience while under your sister’s shadow?”

“I…” You blinked, shaking the words off—was he wishing to end your association or not? “I did not reject you because of inconvenience!”

He snorted. “That is exactly why you rejected me,” he murmured, “and why you claimed you would continue to reject me.”

“No,” you replied, even though it felt true, “that isn’t what—”

“Do not think I do not still detest you for these reasons as well,” William replied, voice affected with an irritatingly accurate imitation of you.

“That sounds nothing like me.”

“It sounds precisely like you.”

“Ugh!” You pounced, slamming the heels of your hands into his shoulders and shoving him back. Sneering, William seized your wrists and drove you against a high retaining wall. “Why, then?” you spat as you connected with it, wriggling between the strength of his grip and the gnarled wood gouging your spine. “Why desire me, why pursue me, why bring me here under pretense of conversation? If you so truly believe I have skulked about beneath your nose, make your accusations and have done! I will no longer indulge whatever pleasure you take in raking me over the coals.”

“You impossible—”

“You wish me gone,” you cried. “You wish to report me, wish for me to hang, just as you have since the moment you met me.”

“That is not—”

“You have taken my virtue! You have had my body for your amusement! You have branded my flesh and my spirit and now wish to be rid of both! You claim that I deny you, and yet do such accusations not conveniently facilitate your denial of me? Why, after all, would you desire the company of a traitor?”

“I do not desire the company of a traitor!”

He thrust backward a step, leaving you to sag against the wall, each staring at each other and fighting for the breath you’d lost. In the threads of moonlight that draped the silence, in every second that passed without him drawing farther away, the unsaid words took shape: so I cannot bear to deem you one. For the first time since you entered the redoubt, William averted his gaze. His hands flexed at his sides, lip curling as he shook his head, before his attention pierced you anew.

“And I am not the one who must answer for denial.”

Your jaw slackened, chin trembling. Realization worked its way into you like fingers through a wound. He still wanted you. And you—despite the reality that you were lying to him, that you were a traitor, that you even now deceived him—could not claim this to be your motivation in denying him what he wanted. What you wanted to give him. No, as ever, it was fear that had tethered you to distance. He had once called you a coward, and you had spent nothing short of months only proving him right.

That very distance you’d so deliberately wedged between your bodies now felt like a misplaced dam. Fragile. Intolerable. And in the silence you felt only a longing for him to reach out, rip one stone free, and topple it.

“You were right,” you whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“You were right!” you choked out, arms falling to your sides. “I was afraid! I rejected you because I was afraid!” The words constricted your throat. “Had the pagan gods granted me but one boon of courage I would have lain in your chambers that night.” You shook your head, folding your arms. “And every night since.”

William’s jaw stiffened. His steel gaze flicked across your face. “You deny pretending to entertain my advances?”

“You are utterly foolish,” you huffed, “to believe I would permit your mouth upon my throat if I had an ounce of pretending within me.”

William’s head tilted as he considered you. A split second of hesitation was the only vulnerability he exposed as he closed the distance between you like a gaining tide. Awash in his shadow, your arms dropped again, revealing your body like a stretch of open shore to receive him.

“I thought you might be persuaded to reason,” you said.

“Reason hardly governs me at this moment.” He exhaled, near enough that his breath skated your skin, scrutinizing you as if you might flee. “Do you deny me now?”

“That depends, Colonel,” you replied. “Am I your calculating spy?” Your throat thickened, and you slid a hand up his chest, admiring how broad it looked underneath your palm. “Or your vicious, uncollared thing?”

His lip twitched upward. “You are neither,” he said, his arm snaking around your back, arching you flush with his body. His mouth ghosted your ear. “You are simply mine.”

Breath catching, warmth flooded your chest. Your hands smoothed over his shoulders. “Then make me yours.”

William said nothing else, his free hand cupping your cheek and guiding your face toward his.

It was strange, at first—his mouth brushed yours like a kitten dipping its toes in water—once, twice, testing that the surface would heed his will. When you sighed into him, his fingers curled around the back of your skull, and he kissed you as if he’d erupted from the dirt just to taste your lips.

Desire swelled within you. Between illness and war and your own stubbornness, you had denied yourself its presence but for brief, increasingly greater intervals, and in his arms, standing on your own feet, you found it alive, fighting to command you. So you reached up, scraped your nails over his scalp and pinched his lip between your teeth—deciding you would let it.

William stiffened, a groan skipping in his throat, and snatched both of your wrists and slammed them beside your head. A shudder rippled over him, like a muscle threatening to blister free of skin, and he stared at you, eyes untouched by the moonlight. Shaken breath escaped him, his boot edging between your feet.

“I fear you lack instincts of self-preservation,” he murmured.

Smirking up at him, you replied, “I do not fear it at all.”

The night enshrined him in lust. “I see the pagan gods have answered your prayers for courage,” he said, scraping his teeth across your neck, “but I do not plan to consider your welfare.”

Before you could reply, his grip on your wrists tightened, and he sank his teeth into your throat, earning a sharp, delighted howl. William groaned, sucking a bruise to life through broken veins, branding you from your pulse to the skin beneath your kerchief. You wilted against him, hips rolling, exhilarated need rushing from between your thighs to your fingertips, blowing your mind clear of everything but him.

His mouth met your shoulder and paused, panting fog into your flesh. A grunt escaped him, and he kissed your lips again, possessive, furious, twisting your arms behind your back and binding you against him. You squealed, shivering as his tongue swirled over yours, and bucked into him, writhing against his hold. Not because you wanted to be free. You simply wanted to see what he’d do.

The moment you fought him, his muscles tightened, and he broke away, flipped you around and smashed your chest into the wall. He loomed over your shoulder, heaving, and ripped your neckerchief free and to the ground, fumbled with your bodice before bidding it join the rest. His hips kept you pinned to the wall as he unlaced your stays, grumbling when this yielded no further access to your body.

Without a word, he raised your arms above your head and thrust your stays upward before tossing them to the side, leaving you in your shift and petticoats, your nipples hardening in the cool air. Gooseflesh bloomed alive—you wanted more, more, more of him, wanted to wind him so taut that he unleashed his longing in a rage. Biting your lip, you took advantage of your position and rocked backward into him, grinding your ass against his pelvis, feeling the evidence of that need straining behind his breeches.

William snarled. A fist curled into your hair, jerked your head back to face the sky, and his other hand clutched your exposed throat, squeezing just enough to blur your sight. You wheezed, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

“You are far, far too willing to taunt me,” he muttered, adding pressure to his grip. “It’s nearly as if you wish to suffer.”

It had been weeks. Weeks of illness, weeks without this ferocity of attention, and you realized now how deeply you had ached for it, how deeply you had craved the freedom to bare your teeth without shame, to unsheathe your claws without fear of reprimand, how deeply you reveled in the opportunity to draw blood and find retribution in only in throbbing, weeping bliss.

You reached behind you and grabbed his hips, undulating against him again. “If you believe you can make me.”

Something feral rumbled far in his chest. His hand at your throat pinched, pushed you flat against him, his other hand moving from your hair to gather your skirts above your knees. You whined, laughed with fleeting joy as he slid his hand over your exposed thighs to the anticipation between them. The moment his fingers coursed through the curls there, your eyelids fluttered, your knees shook, and you twitched, trying to force his touch to your clit.

Tutting, he squeezed your throat again, your vision melting into the night sky, and skimmed between your folds, a needy breath skating your ear when you moaned. William rocked into you, his grip tensing, his greed for you brimming at the edge of his skin—and when you trembled, two fingers teased your clit, then swirled over it with practiced, determined ease.

“Oh,” you whimpered, woozy from the hand at your neck and the weight of your own desire. “My God—”

“I’m flattered,” he said, and pressed his mouth to your ear, teasing his tongue across the shell, nipping at the lobe. “Now name for me the master to whom your body submits.”

You nuzzled against him, gripping his hips, your mouth falling open as his fingers moved faster, tighter, engulfing you in instant, overwhelming pleasure. Your cunt clenched, your thighs parted, you felt yourself wet and hot at his hand, and you knew there had ever, would ever only be a single answer.

But you did not want to give him that just yet.

“I know no such master,” you managed to say.

William huffed. “Do you not?”

In a single beat he released you, spun you, and smacked your back to the wall, his chest crushing yours. His concealed cock ground against your thigh, his mouth warm and beckoning at your ear. Without hesitation, his fingers plunged into your cunt and the heel of his palm wedged against your swollen clit, pushing a cry free. Writhing and helpless beneath his strength, the liquor thrill of it weakened your limbs, clouded your mind.

“Ever the liar. But allow me to remind you,” he murmured. “Come for me.”

Head swimming, you snorted. “I cannot with so little effo—oh, God!”

His whole arm began to move. Fingers hooking into the depths of your belly, he nearly lifted you up with it, piercing and merciless, plunging liquid fire into your being with thrusts so rapid that your vision blanked. You yelped, clutched him for stability, but something was rising inside you with a wicked, consuming swiftness that seemed to answer only to the onslaught of his fingers. You could hardly name it as pleasure—it burned, licked out through your limbs, then imploded to a blazing point within your core. Everything tightened. You might have screamed.

Some terrible paroxysm seized your body and you broke like jagged bone in his hand, a frenzied, excruciating rapture. His breath was upon your neck, warm wetness soaked your thighs. His fingers slowed and the intensity, the suddenness of it vanished as quickly as it had descended. You burst from it as if escaping a frozen river, swimming for the banks of your sanity.

“Christ,” you said, testing the solidity of the earth with your toes. “Thought you were meant to make me suffer.”

A dark laugh resonated in his throat. “You’ve not yet begun to suffer.”

It was then you realized his pace was unceasing—fingers pumping, his arm tensing, your cunt dripping around him—and you heard the lewd, slick sounds of his effort stealing your breath. Then his palm pressed to your clit once more.

You hollered, twisted in agony, the sensation like stabbing a pick in bloody gums.

“It’s—” You were still too tender, too sensitive to bear his attention. “Wait—”

William laughed again, his voice whispering like pistol smoke, his bulge prodding your thigh as he compressed you further along the wall.

“Have you recalled the name of your owner?” His free hand curled around your neck, his hips rocking against you. “Or has your memory failed you again?”

Before you could respond, his fingers struck that overworked spot inside your cunt, and reluctant bliss blinded you. Brined in beading sweat, you scratched at his arms, whipped your head side to side, gnashed futilely at the air; your body was succumbing to his will, dragged like a corpse through the shards of pleasure he shattered upon you, wishing simultaneously to be buried underneath them.

Your mouth wordlessly hanging open, you drenched your thighs again, your climax searing through you with fracturing stability—it sapped you of strength, and you liquified, kept standing by William’s hand between your legs. Shivering, you grasped at him, your fuzzy vision fighting to focus as you returned. He squeezed your neck and you whimpered, meeting his gaze.

In front of you was a man rabid with lust, his eyes thin silver encircling a void. He leaked eager breath, cruel lips curved in demonic, electrified hunger, his body rippling with its power. His fingers twitched at your throat as if they craved to crush it.

“You need not prolong the denial of whom you belong to.” The refined timbre of his voice was like cracked porcelain. “Your body admits it quite readily.”

You forced a laugh, biting your lip in defiance. “I know not a man with that privilege,” you replied, grazing your fingers across the steel between his legs, “but if I did, then he surely has not earned it.”

His nostrils flared. Jaw stiff, he pulled his fingers from your core and whipped you from the wall and to the side, your stomach colliding with iron as you were bent over something solid, your skirts flipping onto your back, exposing your soaked cunt to the night. It was only when you heard him sucking his fingers clean with a groan that your reality sharpened. You’d been tossed across the barrel of a cannon.

“You speak with such impunity,” he said, grabbing your arms and folding them behind your back. He stuck them there with a single hand as the sound of fabric shuffled. “And behave without fear of reprisal.” A thin strip of cloth wrapped and bound your wrists together.

A thrill shot through you. “Am I to be punished, Colonel?”

William huffed. “You will plead for punishment before I’m through.”

Two fingers drove into you again. You sobbed, twisting beneath him, robbed of leverage—you were still raw from your previous orgasms, flesh like a bruise—but he offered no mercy, instead swiping his thumb over your clit. Thunderous, awful pleasure shook you, and you winced, tried to slam your heels into his shins and found no purchase.

He laughed, thumb rolling over your clit through your faux-protest. You grew tense, your peak closer than you’d ever felt it, the threshold drawing nearer with every break. Breathless garbled nonsense escaped your mouth, and he fucked his fingers into you with sloppy, wet thrusts, each one pushing you closer to that indefinable edge—and then you were writhing, choking, the serrated edge of your orgasm slicing through you.

“My—my God, oh God,” you sobbed, trembling in its fleeing wake as his fingers left you empty. You hadn’t even known you could come off this many times in succession. “What—what in God’s holy living heaven are you—”

His hand thwacked your arse.

“Ah!” You laughed in disbelief, the sting ringing through your legs. “Did you—are you—” He did it again. “Christ!” you screeched. “I am not a girl!”

“Your insolence implies differently.” William spanked you once more, earning a jiggle of blazing flesh against the cold body of the cannon. He hummed appreciatively. “And I find you rather agreeable in this position.”

“You are—” Another. “How—” Another.

The worst part, you realized, was how delightful the pain felt, how it ricocheted to your clit, how it ferried you toward another climax. His hand cracked your ass again, again, the sting growing teeth, teeth that sunk into your skin and forced deep, satisfied moans from your mouth. Your cunt throbbed, pulsed from the attention, more swollen than a storm-fed creek, and he gave you another, and you were arching into them now, like your body was begging, and behind you he snarled, paused—then slapped his palm against your needy, tender clit.

The sound that left you was one you’d never heard from you or any other. With it came a spear of torment, of euphoria, an orgasm lancing through your stomach. You convulsed, attempting to evade its inevitability, but were bereft of all articulation. All you could do was endure it.

“Please,” you groaned, uncertain for what you even wanted, “please.”

A low, satisfied grumble from behind you. “I told you that you’d plead.” William caressed a globe of burning flesh. “This is what you’ve been needing since the moment I met you.” His figure blotted the moon. “To be forced into your place by your betters.”

You were damp with sweat, panting as if you’d run for days. “Better than me, are you?” you sputtered. “Is that why your cock aches in your breeches?”

“My cock,” he said, “is what makes me your better.” William leaned forward until the hot head of it dragged between your arse. “This is, after all, the relief for which you beg.” He slapped it on your still-tender skin. “What you crave inside your cunt. What you cry to come off around.”

You whimpered, your hollow core clenching. You were not certain if you could withstand what he wished to give you—you felt whatever held you together was fraying at the threads—but you were certain, however, that you would likely die without it.

“Your arrogance,” you replied through staccato gulps of air, “knows no limit, does it?”

William snarled, one hand snatching your hair, the other between his legs as he guided his cock to your sore, ruined cunt. He panted, fingernails scratching your scalp as his length parted your puffy folds.

“Many facets of my character eschew limitation.” His mouth pressed to your ear. “Now, do what you do best, little beast,” he said, taunting you by slicking the tip in your wetness. “Lie to me, and tell me you don’t want this.”

Arching your back, you tried to trick him deeper inside you, but he dodged your effort. “Do what you do best,” you said, “and behave as the brute you are.”

With a grunt, William cranked you backward, twisted you toward him, and backhanded you across the face.

Pain rang in your ears, your jaw dropped in shock—but your cunt pulsed, alive with need.

A delighted, manic laugh escaped you. “You utter bastard.”

“Still impudent.” He shrugged, dropped with you until your stomach connected again with the cannon. “It was at least effective on your sister.”

In any other position, you would have ripped his head from his body. In this position, however, you were slammed full of his cock before you could even think to try.

William choked, muscles quaking, and buried his face in your neck as he sank easily into your dripping core. When his hips hit yours, he finally released a desperate, heavy breath before sucking in air through his teeth.

“God,” he muttered, shifting so one hand stayed tangled in your hair while the other curved around your throat once more. “Should have done what I wished in Dorchester.” He slid out, seething, before driving in again. “Fucked you until you were an obedient husk.” You tightened around him, and he groaned. “Made you come until you—until you sobbed.”

Words fled your tongue. This was all you had wanted, all you had been wanting; your brief tryst in his bed those few days ago had not been enough to purge the root of it from your blood. No, you needed to be taken, to be fucked, and as his cock filled you with another thrust, you moaned in deep, elated relief.

“That’s right,” William said, setting a rough, steady pace. Every stroke forced a sound from your chest, a sound he throttled with his palm. “This is exactly where you belong.”

You groaned, mollified by his cock to agreeability. His body settled on top of yours, his breath heating your shoulder as he pumped his hips, splitting you wider, the noise in his chest becoming something bestial. Primal. The grip in your hair and your throat cinched as he moved, as if to cling to you, to anchor to you as his composure unwound.

The heat between you bore sweat to your temples, your thighs painted slick with it—or perhaps that was your own effluence, the sound of it smacking your ears while his hips struck your ass. With each stroke, his pace quickened, his breath shallowed; bowing waves devolved to hard, choppy swells of motion, pounding into you so deep his balls slapped your clit, the thick stretch of his cock wrenching utter, mind-erasing bliss from the depths of your flayed nerves.

Spontaneous prayers escaped for more. For less. For God.

William spat a curse like poison, releasing you and slipping free of your cunt, earning from you a protesting sob. He jerked you up by your bound wrists and spun you, shoving your back against the stockade, cupping beneath your thighs to hoist you up along the wall. You wailed from the pull on your shoulders, your wrists wedged between your back and the wood, but then he positioned himself between your legs, heaving like an animal. Jaw tight, he stuffed himself deep in your cunt with a single snap of his hips.

Your eyes rolled back. He stifled a moan.

Face falling to your shoulder, he drew in a breath, resuming his pace as if his cock throbbed to be buried inside you. William consumed you, his frame enfolding you, length breaking into your belly. The new angle siphoned whatever lucidity you thought you'd had, and you went limp in his arms, your forehead falling against him.

“You feel…” He laughed, smothered in pleasure. “You feel like heaven,” he managed. “I could—I could lose myself. In this cunt.” William squeezed your thighs until you felt them ache, hammering your core until you felt it in your ribs. “I could… I could—” Silencing himself by sinking his teeth into your clavicle, you released a strangled wheeze.

You imagined just that—imagined him fucking you full over and over, numb to anything but your body, imagined his control slipping as he sought his release, imagined him spilling every drop of his seed inside of you—and did not reel with horror. Whether intoxicated or insane, you cared not in the moment. You almost, almost wanted it.

“William,” you tried to croak, legs wrapping around him. “William—”

“Yes,” he said into your neck, “and whose name is that?”

“The one who owns me,” you gasped, words hiccuping with the force of his hips. “The one to whom I belong.”

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder and moaned, his rhythm becoming erratic. “My dandelion,” he said. “My pretty, wild flower.”

Stepping closer, he angled you away from the wall, fucking straight into the over-sensitive hill in your core; without even a brush of attention to your clit, you were shoved through some intangible barrier like a boulder over a waterfall, plummeting toward the open maw of your orgasm.

“Oh, God, please,” you called out, though you knew He could not save you. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You will.” The world tunneled to William’s voice, his touch, the assault of his hips. “Take what I give your body,” he purred. “Come around my cock.”

You could not respond in liberty. You simply obeyed.

The sensation that swallowed you was neither ecstasy nor agony. It was the intake of breath while still drowning, the bursting of a too-full stomach, the breaking of a limb to escape its shackles.

“William,” you groaned before disappearing beneath it.

You came with an empty sob, clenching and milking his cock as it punished your cunt into a swollen, quivering submission. Still holding you, William viciously pursued his own release, growling as he felt you break, his own voice collapsing into sated moans. With a stutter of his hips, he held you to the wall with his weight, grunting before he forced himself from your core and into his fist. Not even a second passed before he shot loads of hot, sticky seed across your legs and stomach, gritting his teeth through the pleasure.

“Hell,” he said before drawing in a breath. “Damn.”

You could hear him panting like a dog in summer. You were too wrecked to even think.

Finding himself, William relaxed his grip, smoothed his hands over your thighs. His lips soothed your neck, and he pulled away, seeking your focusing eyes. As reality returned to you, you met his gaze, gave a half-nod, and he guided your feet to the floor. Still bent over you, he massaged your sore arse with a gentleness you’d forgotten him capable of possessing.

“Good,” he said, almost to himself. “Very good.”

The words glowed like a hot meal in your chest. You wondered if maybe you could fall asleep here, crumpled against the stockade, and William could collect you in the morning. As your eyes shuttered, he unbound your wrists—it had been his cravat he'd used—rubbing the joints before dropping them, finally stepping away from you. You wobbled, unmoored from dexterity.

“There we are,” he said, holding your hips until you steadied. “Hold still.”

You were dazed, either by his demeanor or the number of orgasms you’d had. Either way, it kept you silent as he eased your stays back over your head, taking the time to deftly lace them before helping you dress into your bodice and neckerchief.

Throughout it, he was quiet too, his gaze focused with a decisiveness he reserved for those under his command. A sort of security in his place—a certainty of what he deserved, the confidence to obtain it. It dizzied you with affection, with yet another new urge. But this was one you had no intention of fighting.

William finished straightening the hem on your bodice, and you glanced up at him, offering a lazy smile before crumbling into his frame, curling your arms around him. He was warm, solid, straightening as you nestled your cheek against his chest and sighed. It took only a breath before his arms wound around you, sealing you in a firm embrace.

“I will sleep in your room tonight,” you mumbled against his woolen breast.

“You should know I depart early tomorrow,” he said, fingers tracing circles over your side. “I shall disrupt your rest.”

“I care not,” you replied. “I wish to sleep there.” And then, after a moment, since you genuinely wanted to know: “Where does the war call you to this time?”

He sniffed. “Identifying our calculating spy, of course,” he said. “By any means necessary. Including the destruction of rebels and their homes.”

You swallowed. You did not wish to think on that now. You would save it for tomorrow. After he departed. “Exitus acta probat,” you said, uncertain to whom it was directed.

“Indeed,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

A minute or so passed like that. You might have been content to stay an hour. But soon a hand moved to the small of your back, turning you toward the path to the fort. Looking up at it, glittering above like a ship frozen upon the crest of a wave, you sighed.

“Unless you wish to remain here all night,” said William.

“Of course not.” You gave him the smallest shove you could muster. “Though a gentleman might call his lady a carriage after such an ordeal.”

He smirked. “A gentleman might.”

You wrinkled your nose at him and his smirk grew wider. He watched you waddle from the redoubt, and you shot him a playful frown before ascending the hill. As he disappeared below it, you tried to silence your mind. He planned on slaughtering rebels. Burning farms. He would identify the spy.

No, you would save it for tomorrow. For now, you would anticipate his company, his presence. Tomorrow you would think on that. Tomorrow you would consider it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #if you don't like william tavington being mean during sex dont read this chapter : ) !!!!

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daydreamgoddess14 · 1 day ago

Text

Dee...

Dee I've got to live blog this one, k?

A short white sundress wasn’t exactly professional but then again, everyone else in the team was going to show up in casual clothes anyway.

oh Birdie.... you know what you're doing girlie!!!

Bucky looked frozen as he eyed you up and down, his mouth slightly open and you tilted your head in confusion.

👀

“Oh really?” he teased you, smiling back. “I haven’t noticed."

the FLIRTING!!!!!

“I’d keep you alive,” he said nonchalantly, reaching out into the box to get another cookie while you turned your phone in your hand.

he loves her so much 🥹

“You,” he said. “Next to me.”

screaming crying throwing up. the way i stopped breathing Dee!!! 😭😭😭😭

You let out a giggle and dropped your hands, your cheeks almost hurting with how wide you were smiling while you bounced on the balls of your feet, your heart still slamming against your chest.

baby!!! Dee, I swear if you're going to break my heart now....

“I mean I—obviously I really really really like him but also I—I want to jump on him,” you stammered. “Like, both emotional and physical.”

hard agree. go get your man Birdie!!

“Uncle Bucky, she looks like a princess,” You heard Cass’s very loud whisper and you bit back a smile.

“She really does, buddy.” Bucky whispered back, making your cheeks burn and AJ rolled his eyes.

i am not fine. i am filled with so much joy and so many butterflies

As silent as it could be with your heart pounding in your ears.

i swear to god the anticipation is incredible. I'm so so so excited to read on. i just needed to pause here and tell you how utterly and completely i adore this story. 🥹🥹🥹 ok, breathe, I'm ready....

“Birdie,” he murmured and dipped his head to kiss your neck, his hand pushing the hem of your dress up your legs, making your eyes flutter close. “I cannot even begin to tell you how much we won’t work tonight.”

i LIED!!! I WAS NOT READY!!! 😭😭😭😭 it was perfect, totally perfect!

of course she accidently told him she loves him, of course he dgaf because he loves her too!!! ohhh Dee.... i died dead.

it was so perfect, so gorgeous. I'm on cloud 9!!!!

Declassified [13] - Barbecue

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷

Friendly reminder that I will be on vacation in July, so I won't have access to my laptop🩷 We will have the next chapter around August 1-2 but my headcanons and asks and everything else is open as usual! 🩷 So please let me know what you think, and I hope you like this chapter! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Anything can happen at a barbecue.

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI.

Word Count: 6.6k

Series Masterlist

A short white sundress wasn’t exactly professional but then again, everyone else in the team was going to show up in casual clothes anyway.

Even you had to admit, this was a good PR move. Having a barbecue party at his place surrounded by his team and his family –Wilsons— not only sounded fun but also would show the rest of the world that he wasn’t affected by his breakup, and business was as usual.

So technically, the sundress was purely because of PR reasons and not because you wanted him to think you were pretty.

Technically being the key word.

You fixed your hair and your dress as much as you could with one hand while holding a stack of files and a box of cookies in the other, then knocked on his door and stepped back. Excitement was rushing through your system already, and you took a deep breath to calm yourself down, then looked up as the door opened.

“So I know I came a little early and brought work but the alternative was for me to work in the middle of the barbecue which is like not ideal in terms of PR, so I also brought cookies.”

Bucky looked frozen as he eyed you up and down, his mouth slightly open and you tilted your head in confusion.

“Bucky?”

His eyes whipped to yours and he shook his head as if trying to snap out of the daze he was in, then immediately got the files and the box of cookies from your hands.

“Hey,” he said. “Uh—come in!”

You stepped inside and smiled at Alpine who had run to the hallway to see what was happening.

“Hello my pretty princess!” you cooed, crouching down so that you could pet her. She purred, bumping her head against your hand before she closed her eyes while you ran your fingers through her soft fur.

“I still cannot believe she lets you pet her.”

“She likes me,” you said. “Don’t you Alpine?”

Her answer was rubbing her face against your hand and you scratched at her head, then stood up again to look around. This was bigger than his earlier place which you figured was normal for a Congressman, but it still had Bucky’s characteristics scattered around. His old pictures with The Howling Commandos as well as with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson were framed on the walls, and as you passed by the living room, you could see his records and phonogram at the corner. You followed him to the kitchen, eyeing his muscular body hungrily, biting at your lip.

How did this man look good both in a suit and casual clothes?

“So.” He pulled you out of your daze as he placed the files and cookies on the kitchen island. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I mean.” You plopped down the stool. “It’s not like I baked them. I don’t want to poison you or the rest of the team.”

He let out a chuckle. “Really?”

“I don’t know how to bake,” you said. “And also I needed bribery so that you’d take a look at the files I brought.”

He eyed them wearily. “That’s a lot of pages.”

“But hey, the cookies are delicious.” You opened the box to turn it in his direction, wiggling your brows. “Try one.”

He heaved a sigh and grabbed one, then bit into it and raised his brows.

“Wow.”

“Right?”

“I’m not sure I know this flavor.”

“Blueberry coffee.”

“Blueberry coffee?” he repeated and you grinned.

“Yeah well, I happen to know you don’t like it too sweet,” you said. “The guy at the register said this one is pretty good—I still refuse to believe you don’t like dessert.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” he said. “I just don’t like too much sugar.”

“I could eat dessert for breakfast, lunch and dinner.” You clasped your hands under your chin. “Did you always dislike it?”

“Well,” he trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. “I mean sugar was rationed, so I didn’t grow up with too much of it. We had it better than most folk but we still didn’t use much. And then the war and then HYDRA...It took me a while to get used to food when I got back, and desserts weren’t the priority.”

You pursed your lips, your heart clenching with compassion. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t be, I don’t mind.”

“You hate it when people ask you about your past though.”

He shook his head. “I don’t if you’re the one asking me.”

You could feel a smile warming your face, and you bit down on your lip.

“Well then, I’m making it my personal challenge to find desserts that you’ll like,” you said as he took another bite of the cookie. “And I’m warning you, I’m very ambitious.”

“Oh really?” he teased you, smiling back. “I haven’t noticed.”

“So I will succeed,” you said and reached out to grab the file at the top, then opened it. “Speaking of succeeding, I need you to take a look at these.”

He took a look at the multiple files, then turned to you.

“Coffee?”

“Oh my God, yes please.”

The problem with you and Bucky working alone was that you got along way too well. When you were around other people you could work efficiently but when it you were alone, you got way too distracted.

Like you were right now.

“That’s not a valid answer!” he insisted and you gasped.

“It is!”

“It’s not, it goes against the game.”

“There’s only one logical answer to the 3 things you should take to a deserted island. Powerboat, satellite phone, water filter.”

“Nope.”

“The goal is to get the fuck out of the island!” you insisted, moving your hands to emphasize your point and he shook his head.

“That’s cheating.”

“Fine, what am I supposed to take with me, genius?”

“Knife to hunt for food so you don’t starve, water to not die of dehydration, blanket to not freeze to death at night.” He counted with his fingers. “The goal is survival.”

“I wouldn’t survive a day in nature,” you said. “Like, if I’m ever in the nature, I’ll just let it kill me.”

“That’s not…”

“Also,” you added. “What if the animal I need to kill is a cute deer? What am I gonna do, kill Bambi?”

“Again, you have to survive somehow.”

You gasped. “Not at the expense of Bambi!”

“Sorry about Bambi,” he deadpanned and you made a face.

“Like I said,” you muttered. “I’m not hunting, I’m getting the hell out of the island. You have fun playing Survivor there.”

“See you’re saying this now but if we were both on the island, you’d be eating Bambi.”

“Bucky!”

“I’d just lie to you about where it came from.”

Your jaw dropped and you pushed at his arm, making him let out a laugh.

“Bambi is in a farm,” he said, trying to keep a straight face, “where she can run all she wants and be happy—”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll get on my powerboat and leave you behind,” you insisted, pointing a finger at him. “I’m just not built for survival, okay? I can barely survive seasonal change, you think I’ll survive a goddamn island? Nope.”

“I’d keep you alive,” he said nonchalantly, reaching out into the box to get another cookie while you turned your phone in your hand.

“Okay, my turn.” You sat up straighter. “We talked about this the other day with Kels and Caleb.”

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s say you woke up tomorrow,” you said. “And everything is perfect. What’s the first thing you’d want to see?”

He raised his brows, a small smile playing on his lips and you took a sip of your coffee.

“Nothing is off limits,” you said. “And no judging, because Caleb said he’d wake up to a bank account of seven figures and had to deal with Kelsey asking him ‘what about world peace you heartless ass?’ for like days whenever he opened his mouth.”

Bucky let out a chuckle, humming as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to tell you or not. You narrowed your eyes at him, resting your elbows on the kitchen island and leaning in.

“Come on,” you taunted him. “Say it.”

“In a perfect world?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You can be totally selfish. What do you wake up to?”

His blue eyes searched your face, his smile fading as he swallowed thickly, then took a deep breath.

“You,” he said. “Next to me.”

Your gaze snapped up to his, the gears in your mind screeching to a halt, your breath hitching in your throat. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, warmth rushing through your system so fast that it made you lightheaded while you tried your hardest to think through the haze.

Bucky liked you back.

…Oh God, he liked you back.

You could swear your whole body was shaking as you took a trembling breath in a desperate attempt to find your voice but before you could say anything, several voices carried out into the kitchen from the front door; Sam, Cass and AJ, and Sarah.

“Buck?”

“Uncle Bucky!”

“Boys, don’t run!”

Hurried footsteps approached and Bucky had to force himself to tear his gaze from yours, then turned to catch AJ and Cass who flung themselves to him mid-air.

“Whoa, did you guys get bigger since I last saw you?” he asked, making them giggle and you tried to pull yourself together, then waved at them.

“Hi guys.”

“Hi!”

“Oh hey there!” Sarah only hesitated for a moment by the doorframe before she went to kiss Bucky’s cheek, then turned to you. “It’s been so long, how have you been?”

“Good,” you managed to squeak out and then cleared your throat. “Great, and you?”

“I left the door open because there are more people—” Sam paused when he saw you, his eyes going from you to Bucky and to you again. “Uh…more people coming. Hey.”

“Hi Sam, it’s great to see you.”

“Bucky, I already like your—no no no, Alpine, I come in peace!” Caleb’s voice reached the kitchen and Bucky put the boys down, then made his way to the hallway as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if you weren’t about to pass out in the middle of the kitchen in front of Sam and Sarah.

“And I thought we were here early,” Sam commented, earning a not-so-subtle jab to his ribs from Sarah and you licked your lips, then nodded your head.

“Yeah I…we—we were working.” You vaguely motioned at the files on the kitchen island, your hands still shaky, and you cleared your throat again. “Um—excuse me.”

You made your way out of the kitchen to the hallway and grabbed Kelsey’s arm while Bucky was distracted by the rest of the team asking him where to put the things they brought before you pulled her into the bathroom and slammed the door behind you.

“What’s going on?” she asked and you covered your mouth, jumping up and down with a squeal.

“Kels…”

“What?”

“He likes me.”

Kelsey pulled her brows together. “What?”

You let out a giggle and dropped your hands, your cheeks almost hurting with how wide you were smiling while you bounced on the balls of your feet, your heart still slamming against your chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “He…he likes me.”

“Oh my God!” Kelsey pulled you into a tight hug, then pulled back to look at you better. “He said it?”

“Well he—you know, I asked him that question we were talking about the other day, the perfect world one. And he said he’d wake up next to me.”

“Holy shit!” Kelsey whispered and grabbed at your hand. “See? I told you!”

“I can’t believe it,” you said and let out a teary laugh, then fanned at your face with your other hand. “I’m gonna cry I think—”

“Nope you’re not, because the team will start asking questions,” Kelsey said and you took a deep breath, sniffling. “Then?”

“Then Sarah and Sam showed up, and then you guys.”

Kelsey blinked a couple of times. “You guys didn’t even kiss yet?”

“I couldn’t even tell him I like him back yet!” you whispered. “And I—how am I gonna get him alone without the whole team noticing?”

“Yeah, that’s too dangerous right now,” Kelsey said, then shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll have to wait until we all leave.”

Your eyes widened. “That’s hours away!”

“You two waited this long, you can wait a couple of hours,” she said while you let out a whine.

“But I want to kiss him!”

“You will do all that and more, just get through this barbecue nonsense.”

You threw your head back, stomping on your foot like a spoiled kid and Kelsey let out a laugh.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Want me to tell Caleb?”

“When you get home, yes,” you said. “I can’t risk anyone hearing it, and the place is full of people.”

“Yeah, good call.”

“And assuming I won’t explode until everyone leaves…”

Kelsey grinned. “To repeat. You could handle seven years of bad sex, you can handle like seven hours until mindblowing sex.”

Your head shot up.

“Wait wait wait,” you said, your heart doing an excited flip. “Do you think he wants to sleep with me? Like, tonight? Because I’m like so so ready but would he want to?”

“No Birdie, once we all leave you guys will hold hands and recite poetry. The fuck do you think?!”

You started fanning your face again.

“I mean I—obviously I really really really like him but also I—I want to jump on him,” you stammered. “Like, both emotional and physical.”

“Shocking,” Kelsey stated. “The sky is blue. Water is wet. You want to fuck Bucky.”

“I mean if he does want to talk about his feelings I can—”

“I don’t think any man would want to talk about his feelings when you’re in that dress and ready to jump in his bed,” Kelsey motioned at you and you beamed at her.

“Aw thank you! I got it from—”

“You can send me the link later,” she said. “We should go before they realize we’re hiding in the bathroom.”

You nodded your head while she opened the door to check the hallway, then stepped outside with you following her suit.

“Remember,” she said. “You’re not doing anything while we’re here. Too risky.”

You nodded again and fixed your hair, letting out a breath.

“Yeah,” you said as you walked with her to the kitchen. “Yeah, of course. Shouldn’t be that hard.”

Correction.

It was, in fact, that hard.

You couldn’t focus on a goddamn thing.

You were pretty sure that Bucky had told Sam because they were having a discussion in whispers at the corner of the garden while everyone drank and ate, and the only thing that pulled them out of it was Caleb when he wanted to take pictures with the whole team and Wilsons. You had taken a step in Bucky’s direction for the picture but Kelsey had pulled you to the other side of the crowd, muttering something about PR.

And throughout all that, it was as if you were in a haze.

Bucky’s eyes barely left you the whole day, though he hadn’t come closer to you like he wanted to give you your space to think about it. It was laughable to think he was under the impression that you wouldn’t throw yourself at him after months of pining after him, but Bucky could be very oblivious sometimes so you figured it was normal.

And you were still burning under his gaze, no matter how much you tried to act normal.

“So yeah, apparently Bucky winning gave Paul a huge leverage, just like the rest of us,” Tim said while you stole a look at Bucky who was chuckling at something Caleb said and Sarah let out a laugh, then said something while motioning at Bucky, making Caleb’s jaw drop as Bucky shook his head fervently like he was trying to convince him. “He got like a six figure deal for Senator Holloway’s next campaign. Anyways, I can barely talk to you during work nowadays.”

“Yeah, I’m like swamped with work,” you said, barely paying attention to Tim. “It’s fun but also very busy.”

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, clearing his throat like he was trying to gather up courage while Bucky’s eyes found yours, awakening the butterflies in your stomach, a fire sweeping over your face. “Do you want to grab coffee sometime when you’re—”

“I’ll talk to you later, I just remembered an email I’m supposed to send Gray,” you said without so much as hearing what he was saying before you made your way back into the house so that you could calm down a little. You let out a breath and went into the kitchen to fill yourself a glass of water in hopes of helping the fire burning at the pit of your stomach. You took a huge gulp, then turned your head when you heard Cass saying your name from the doorframe.

“Hey,” you said with a small smile. “What’s up?”

“Um, can you help us with something?”

“Sure thing,” you said, following him to the living room and AJ gave you a shy smile, then pointed at the phonograph.

“Do you know if it works?”

“I think so.”

“Can we play it? I would ask uncle Bucky but he’s talking to mom and the other guests.”

“I don’t think Bucky would mind,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders, then stepped closer to the phonograph. “Sure you can. Want me to help?”

“Yes please,” they both said, making you press a hand over your chest.

“You guys are like the sweetest kids in the world,” you said and sat down in front of the phonograph, tucked your legs under you, then pulled a couple of vinyl records from the shelf underneath it. “Do you have a favorite?”

AJ thought for a moment. “We don’t know any old singers.”

“That’s totally fine,” you said gently. “We can pick together then, and it’ll be a surprise to all of us. Exciting, isn’t it?”

They both nodded and sat down, and as if on cue, Alpine jumped from the couch to curl up next to you.

“Hi,” you said with a smile as you ran your fingers through her fur. “Alpine wants to listen to music too, I guess.”

Cass reached out to pet her while you put some of the records on the floor.

“Which one?” you asked them and they both turned their attention on the covers of the records with such serious expressions that one would think they were trying to decide on something incredibly important.

“Do you have a favorite?” Cass asked and you pretended to zip your mouth shut.

“I trust your judgment.”

They exchanged glances and Cass whispered something into AJ’s ear, making him frown before he nodded.

“Um,” he said and pointed at one of the records. “This one?”

“Whoa!” you said. “How did you guys know it’s my favorite?!”

Well, no.

Sinatra wasn’t your favorite, not by a long shot but they didn’t need to know that.

Their eyes shone with excitement and AJ grinned.

“Really?”

“Oh I’m like a huge fan of him,” you said. “Okay, let’s play him then. Who wants to do it?”

“We don’t know how to play it.”

“I’ll tell you. It’s very easy.”

Cass grabbed the record, then looked at you. “What if I break it or something?”

You shrugged your shoulders and dropped your voice like you were giving them a secret.

“I have the exact same record at home,” you whispered. “If you break it, I’ll replace it with mine, and Bucky won’t even notice.”

Cass giggled and pulled out the record out of the sleeve and you turned the phonograph on.

“Okay, you have to move the needle. AJ, can you do it?”

AJ nodded and moved the needle.

“And Cass, can you place the record over there?”

Cass did as you asked.

“And now, let’s put the needle here,” you muttered, reaching out to put the needle on the record, and the melody filled the room, making them gasp. The look of excitement on their faces was so sweet that you couldn’t help but laugh, then clasped your hands together.

“There you go!” you said. “Told you it was easy.”

“Um, how does it work?” AJ asked and you pointed at the record spinning on the player.

“So there are grooves on it,” you said. “On the vinyl. The needle follows—”

“Uncle Bucky!” Cass ran to the door and your heart skipped a beat, and you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky leaning to the doorframe, watching you with a soft light in his eyes. You tried to pull yourself together and cleared your throat, then motioned at the phonograph.

“I’m teaching them how to use it.”

“We picked her favorite record!”

“They’re way too smart,” you told Bucky as if giving him a secret and Bucky chuckled.

“Oh yeah, they are.”

“And then?” AJ insisted. “How does it turn into music?”

“So yeah, the needle!” You turned to the phonograph. “Okay, the needle follows those grooves. You see those?”

“Mm hm.”

“So the needle follows those to make the sound, and there are magnets in the phonograph,” you said. “Those magnets turn it into soundwaves, and then—”

“Uncle Bucky, she looks like a princess,” You heard Cass’s very loud whisper and you bit back a smile.

“She really does, buddy.” Bucky whispered back, making your cheeks burn and AJ rolled his eyes.

“Don’t mind him,” he told you in exasperation like this was a daily occurrence and you repressed a laugh.

“And then those soundwaves follow here, and tada! Music.”

“Because of magnets?”

“Magnets and soundwaves, yeah.”

“Whoa,” AJ said and turned to Bucky. “But Uncle Bucky, you do know you can listen to music on your phone now?”

“He’s old,” you told AJ, shooting a grin at Bucky. “Give him time, he doesn’t know half of the artists we listen to nowadays.”

“I’ll show you my favorite, come on!” AJ ran to him to pull him by the hand. “You’ll love it!”

“Buddy, can you give me a minute?” he asked without pulling his gaze off you and you shook your head and stood up, making Alpine let out a noise of discontent.

“No, come on!” AJ insisted. “It’s really good music!”

“That sounds important,” you said, while Cass nodded fervently. “Go.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but ended up letting AJ pull him out of the living room to the garden, Cass running after them. You looked down at Alpine who was blinking up at you, then leaned down to scratch at her head.

“It’s fine,” you muttered while she purred. “Patience is a virtue and all that.”

You could swear time had decided to move extra slow today.

But it had done nothing to soothe the excitement pulsing through your system, if anything it heightened it.

Thankfully, people were leaving. Everyone was in a good mood, and it was Saturday evening, so you could hear the plans they were trying to decide on as they walked from the garden to the kitchen. You pushed up the sleeves of zip up hoodie Bucky had given you earlier today when you got cold and sat down on the stool, trying to act like your heart wasn’t beating in your throat.

“Bucky, are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Sam, you should join us!”

“I appreciate that Kelsey, but I am too old to go bar hopping with you guys.”

“That’s not even true! We only changed like four clubs the last time.”

“Exactly.”

“Miss Wilson?”

“Thank you Caleb, but what Sam said. And I gotta put the boys to bed.”

“Mom, can we go?”

“Nope.”

“Tim?”

“I’m down.”

“Lisa?”

“Oh for sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Birdie?”

You lifted your eyes from the file in front of you.

“Bucky and I will work until late I think,” you said calmly, motioning at the rest of the files. “I’ll take an Uber. See you at home.”

You could see Bucky’s head snapping up like he wasn’t expecting you to stay, Sam and Sarah exchanging glances before they both smirked and Caleb frowned while Tim looked almost sad that you weren’t joining.

“Seriously?” Caleb asked. “It’s Saturday night.”

“And just because you don’t work doesn’t mean no one else can,” Kelsey said, grabbing him by the arm, and Caleb gasped.

“I have been working all day today, if you haven’t noticed—”

“See you guys!” Kelsey said as she dragged him out of the kitchen, Lisa, Tim, Sarah, Sam and the boys following them. Bucky walked them to the door, the chatter in the hallway continuing in full speed until the door opened, and then closed again.

Then, silence.

As silent as it could be with your heart pounding in your ears.

You slipped from the stool to lean your back against the kitchen island, trying to keep your breathing under control, squeezing the phone in your hand as you heard his footsteps coming closer until he appeared at the doorframe.

God, he was way too handsome.

You tried to swallow the nervousness tightening your throat as he took a step closer, putting his hands in his pockets.

“You didn’t leave.”

“Didn’t want to.”

His blue eyes searched your face as if he was trying to read your mind, making your heartbeat even faster.

“How long?” you managed to ask and he huffed out a curt laugh.

“For…” he trailed off. “Since I first saw you. Since you waltzed into the office with that huge folder and put it on my desk and said ‘Hi, you don’t know me yet but I figured out how to win this thing.”

A giggle bloomed in your mouth.

“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” you whispered, taking a step to him and he shook his head.

“You’ve been thinking about this just for a day, I’ve been thinking about this for a very…”

The rest of his sentence got lost somewhere as shock muffled your ears before realization crashed down on you.

…Oh.

Oh, Bucky actually thought—

He had no idea you stayed because you returned his feelings, he was under the impression that you stayed because you wanted him to explain. He actually thought today was the first time you thought about the possibility of you and him.

The idea was so absurd that you couldn’t help the exhale of disbelief leaving you.

“You think—” you cut him off. “Wait, Bucky…You—you think today is the first time I’ve thought about this?”

He looked like he didn’t know how to answer your question and a laugh climbed up your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “And I thought I was very obvious.”

He frowned slightly as you licked your lips, your stomach still fluttering.

“Ask me what my answer was.”

“To what?”

“The perfect world question,” you said with whatever courage you could pull from somewhere within you. “I know your answer but you don’t know mine. Ask.”

Bucky swallowed thickly, his voice low; “What was your answer?”

You could swear you were shaking, but by some miracle, when you spoke, your voice didn’t crack.

“The same as yours.”

The look of hope that dawned on his handsome face was so foreign that it took you by surprise. You hadn’t even seen it the night he won the election; he was happy then but this was something else. He took a step to close the distance between you, his flesh hand lifting a little so that he could cup your cheek, making your breath catch in your throat. His gaze slipped to your lips, then back at your eyes as if he was asking for your permission and you looked up at him, breathless with anticipation before you nodded. You could almost hear the crackling in the air, something electric between you coming to life, getting more and more intense—

Until his lips found yours.

This was different.

From all the times Max kissed you, or all the times you kissed guys before Max, none of it had ever been like this.

This was pure, unadulterated desire.

You could feel yourself melting in his arms as you lost yourself in his kiss, your fingers curling in his shirt just so that you could have an anchor, but a small whine escaping you when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours, his breath caressing your lips. Your eyes fluttered open as he pulled down the zipper of the hoodie you were wearing over your sundress, his movements agonizingly slow like he was opening up a fragile present before he let it fall on the floor, desire making you dizzy. He dragged his fingertips down your arm, and gently pulled your phone out of your hand to put it aside just out of your reach, your head following the movement.

“Wait, I…” You tried to think through the haze. “I need that.”

“No.” Bucky’s voice was soft as he shook his head. “You don’t.”

You blinked up at him.

“What if—” you stammered, “what if while we’re not looking the world catches fire?”

A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in again. “Good. Let it burn.”

You were beginning to think no matter how close he was, it would never be enough with the way your body ached for him. He took your breath away when he kissed you again, his heart drumming under your hand, and he wrapped his arm around your waist to press your body closer to his, only pulling back to trail his thumb over your burning cheekbone.

“God…” he whispered in awe. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

The room was spinning.

You were on fire.

It had to be because of the fire that you didn’t even realize the words coming out of your mouth until you actually heard them:

“I love you.”

And everything went still.

Including him.

It was as if someone had just poured a bucket of ice water over you, your whole body stiffening the moment you realized what you had actually said. Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat as tears of frustration rushed to your eyes, and Bucky pulled back to see you better, a look of surprise etched on his handsome face.

Of course you had to ruin it.

“Sorry, I—sorry, I’m just—I’m gonna—” You couldn’t even finish your sentence as you rushed past him to get to the hallway, leaving him in the kitchen completely frozen.

You were an idiot.

You just had to open your stupid mouth and ruin it.

You couldn’t even blame Bucky or anyone else. Hazel had a point, you were the starry-eyed idiot with a schoolgirl crush who couldn’t keep her fucking mouth shut just because he had kissed you.

You all but ran down the hallway to get to the front door but the minute you pulled it to yourself, you felt his presence behind you before he slammed the door close with enough force to shake it in its hinges, making you gasp in surprise.

This must’ve been how he was on missions.

No one heard him coming until it was too late.

If this were someone else—anyone else, you would’ve been petrified but even now, through the frustration and shock, your mind somehow knew that Bucky would rather cut off his own hand than hurt you. No part of him touched you, and for a moment he just stood there behind you, the warmth of his body nearly intoxicating until he broke the silence, his voice a low murmur.

“Did you mean it?”

“What does it matter?” You managed to rasp out. “I ruined it.”

“Birdie…”

“Listen, you’ll say it’s too much, I—I know, it’s fine.” You stumbled over your words. “You’ll have my resignation letter tonight, and Kelsey will pick up my things from the office. We don’t have to talk about any of this, just…” You wiped your eye with the back of your hand. “I ruined it, it’s fine, I’m just gonna go, okay?”

“You didn’t—” Bucky let out an impatient breath. “Sweetheart, can you just look at me please?”

You were pretty sure that if you saw the look of disappointment in his eyes, you were going to collapse on the floor and start sobbing but you sniffled, then turned around to look up at him.

That didn’t look like disappointment.

He lifted his hand to wipe at the tear under your eye with a soft smile.

“I’m not gonna say it’s too much.”

For some reason that remained a mystery to you, you jumped at the opportunity to convince him; “No you should say it’s too much because it is too much, because like I’d totally understand—”

You were cut off when he brushed his lips against yours, but this time it was way too gentle like he feared you would break if he so much as held you wrong. He pulled back to let you breathe since your nose was clogged because of the tears that kept coming, and your eyes fluttered open, confusion settling over your mind like a fog, engulfing all your thoughts in it.

What was happening?

Bucky’s eyes darted over your face, and he took a deep breath like he was nervous.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “But I need you to listen to me, okay?”

You pulled your brows together and sniffled, then nodded.

“I…” he trailed off. “For the last what, 80 years now? Everything with HYDRA, and those missions and cryo, over and over again, it was all ice. That was the only permanent thing. Bone-chilling cold. And when I first came back, when I got my mind back, I kept wondering why I still felt so cold, like a part of me never really left there.”

You blinked back the tears, wiping at your nose.

“And eventually, I figured it would be like that for the rest of my life. No matter what I did, what I tried, it was yet another thing that I would never get back, something that HYDRA carved into me. I got all of it out of my mind but I couldn’t get that…that chill out of my chest.” He paused for a moment and breathed out a curt laugh like he was lost in the memory, his brows furrowing.

“Until you came along,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “And brought the warmth with you.”

You didn’t even notice the tears were back until Bucky wiped under your eye with a knuckle, trailing your cheekbone.

“I’m not gonna say it’s too much,” he told you. “I can’t. I love you too.”

…Oh.

Bucky—

Bucky loved you.

He actually loved you.

You stared up at him in complete silence as Bucky reached behind you, and you heard the unmistakable sound of the door opening before he stepped back, a shadow playing in his eyes like he was preparing for the pain, like he expected you to somehow reach into his chest to rip out his heart and walk out, leaving him with ice in his chest again.

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to,” he said. “Including keeping you here. I just needed you to know, that’s it.”

This had to be the third time he gave you a way out today, and each time it felt more and more insane to even think you would walk away.

A small sob climbed your throat, disbelief making you let out a teary laugh before you grabbed the door handle, pushed the door close, then flung yourself into his arms to pull him into a kiss. Your head was spinning, you were breathless, your heart felt like it was trying to climb out of your ribcage but none of that was enough to make you stop kissing him. He leaned down to snake his vibranium arm behind your thighs to lift you up like you weighed nothing, making you let out a squeal that soon turned into a giggle as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to the room at the other end of the hallway which turned out to be his bedroom, not pulling back from your kiss as if it would somehow break the spell until he carefully laid you down on the bed, settling between your legs. You tugged at his shirt with shaky hands and he pulled it off his head to throw it somewhere in the room, and you had only a couple of seconds to drink in the sight of his muscular torso before his lips found yours again. You trailed your fingertips down his chest to his abs and tried to unbuckle his belt but he pulled back, making you chase his lips with an impatient whine.

“Birdie—hey,” he whispered, his warm hand cupping your cheek as your eyes fluttered open, your heart beating in your ears. “Slow, okay darling?”

You tried to catch your breath, confusion pinching your brows together. No one had ever asked you to be slower about anything in your entire life; on the contrary, you were either pushed or convinced to be faster, to rush, to get it over with, whatever it was.

In or outside the bed.

“I, um…” You tried to find your voice through the fog of desire, looking up at him as he stroked your burning cheek while you played with his dog tags. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do things slow. I think.”

You could see that fond light glimmering in his blue eyes even in the dimly lit room.

“That’s okay,” he murmured, his vibranium fingertips running up and down your leg, waking goosebumps on your skin. “I’ll teach you how.”

This was new.

And way too unfamiliar.

And for once, your brain couldn’t think, not when he was looking at you like that, touching you like that.

“And you don’t—” You paused, but somehow Bucky didn’t seem annoyed by you trying to wrap your mind around the idea. Instead he waited patiently like he had all the time in the world, like there was nothing more important than what you were about to say. “You sure you don’t want to be fast to…”

For fuck’s sake, it was so hard to produce a single thought when he was half naked on top of you.

“To do what, beautiful?” he asked softly, nudging your nose with his, coaxing a giggle out of you while you trailed your fingertips over his muscular back.

“To do something else?” you said, what Max would always say when you were in bed flashing through your mind. “To—to work?”

He looked almost at a loss for words at the mere suggestion but he seemed to pull himself together much faster than you, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#congressman bucky barnes #congressman!bucky #congressman!bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic

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tohruies · 7 months ago

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hi hi mrs yao !!!! christmas is coming up, are you going to celebrate anythinf with xiangli ? :33 btw, since miss coco doesnt have a tree, here's a little something to say thank you for being one of my lovely moots 🥺

oh! 😁 hi hello mr puppetgear! 😁 christmas celebrations with xiangli you ask! 😁 well actually! 😁 you see, i was th— *dies upon seeing the image you’ve attached to this ask* 😳😲🤯😱😱😱😵💀🪦

#chérir!#anyway! hi nick! :^) I HAVE BEEN SITTING HERE FOR HOURS COMING BACK TO LOOK AT THIS AND CRY FAT UGLY TEARS OVER IT! I MEAN THIS SO BAD I HA #BEEN TEARING UP ALL DAY THINKING OF THIS FREAKING. NUCLEAR BOMB YOU DROPPED ON ME OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE 😭#nick... i’m such a wreck over this i wish you could see my face and all the snot and tissues that have piled up on my desk as a result of t #okay um first of all!! where is your kofi!!! what is your paypal can i send you money please lol?! <- is being serious BECAUSE WHAT! 🥹 WH #what could i have Ever done to prompt you to do something so nice for me!!!! 🥹🥹 for FREE?! I WILL FIND A WAY TO SEND YOU MONEY EVEN IF IT’#IT’S THE LAST THING I DO I SWEAR IT!! oh my goodness nick!!! ): actually wait can i please say some nice things about you for a moment 🥺#you are genuinely one of the most giving & kind & thoughtful friend i have made on here!! ♡ i always see you delivering little art pieces t #your mutuals of their selfships and it never fails to make me smile so big! and be so happy & PROUD! especially proud!! to have a friend so #generous & bighearted & attentive as you!! 🥺 and i know the world is mean and sometimes your brain isn’t kind to you ): so for you to still #go out of your way to do such nice things for your friends!! 🥹 i just think it’s so inspiring! and! it makes me want to be like that too!!#i think you made a post once where you said that you like gifting things to people because their happy reaction to it gives you serotonin #AKKDKSK it made me giggle and smile and nod along because i so understand that feeling!! ANYWAY i hope my tags are able to give you that #serotonin lol!! ♡ waaaah nick ): NICK ): oh gosh i had another look at the yaoco art and started tearing up again STOP IT COCO!!!! 🥹#all these tags and i haven’t even said the most important thing i need to say!! which is! thank you ): NICK! ): THANK YOU SO SINCERELY ):#from the bottom of my heart ): i know physical touch tends to ick you out hehe so i am sending wanderer in my stead to give your hand a #squeeze!! to give you a shoulder to lean on! or a chest to cry into!! whatever you need most kajakd!! on my behalf :3 #oh my gosh nick i’m seriously just so (╯꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)╯︵┻━┻ over this LOL!! flabbergasted and gobsmacked. I CANNOT BELIEVE YOUUU!!!!#the way you drew us WHAT!! your attention to detail is so astounding and it makes my heart swell knowing that you put such care #into this drawing ): EVEN WHEN YOU KNOW NEXT TO NOTHING ABOUT XIANGLI YAO! 😭😭#LIKE THE TWINKLE ✨OF HIS HAIR... AND HIS SHIRT!! THE NECK!!! YOU DREW THE CIRCUIT LINES AKAKSDJ OH MY GOODNESS ): NICK!!!!#and the pose... the... *sniffles* pose... *chokes on a sob* the pose you drew us in *huffs shakily and starts to weep again*#the way he’s holding my face in the cradle of his hand ): and even just how smiley! 🥺 i am! to be with him!! 🥺 the way i hold onto his #arms!! ): nick looking at this felt like such a comforting hug it’s like i could FEEL his hand on my cheek ): the warmth of him right in #front of me!! it felt so tangible!! ): and i think that is a testament to your skill as an artist — where looking at your illustrations mak #makes people FEEL so strongly about it!!! many such cases i could provide of this aka pulls out entire puppetgear art gallery on my phone #KJSDKJ!! but nick seriously ): thank you 🥺 thank you 🥹 THANK YOU!! 😭 i’m going to go stare and cry at this some more #i’m... so grateful!!! 🥹❤️‍🩹 to know someone as kind as yourself — and to be a recipient of said kindness!!#NICK I LOVE YOU!! ): ps am i allowed to save this photo? or use it as a pfp?! 🥺 totally okies if not!!! i just want to make sure hehe ♡#yaoco ໒꒱

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impressionism · 1 year ago

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About tonight’s episode… right on the money.

#daniel molloy #iwtv #interview with the vampire #luke brandon field #Instagram #song lyrics #oasis #anyway #here’s wonderwall #stop crying your heart out #damn

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marvelstoriesepic · 4 months ago

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Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

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

Word Count: 13.6k

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

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

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

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

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

Then comes the keys.

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

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

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

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

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

And then, his bedroom door.

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

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

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

But then comes the moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that finally makes the tears flow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are alone in your grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what is the point?

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

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

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

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

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

And then, him standing there and watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you are certain, he won’t.

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

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

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

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you keep walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

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

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

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

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

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

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

“To Nat’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

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

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

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

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

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

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

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t move.

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

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

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

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

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

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

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

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

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

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

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

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

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

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

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

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

“No, you-”

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

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

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

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

You could run.

You should.

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

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

“Okay,” you say weakly.

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

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

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

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

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

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

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

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

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

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

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

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

So you stay.

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

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

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

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

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

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

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

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

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

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

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

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

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

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

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

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

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

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

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

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

“I-”

You try. You really try.

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

Because this time it’s her walking out.

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

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

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

But it’s not yours either.

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

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

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

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

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

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

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

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

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

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

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

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

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

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

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

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

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

And Bucky watches all of that.

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

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

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

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

“See, that’s bullshit.”

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

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

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

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

But he won’t.

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

And you break.

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

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

You feel so pathetic.

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

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

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

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

You let him.

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

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

Like your pain is his own.

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

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

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

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

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

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

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

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

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

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

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

It’s too hard. too cruel.

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

But it does.

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

So you cry harder.

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

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

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

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

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

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

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

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

You won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Because none of this makes it any easier.

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

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

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

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

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

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

He looks wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

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

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

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

But Bucky just shrugs.

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

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

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

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

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

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

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

There is something uncertain in there.

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

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

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

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

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

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

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

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

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

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

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

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

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

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

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

His eyes are pleading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your reaction must be answer enough.

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

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

The exact moment he realizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky panics.

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

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

Not at you.

At himself.

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

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

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

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

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

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

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

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

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

“Like it’s over.”

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

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

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

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

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

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

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

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

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

This thing between you.

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

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

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

It consumes him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is crying.

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t.

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

But you don’t know how to.

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

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

You don’t and he steps closer again.

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

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

But what could you say?

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

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

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

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

Guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

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

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

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

It hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he still touched them.

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

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

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

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

He tried to fuck it away.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath stalls.

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

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

Even if you know it might not be fair.

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

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had no claim on him.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, body sways.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Beau Taplin

8K notes · View notes

megumismyhusband · 4 months ago

Text

you’re going to cry. you swear, you’re going to lose your mind right here in the middle of class because this stupid problem refuses to make sense no matter how hard you try.

your pencil is shaking in your grip, and you can feel your breathing getting uneven. you’re on the verge of either breaking down or blacking out, maybe both.

so, against your better judgment, you turn to katsuki bakugo.

“bakugo,” you whisper, tapping his arm. he scowls, glancing at you with that usual irritation in his eyes, but when he sees the desperation on your face, he sighs. “what?”

“help. please.”

he rolls his eyes but takes your paper anyway, muttering something about how he’s “not a damn tutor.” you watch as his sharp eyes scan over your work, and then his gaze pauses, his expression freezing for just a split second.

you don’t notice, too busy fidgeting with your pencil and trying not to let your stress consume you.

but katsuki sees it. the faintest pencil indent next to your name at the top of the page, the remnants of an erased word. his last name.

his crimson eyes flicker to you for a moment. you’re oblivious, chewing on your lip as you wait for his help, completely unaware that he’s just discovered your little daydream scribbles.

his face doesn’t change. not one bit.

calmly, like nothing happened, he picks up his own pencil and rewrites his last name next to yours. then, beneath it, he adds an arrow pointing to the words with a single note.

“soon.”

he hands the paper back to you like nothing happened.

“you were messing up here,” he says, pointing at the mistake, explaining the problem in his usual blunt but effective way. you nod, relieved to finally understand.

it’s only when he turns back to his own work that you notice the little addition to your paper.

your heart stops.

your brain short-circuits.

you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the squeak that escapes, your face burning so hot you’re surprised you haven’t spontaneously combusted.

you steal a glance at katsuki, but he’s acting normal, like he didn’t just casually flip your world upside down.

but you don’t miss the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

6K notes · View notes

cbeargyu · 16 days ago

Text

just a bet for you

summary: you weren’t the prettiest, the smartest, or the kind of girl people noticed—until heeseung did. he gave you his umbrella on a rainy day, his attention when no one else cared, and eventually, his love... or so you thought. two months in, after giving him your first kiss, your first time, your whole heart—he tells you the truth: it was never real. just a bet. just you.

pairing: heeseung x fem!reader

genre: angst, slow burn, high school au, emotional hurt, heartbreak, unrequited love, coming-of-age, betrayal, dark romance.

warnings: emotional manipulation, virginity loss, deception, heartbreak, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, crying during sex, aftermath of intimacy, mentions of emotional neglect, emotionally intense scenes, toxic dynamics, vulnerability, strong language.

wc: 3,6k

notes: hiiii🫶🏻 lately i’ve been obsessed with enhypen🤭 and i really want to write so much about them 🖤 i have 3 fanfics in mind with heesung as the bad boy😈🔥 and this is the first one! i’m also thinking about making a part two for this story, but what do you guys think? should i or not? 🤔🤫 if you want to be on the taglist i’ll make for the next chapter and the upcoming heesung or enhypen fanfics in general, please comment! thank you so much and i hope you enjoy 🥹

PART 2 HERE.

“y/n,” he said, his tone flat. “there’s something i need to tell you.”

your heart paused.

you sat up a little, adjusting the blanket around your chest, still half-dazed, still sore. “what do you mean?”

he didn’t look at you. “this wasn’t my first time.”

you blinked. “oh… okay. i mean… i didn’t think it was. that’s fine.”

but he shook his head, slow and almost impatient. “no. you’re not getting it.”

you tilted your head, your heart picking up speed. “then explain it to me.”

his fingers laced together, elbows on his knees. he stared down at the floor like it was easier to talk to than you.

“let’s stop this,” he said suddenly. “we should end it here.”

you blinked hard, your breath catching in your throat. “what?”

he finally turned a little, just enough for you to see the side of his face. his profile was blank, almost bored.

“from the beginning, you were like a ghost,” he said. “always hovering, always watching. pretending our meetings were accidents, like you weren’t constantly following me around. like you weren’t desperate for me to see you.”

his words were sharp, colder than anything he’d ever said to you.

“i tolerated it,” he added, his tone dry. “because i was curious. i wanted to see how far you’d go.”

your eyes were wide now, and you sat up straighter, the blanket clutched tightly over your chest. “heesung… what are you talking about?”

he turned his head, finally meeting your gaze over his shoulder.

“i’m not the person you think i am.”

your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“this was a game. a bet,” he said softly. “i wanted to see how far you’d go for me.”

you couldn’t breathe.

his eyes met yours. colder than you’d ever seen them. lifeless. cruel.

“now i know.”

it had been raining for most of the day. the kind of slow, persistent drizzle that soaked through your socks and left your skin clammy even beneath your uniform. your cheap umbrella, the one you’d had since middle school, finally gave out around lunch—one of the ribs snapped in the wind, and you watched helplessly as the fabric peeled away like skin from bone. you’d tried to make it work anyway, stubbornly clutching it on your way out of the school gates, books held close to your chest, shoes squelching against the pavement. you didn’t expect anyone to stop. no one ever did.

“hey,” a voice said, soft but clear under the rain.

you turned, blinking up at him—lee heesung. tall, dark-haired, and slightly damp around the collar, holding a black umbrella that looked way too expensive for a high school student. you recognized him from the class next door. everyone did. he was the kind of boy who didn’t need to try to be noticed. always the top of the leaderboard in physics and literature, always the first pick for any team. but he wasn’t loud. he wasn’t even particularly social. he just… existed above the rest, like a story you weren’t allowed to touch.

he stepped closer and tilted his umbrella slightly to cover you. “yours broke?”

you hesitated, stunned by the simple question. “yeah. it’s, um… useless now.”

he didn’t say anything else. just held out the umbrella handle to you.

“take it,” he said. “i’m not going far. you need it more.”

you stared at him, thinking maybe he was joking, or testing you somehow, but his face was unreadable. not smiling, not smug. just… calm.

“thank you,” you murmured, reaching out for it like it might vanish if you moved too quickly.

he gave a slight nod, and with that, he walked off into the rain, hands in his pockets, hair already sticking to his forehead. no explanation. no follow-up. just gone.

after that, you started seeing him everywhere.

in the mornings, standing by the vending machine with his headphones in. at lunch, sitting by the window, sketching in a notebook you couldn’t see. after school, waiting at the bike rack with his fingers curled loosely around the handlebars. he never looked for you, never waved, but your eyes found him anyway—like a habit. a quiet kind of orbit.

you never thought someone like him would look back.

so when he asked you out—casually, almost like a dare—you didn’t think twice.

“go out with me,” he said one afternoon as you gathered your things after the study group he’d joined last minute. his tone was flat, but his eyes met yours, unwavering.

you blinked. “what?”

“you heard me,” he replied, shoving a pen into his backpack. “i’m asking you out, y/n.”

your heart flipped painfully. “why?”

he shrugged. “why not?”

you said yes. of course you said yes.

and that’s how it started. not with roses or confessions, but a strange, slow burn of moments stitched together—he holding your books when your arms were full, walking you home in silence, waiting for you after school without saying he would. he never called you ‘babe’ or held your hand in front of others. he didn’t kiss you at your locker or brag about you to his friends. but he showed up. when you were sick, he brought medicine. when you had your period, he offered his hoodie because he noticed the way you sat curled in discomfort. when you failed a quiz, he helped you study without a word of judgment.

and slowly, you fell.

you started staying up late just to replay your conversations in your head. you started writing his name in the margins of your notes. you started hoping—stupidly, recklessly—that maybe he liked you back in that quiet, complicated way he existed.

he never said “i love you.” but he looked at you, sometimes, like you were worth noticing. like maybe you were real.

you’d never known love could be so quiet.

no fireworks, no racing heartbeat. just a gentle kind of knowing—the way heesung would always wait for you at the gate, pretending he just happened to be there. the way he never forgot your schedule, even when you did. the way he carried your bag without asking when your shoulders hurt, or opened your water bottle for you during breaks without saying a word. he never called attention to it. never asked for thanks.

but you noticed. you noticed everything.

like how, when you got caught in the rain again a week later, he didn’t offer you his umbrella this time—he just pulled you under his without hesitation, one arm around your shoulder, holding you close so you wouldn’t get wet. you walked home together like that, your cheeks burning the whole time, your heart making up songs from the rhythm of his steps.

sometimes he’d do small things—thread your charger through the desk so you wouldn’t trip over it, order your favorite bread at the convenience store before you even told him, peel tangerines during break and place one gently on your notebook without ever looking up.

he never said “i care about you.” but he didn’t need to.

one afternoon, the two of you sat at the far corner of the school library, hidden behind tall shelves and rows of dusty encyclopedias. finals were close, and he’d offered to help you review for the math test. you tried to focus, but your brain was mush and his cologne smelled warm and clean, and the way he leaned over your notebook made your breath catch.

you were mid-sentence—trying to understand the difference between permutations and combinations—when he reached over, slowly, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

you froze. his fingertips brushed your cheek, barely touching, but it made your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t have words for. your lips parted to say something, but nothing came out.

he didn’t move away.

his gaze lingered on your face, eyes dark and unreadable, his hand resting now on the edge of the table between you. his thumb brushed against your pinky finger.

“you’re not dumb,” he said softly, and for a second you thought you’d imagined it.

“what?”

he gave you a look, the kind that made your heart ache—equal parts tired and amused. “you always look like you’re about to cry when you study. like the numbers are bullying you.”

you laughed under your breath, biting your lip, and that’s when it happened.

he leaned in, not suddenly, not dramatically—just a slow tilt forward, like gravity had made the decision for him. your lips met in the space between breath and thought.

your first kiss.

his lips were warm, softer than you expected, moving carefully, almost unsure, like he was figuring it out at the same time as you. your eyes fluttered shut, your hand clenched the side of your chair. the world slowed down into the taste of mint and something faintly sweet, into the way his nose brushed yours, into the tiny breath he gave against your mouth like he didn’t want to stop.

and when he pulled away, just slightly, he didn’t speak.

neither did you.

you just stared at each other, your forehead almost touching, and for once the silence wasn’t awkward—it was full. full of all the things you didn’t have to say. his thumb grazed your knuckle once more before he picked up your pencil and returned it to your hand, turning the page of the textbook like nothing had happened.

but everything had changed.

you walked out of the library with his fingers loosely tangled in yours, and no one said a word.

still, you felt them—eyes watching from across the courtyard.

jay and sunghoon stood by the vending machines, not talking, just looking. their uniforms unbuttoned at the collar, hands in their pockets, that same slight smirk on both of their faces. not friendly. not surprised. almost… entertained.

you squeezed heesung’s hand tighter, but he didn’t look at them. or at you.

just ahead.

it had been two months since you started dating heesung. one month exactly since your first kiss in the library.

you still remembered how it felt—his lips soft and warm, the way the world had gone silent around you. since then, your relationship had moved slowly, carefully. there were more kisses, most of them stolen, tucked between hallways and shadows. he'd press a kiss to your temple before leaving, or lean in suddenly when you were mid-sentence, just to shut you up. it was never rushed. never loud.

and neither was he.

heesung remained the same. quiet, composed, hard to read. at first, it made you nervous—made you wonder if he liked you as much as you liked him. but then he'd hold your hand under the desk, or show up with your favorite snack without being asked, or carry your bag without saying a word. you realized he just... wasn’t expressive the way other people were. he loved in quiet actions, not words. and you accepted him like that.

maybe that was why, one night, when your parents were away visiting your aunt, you invited him over.

you told him you just wanted to watch a movie. but that wasn’t the whole truth.

the truth was, you wanted to feel closer. to give him something no one else had. you were scared, but more than that—you were sure. sure of him. sure of the way you felt when he looked at you like you mattered. sure of the way his hand fit around yours, like it was meant to be there.

you sat beside him on the couch, movie playing in the background, but your thoughts were louder than the dialogue on screen.

you turned to him, heart in your throat.

“heesung… can i tell you something?”

he looked at you with those eyes that always made your chest ache. “of course.”

you swallowed. “i want to do it. with you.”

his brows rose slightly. “do what?”

you gave a tiny, nervous laugh. “you know what.”

his face changed then—eyes widening just enough to show surprise, lips parting. “y/n…”

“i mean it,” you said, quieter now. “i want my first time to be with you.”

he blinked, frozen, like his brain was buffering.

“are you sure?” he asked after a beat. “like... really sure?”

you nodded, cheeks burning. “yeah. i thought about it a lot.”

he hesitated again, then slowly reached for your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“okay,” he whispered. “let’s go to your room.”

you stood on shaky legs, leading him down the hallway, heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. your hands were clammy, but his stayed steady. when you opened the door, he walked in slowly, glancing around, and then turned back to you.

“i didn’t bring anything,” he said carefully. “condoms. i didn’t think…”

your cheeks flamed. “i bought some.”

he blinked again. “you did?”

“yeah,” you said quickly. “just in case. i didn’t want us to have to stop because of that. i mean—i wasn’t sure if we would, but i thought maybe—”

“hey,” he said softly, and you stopped rambling.

his smile was small. real. “thank you.”

he stepped closer, touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, and leaned in. the kiss was slow—deeper than the others. your hands found the fabric of his hoodie, clinging gently. he tugged it off, then let you pull off yours. piece by piece, the layers fell away, until you were both under the covers, your skin buzzing with nerves and warmth.

his fingers traced your ribs, your hips, your thighs—always slow, always asking without words. he kissed your collarbone, then your chest, trailing soft kisses downward as if he were learning you by heart. you flinched when he touched between your legs, your whole body tensing. his hand paused.

“it’s okay,” he whispered. “i’ll go slow.”

you nodded, voice caught in your throat.

he kissed you again, his lips tender, grounding you. when he finally pushed in, your fingers dug into his shoulders, breath hitching with the pressure, the burn. it hurt—not sharp, but stretching, unfamiliar. you let out a shaky whimper and he stopped instantly, resting his forehead against yours.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he said.

“no,” you breathed. “i want to.”

he moved carefully, in and out, his breath brushing your cheek, his hands cradling your face. there were no moans. no pornographic noises. just small sounds—your sharp gasps, the way his breath caught every time your walls clenched around him. his body stayed close to yours, his chest pressed to yours, like he couldn’t bear to be apart even for a second.

it wasn’t perfect. it wasn’t easy. but it was yours.

and when it was over, he didn’t say anything. he just pulled you into his arms, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple.

and you thought, this is what it means to be loved.

you were wrong.

your body ached in a way that was unfamiliar—tender, raw, but not painful. just... used. and strangely, you didn’t hate the feeling. you were lying on your stomach, skin still flushed, the thin sheet draped over your lower half, your hair sticking slightly to the back of your neck. everything felt distant and slow, like the room had been dipped in warm honey. your breathing hadn’t completely settled yet.

outside, the sky had gone soft and gray, rain still tapping gently against the windows of your bedroom.

you heard soft footsteps from the hallway. heesung reappeared, shirtless but already in his boxers and jeans, carrying a small bowl of soup and a spoon. he didn’t say anything, just sat on the edge of the bed and gently tapped your shoulder.

“hey,” he whispered, as if the moment needed to stay quiet. “you need to eat something.”

you blinked up at him, dazed and slow. he scooped a bit of soup with the spoon and held it near your lips, waiting. your cheeks heated at the intimacy of it, but you let him feed you—small, careful bites, while he watched in silence. his hair was slightly messy, lips pink from kissing you earlier, but his expression was unreadable. calm. like always.

you smiled softly, trying to break the silence, your voice small. “i’m really glad it was with you.”

he didn’t respond.

he just placed the bowl gently on your lower back, resting it there like he couldn't bother to find another surface. the warmth seeped through the blanket, grounding you in place.

you frowned, confused, your lips parted to say something—but then he turned his body slightly, giving you his back as he sat fully on the edge of the bed. the air shifted.