#it is. 3am. and i have to be awake in two hours

[xxplastic-cubexx]

i am beyond serious

bonus:

[sunnibits]

FINALLY fucking home but at what cost

[inevitablestars]

and i can't sleep anymore i say as if ive ever slept normally but like its not funny anymore

[thecrow1994]

i have been awake for 24 straight hours i think i can see shrimp colours now

[mudandvodka]

fuck my stupid baka life

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part two]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, clothed ejaculation, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey depressed, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: hey guys, i'm literally so nervous posting this... it's been sitting in my drafts for like a month now and i finally worked up the courage to post after spending a couple hours editing :( i'm literally scheduling this to post at like 3am my time so i'm not awake when it goes live i'm so anxious bahaha. the start of this part is a bit slow, pls hold on because theres some light smut and angst at the end. i have plans for further parts that'll look more into the other avengers finding out and the development between bucky and readers relationship and their shared healing. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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It was only on rare occasions that the full team of Avengers (and co.) were in the same room. A momentous historical moment, in fact, normally reserved for two particular occasions:

The world was ending (in some gloriously diabolical way that usually involved aliens, interdimensional warlords, or some ancient, forgotten god with a vendetta) or

Tony Stark was throwing another one of his famously exclusive penthouse parties (which, despite being ‘exclusive,’ still managed to include half of New York—most of whom showed up just to gawk at the Avengers like a travelling circus act sent to entertain them personally.)

Today, it seemed, was neither of those occasions. Thor and the rest of the Asgardians—Bruce Banner included, oddly enough—were busy rebuilding after the destruction of Asgard. Wanda and Vision were off playing happy family elsewhere, and Clint was busy with his own quickly expanding family. The others, agents, specialists, the people whose names you never bothered to remember, were preoccupied with their own missions. Which left you here, filed neatly into the elusive extra category. Not quite an Avenger. Too valuable to be let loose, too unpredictable to be fully trusted.

You leant back in your chair, only half-listening to the conversation beside you. The skin around your thumbnail was raw. You picked at it absentmindedly, peeling back the edge where it had already started to flake, a sting flaring along the nail. You were thinking—too much, maybe—so you let them talk, let yourself disappear as they debated which bar had the strongest drinks and the least pathetic men.

The three of you were early. By some miracle, morning training had ended ahead of schedule. Natasha had wiped the floor with you, to the point where it probably would’ve been more productive to stay on the mat rather than waste your energy hauling yourself back up.

“What do you think?” It took you a second to realise Yelena was talking to you, elbows propped on the table, chin resting in her hand. She was watching you expectantly, sharp eyes narrowed.

You didn’t look up. “I’m not coming.”

She sighed dramatically. “You never hang out with us.” She leant back in her chair with an exaggerated huff, muttering under her breath, “So mysterious and cool. You think you’re better than us?” 

Natasha watched on amused, the redhead poised as always. “She doesn’t want to drink in front of us in case she spills her secrets.”

You scoffed. “What secrets?”

“I don’t know.” Natasha leant forward, watching you a little too closely now, like she was gauging your reaction. “How about how that mission went with Barnes?”

Ever since the gala mission, the two had been trying to get you alone, a few drinks in, hoping for something—a slip, an offhanded remark, anything that would confirm whatever hunches they had. You knew what they were fishing for. They weren’t subtle.

You just weren’t playing.

Neither you nor Bucky had said a word about it.

That, apparently, was suspicious.

“She is right, you know. Neither of you will say a word about it. I’m beginning to think something happened—” Yelena cut over her sister with a grin.

“Nothing happened,” you interrupted smoothly, finally lifting your eyes from the wreckage of your thumbnail. “You keep asking, but you’re not going to uncover some dirty secret. Sorry to disappoint."

“Then why the silence? No one would care if you fucked him, you could just plead innocence, overcome by playing the perfect, doting wife—”

You shot her a look, one withering enough to turn bone to dust and ego to rubble. 

“I mean… maybe people would care, but I wouldn’t judge you! Super soldier, metal arm… so hot, or whatever.” Yelena prattled on, and you ignored her, exhaling through your nose.

"I think he’s just mortified that people assume something did happen. He’s got enough brooding energy as it is." You muttered. 

“I just don’t believe nothing happened, trapped in that hotel room together for a week. Apparently, you were convincing enough to keep the targets off your scent, and we all know Barnes’ acting is as stiff as a cadaver on ice—”

Your face twisted into a look of exasperation before you could control yourself, straightening in your seat. “God, you two really are like vultures, picking around for the slightest bit of gossip—”

“Wow, defensive—” 

“Isn’t that the joy in life? Digging for gossip?” Natasha cut back in with a sharp smirk.

“You two are insufferable!” You interrupted, slapping your palms onto your thighs. "I think I’ll keep my secrets. I’ll leave the both of you to continue plotting this fantastical mystery you’ve created in your minds—”

“It’s only fun because you get so worked up about it,” Natasha cut back with a grin you could only describe as predatory. “Plus, I do love watching Rogers squirm listening to all the theories."

“You know,” Yelena mused, swirling the thought around before letting it slip, “I don’t think Steve is as innocent as we think he is. I’m pretty sure I heard him and Sharon—”

She cut herself off just as the door swung open, and the rest of the team filtered in.

You schooled your reaction, easily slipping back into the picture of nonchalance. Bucky’s blue eyes flickered towards yours for a split second before darting away. It had been two weeks since your first ‘lesson’. Two weeks of carefully measured distance, of subtle glances that never lasted too long, of conversations that stayed just professional enough to not raise questions.

Bucky had been doing well—shockingly well, actually. He was receptive to your touch, followed your guidance with careful precision, and was beginning to trust you, bit by bit. You hadn’t gone much further than heated make-out sessions that usually ended with him finishing in his pants, but you weren’t in a rush. You were still feeling out his comfort zones, making sure he never felt cornered or overwhelmed. There wasn’t exactly a handbook for this kind of arrangement.

You slumped in your seat even further, shaking off the feeling. It was fine. No one knew.

Still, the way Bucky avoided looking in your direction made something prickle under your skin.

You were certain the super soldier would combust on the spot if any of his coworkers caught wind of what the two of you had been up to. Hell, he turned red enough just having you perched in his lap during lessons, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. And yet, during meetings, training, or any moment the two of you were forced into the same orbit, you couldn’t help but wonder—did he think about those moments? Did his mind drift back to the ghost of your touch the same way yours did?

You weren’t usually the sentimental type. Nostalgia was a luxury, a foolish indulgence you had long since trained yourself out of. But there was something about him—his quiet hesitance, his wary but willing surrender—that stuck with you. It was a service, nothing more. A transaction in which you gained no tangible benefit, so why did you linger on it? Why did the thought of his gaze meeting yours send a sharp thrill through your chest? Was it because he treated you like a person instead of a tool? Because he understood pieces of you no one else even tried to?

He wasn’t like the others. Never cruel, never greedy. He never reached for more than you offered, never treated you like something to be taken. Maybe that was why you kept coming back. Maybe, for once, you liked the control. Liked the feeling of choosing, of being wanted on your own terms. Of knowing that, for once, you weren’t a marionette dancing on someone else’s strings.

You swallowed the thought down and let your gaze flicker to him. Bucky sat curled in on himself, as if trying to shrink into nothing despite the broadness of his frame. He looked like a wounded animal—no, worse. He looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened, his hair unwashed and slightly greasy at the roots. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t taking care of himself. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out.

He stared blankly at the grain of the wooden table, shoulders hunched between Steve and Sam, who were deep in conversation about something you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on. And for reasons you weren’t ready to name, that quiet, hollow stillness of his sat uneasily in your chest.

You had… concerns for Bucky after what he had confessed to you. But you weren’t sure what to do with those concerns. Or those confessions. You held them close to your chest, unwilling to betray his trust, but understanding instead. You knew it was probably irresponsible of you to sit on them, but you didn’t want to overstep. Besides, Steve and Sam didn’t know you. You’d had maybe three conversations with each of them, most of them mission-related. To them, you were just Natasha and Yelena’s friend—Red Room collateral. You weren’t social, you weren’t a part of their circle, and you sure as hell weren’t someone they trusted.

And if they knew about your arrangement with Bucky… well, you didn’t want to think about what conclusions they’d draw—

“Hi!”

The sudden, chirpy voice nearly startled you out of your seat.

Kate Bishop had arrived—loud, bright, and effortlessly excitable, like a golden retriever in human form. She had that kind of energy that made you suspicious. No one was that happy all the time. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, messy strands framing her face. She was dressed in casual, slightly dishevelled layers, looking like she had just come from sparring but didn’t have the same dead-in-the-eyes exhaustion you did after a training session.

“I’m Kate!” she announced, beaming at you like you were about to be best friends. She pushed her hand out. “Kate Bishop.”

You blinked at her, ignoring her outstretched offer. “I know.”

Her grin didn’t waver, and she coolly withdrew her hand.

“You’re Clint and Yelena’s pet project.” You spoke again, your tone perhaps a little more hostile than necessary. 

“It’s apprentice, actually.” Yelena cut in before Kate could argue. “You know, you’re starting to hurt my feelings. Stark has an apprentice, so why are you always giving me shit—”

“Oh yes, Stark’s pet project.” You gave an exaggerated sigh. “What was his name? Paxton, Peyton, or was it Parker?”

“Did I ask for your opinion, K.G.B. Barbie?” Tony Stark’s voice cut in lazily as he walked past, sitting at the head of the table like he owned the place—which, unfortunately for you, he did. As usual, he didn’t look pleased to see you, and the scent of entitlement wafted off of him in waves.

You met his gaze evenly. "No, but I was under the impression that unsolicited opinions were your love language, considering the amount your hand out.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Remind me why we let you sit at the big kids’ table again?”

"You don’t." You glanced at Stark, unimpressed. "But I was invited, shockingly enough. Or are you reckless enough to ignore Fury’s instructions now?"

There it was. That smirk. He smirked at you, and you knew in your heart he had the foulest, most cutting rebuke to lay upon you. He hadn’t even opened his mouth, and you were already grinding your teeth in frustration as you stared back at him, eyes locked onto his smug face—

Kate cleared her throat, stepping in before you and Stark could escalate any further. “So, what do you do?”

Stark held his tongue, so in return, you slid your gaze back over to a nervous Kate. And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t help yourself. Natasha had already shot you a warning look, but the redhead's trained patience for the playboy Stark had unfortunately never extended to you. 

"Infiltration, espionage, recon." You shrugged, expression carefully neutral. "I gather information, and then the big boys get to swoop in, throw a few punches, and take all the credit. Isn’t that right, Stark?"

Maybe you had woken up grouchier than usual—not that you could even call the few hours of restless tossing and turning sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that you’d spent the morning eating the training mat, then had to suffer through Natasha and Yelena’s constant interrogations that had soured your mood. Either way, you weren’t exactly in the best headspace to deal with him.

Truthfully, you thought Stark was a prick, and unfortunately, you had never been exactly shy about that opinion. You and Stark had just never really clicked. Not in the way he had with the others, not in the way Natasha had seamlessly folded herself into the team, or the way Yelena had bulldozed her way in, loud and brash. You existed somewhere in between, tolerated but always lingering on the outside. It wasn’t that you didn’t get along with them. You could banter with Sam, hold an easy conversation with Steve when necessary and trade dry humour with Clint in a way that made you feel almost at home. Even Stark, for all his grating personality, wasn’t always intolerable. But there was always something between you and them—an unspoken distance, a careful line you never crossed. They didn’t entirely trust you yet, and you never gave them a reason to try.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because trust had never been a luxury you could afford.

Your job was reading people—analysing, dissecting, and manipulating. You understood them better than they understood themselves, saw the cracks in their foundations and knew precisely where to apply pressure. It made you valuable. Indispensable even, but it also made people wary. The team knew what you were, even if they didn’t know the full extent of what you had been. But deep down, you knew they were smart enough to assemble the pieces.

So you kept yourself at arm’s length. You wanted to believe you could have that feeling��belonging. But wanting and trusting were two very different things that you did not dare confuse.

Kate’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stark interjected, leaning against the desk. “She’s just a pretty face we send in to distract while the rest of us do the actual work.”

There it was.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t rise to the bait. This was your hubris. You could already hear Natasha’s scolding—You really shouldn’t egg him on like that. The two of you are as bad as each other, always trying to get under each other's skin. A bunch of alleycats fighting it’s ridiculous—

Somewhere across the table, Bucky’s eyes had shot up. The movement startled you, and your eyes met briefly. It was milliseconds, maybe not even that, but as soon as you registered your brief exchange, Bucky shied away like a spooked animal.

And when you looked back at Kate, Natasha and Yelena, you found that Natasha had been watching the whole thing. She didn’t speak, didn’t even react. There wasn’t the slightest twitch in her brow or twinge in her lips. She stared like some kind of omnipotent god, and deep down, you knew. You knew she knew. 

Maybe she didn’t know the full extent, but the way she stared… it made you shudder.

Fuck.

Kate, however, frowned, turning back to you. “That’s not true, right?”

“Of course not,” you deadpanned, not letting the dread pooling in your stomach let you miss a beat. “I do much more than look pretty. Sometimes I get to torture people—”

Kate’s face pale, then through several stages of grief, trying to figure out if you were joking. 

You weren’t about to help her.

“Relax, Kate Bishop, she is messing with you,” Yelena said with an amused grin, though it was tight. A silent warning behind her eyes told you to keep your mouth shut.

Kate still looked mildly concerned, but she shook it off quickly. “Okay, but—so you can fight?”

“Of course.”

“Not as well as me,” Yelena cut in before you could elaborate, grinning smugly. “Don’t worry, Kate. You’re being trained by the best of the best. Me? I am the best. You know this.”

You rolled your eyes, and Kate beamed. That girl was too fucking cute for her own good.

The door swung open before anyone could respond to Yelena. Fury stepped inside, long coat sweeping behind him, his boots heavy against the floor. His usual expression—somewhere between perpetually pissed off and quietly judgmental—was firmly in place beneath the shadow of his eyepatch.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Fury said, his voice edged with dry amusement, though his gaze flicked between you all with razor-sharp scrutiny.

"No, sir," Steve said, back straightening. Natasha, ever composed, merely leaned back in her chair. Stark didn’t even spare a glance.

“First off, I’d like to extend my deepest, most heartfelt gratitude for your attendance,” Fury began, spreading his arms in a broad, insincere gesture, his tone so dry it could have turned the room to dust. “I know how much of a hardship it is, taking an hour out of your busy lives to sit in a comfortable chair and listen to me talk.”

Sam snorted. Yelena smirked. Bucky, as usual, remained unreadable.

Fury’s eye landed on you and Bucky before he tossed a slim tablet onto the table, the display already flashing with the text of a mission report you hardly cared to examine in detail.

“Congratulations are in order. The gala infiltration went exceptionally well despite the odds stacked against you.”

You dipped your head in acknowledgement, catching movement out of the corner of your eye—Sam begrudgingly sliding Fury what seemed to be a twenty-dollar bill. Asshole.

Fury tapped the screen embedded in the table, replacing the mission debrief with a new set of images. An aerial view of a club, snippets of surveillance footage, a grainy close-up of a man slipping out of a side entrance, bodyguards in tow.

“And thanks to that intel recovered,” Fury continued, “we now have a location on our next target. Dmitry Karpin. Friend to H.Y.D.R.A. Dealt in smuggling high-profile weapons in and out of Soviet countries for a time, but now he’s taken to smuggling drugs. Serums, to be specific.”

Across the table, Bucky had gone still. Tension coiled in his shoulders, his hands resting stiffly on the surface, knuckles taut. H.Y.D.R.A. Serum. The words alone were enough to suffocate the room when Bucky or Steve were around. You didn’t let your eyes linger on him long nor allow your frown to deepen. 

Fury didn’t acknowledge the shift—maybe he was used to it by now, or perhaps he just didn’t care. His voice remained steady, rolling over the tension in the room as if he were reciting lines from a well-rehearsed script. Karpin’s security detail. The club’s weak points. Entry and exit strategies. The words blurred together, dissolving into background noise beneath the low hum of static in your head. It was hard to focus when you could feel Bucky sitting across from you, motionless, barely even breathing, his whole body locked up like a loaded fucking gun. And the worst part? He probably thought he was doing a good job hiding it.

You didn’t stare, didn’t let your concern show. Instead, you leant back in your chair, tilting your head just enough to feign disinterest. “So, just another fun-filled evening of chatting up sweaty old men for me? Sounds like a dream.” Your voice came out dry, with just enough sarcasm to mask any wobbles. 

Fury didn’t spare you a glance. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” he said, tapping the screen again. More grainy footage. More blueprints. The details kept coming, but you barely registered them.

You picked at your thumbnail hard enough that the cuticle began to bleed.

Eventually, the meeting drew to a close. Chairs scraped against the floor as the team rose, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out. You stood, ready to follow, but—

“You two, stick around,” Fury instructed.

You hesitated, glancing at him, then at Bucky, who had also stalled mid-step. Natasha and Yelena exchanged a knowing look, their amusement not at all subtle. You ignored their barely concealed grins as they disappeared through the door.

Fury exhaled, hands bracing against the table as he surveyed the two of you. 

“I’ll be honest,” he said finally. “I wasn’t convinced it would work when I paired you two. Thought maybe you’d kill each other before you got anything done.”

Bucky scoffed quietly, gaze flicking away.

“But you proved me wrong.” His good eye narrowed as he continued. “The mission was a success. You handled yourselves well.”

A beat of silence. Then, just as flatly, “I want to know if you’d be open to working together again. Similar style of operation.”

Your eyes slid over to Bucky, gauging his reaction. You didn’t want to appear too eager or give any more credence to the stories Yelena and Natasha were spinning, but most of all, you didn’t want to put words into Bucky’s mouth. You weren’t in the business of pressuring him in or out of the bedroom. 

Bucky was quiet as if silently working through some thoughts before deciding. Finally, he offered a dismissive “Sure.”

You nodded slowly, offering Fury a nonchalant shrug. “I’m fine with that.”

Fury’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk.

“Well, that’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard all day,” he deadpanned before shaking his head. “Damn, you two are depressing. Sitting there all broody, staring at me like I shot your goddamn dog.” 

Neither you nor Bucky reacted, which was met by a low chuckle from Fury. “Regardless, I appreciate the hard work. You made me a nice chunk of money winning some bets.”

Your brow furrowed. “You bet on us?”

Fury raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Course I did. Had to make it interesting. Half the team thought you’d get caught or kill each other before the first day was up.”

You blinked. “...Who bet against us?”

“Stark.” Fury’s lips twitched again. “He didn’t think you’d make it past security.”

Of course he did. Prick. 

—

"Alright, I’m in position."

You blinked. Bucky sat there like he was awaiting orders, his posture rigid as if he were about to breach enemy lines.  His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them like touching you required the same level of strategic planning as a high-stakes extraction mission.

You stared, straddling his hips, your fingers ghosting over his collarbone, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. He didn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder as if making direct contact might detonate something neither of you were ready for. For a split second, you half expected him to press a finger to an earpiece and murmur something about securing the perimeter.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, he looked every bit like a man being held hostage rather than one about to receive a very generous favour.

Lately… something felt off. The signs had been subtle at first, the way he always seemed a beat too calculated, his hands found the same places every time, and he would grow still like he was waiting for a command. 

And now, looking at him, so wound-up he might actually vibrate, it finally clicked.

Every touch and kiss was executed with the precision of a soldier running a drill rather than a man lost in the moment. It was methodical. He was analysing a strategy rather than experiencing pleasure. You half expected to glance down and see him taking notes—touch here, kiss there, don’t forget to do this. The thought horrified you, but if you were honest… it also amused you. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“…Bucky, are you seriously treating this like a mission?”

He stiffened beneath you, his reaction just a fraction too quick, too defensive.

“What’d you mean?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge. He was already on guard, bracing for imaginary discipline. 

“The way you’re…” You trailed off, head inclining as you studied him. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight, the creased skin between them betraying him entirely. One could mistake him for a soldier behind enemy lines, waiting for the crack of a rifle. There were dark smudges under his eyes, no worse than usual. You knew he didn’t sleep well. Nightmares haunted him and left him running on fumes more often than not. You recognised the signs, and it was like you were looking into a mirror. 

“It’s like you have a mental checklist,” you murmured, watching for his reaction. “Like every move you make is planned like you’re running through a strategy in your head instead of just… feeling it.”

Bucky remained silent, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Gently, you squeezed his shoulder, fingertips pressing into hard muscle. He was tense—too tense. “You’re not clearing a building, Bucky. You’re not scanning for threats. You’re here with me. Just relax a little, won’t you?”

“I am relaxed.” He bit the words out, though neither his voice nor expression were even remotely convincing.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I appreciate the attempt to lie, but when I can feel the fucking tension in your body, it’s a little, well, very obvious.” Your hands traced along his shoulders, fingers kneading into the tight knots beneath the fabric of his shirt. His muscles were rock-solid, never fully uncoiled. His body had forgotten how to rest.

“See?” You gave a pointed squeeze. “This is not ‘relaxed,’ Bucky. This is as solid as a goddamn steel beam.”

Bucky scoffed a tiny huff of air through his nose. “Those are my muscles. I work out. Don’t you?”

You gasped in mock delight, lips parting in exaggerated shock. “Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Bucky, was that a joke?”

Something flickered in his expression for the first time, a sliver of amusement breaking through the ever-present brooding. He finally met your gaze, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners, and the sight sent a flicker of warmth through your chest.

You grinned. “Well, isn’t that a first? Guess I should mark the calendar.”

His smirk was brief, fleeting—but it was there.

You softened, your voice dropping just a little. “But seriously, you need to loosen up.” Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, slow and deliberate.“Attraction, desire… sex. It’s messy, it’s unplanned. It’s not a mission. This isn’t the army.” 

You didn’t dare say the following words in your mind aloud. 

This isn’t H.Y.D.R.A. 

But you knew that was where his thoughts drifted, that unspoken trouble that plagued you both. Your fingers ghosted along the silver chain at his throat, the faint jingle of his dog tags barely audible under the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to follow orders. You can just be.”

“I know.” The words came low, rough, frayed at the edges. You could feel yourself losing him, his eyes growing foggy as if pulled away to a place you couldn’t quite reach to drag him out from.

“I just…” Another breath, deeper this time, as though steadying himself. “They used me. For so long, they used me as a weapon. I don’t know if I can ever be anything different than that. I don’t want to lose control—what happens if I lose—”

“Hey.” Your hands framed his face now, thumbs brushing against the sharp angles of his cheekbones, anchoring him. “Hey, look at me.”

His eyes lifted, hesitant, guarded.

“You are more than that.” The words were gentle but unwavering, as steady as your hands on him. “We are more than that, okay? You’re Bucky. Just Bucky. And you are in control. Say it.”

His fingers curled against your thighs, knuckles pressing into the cotton fabric of your shorts. He was quiet momentarily as though testing the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m in control.”

“You’re in control.” You echoed, smoothing your thumb over the faint stubble on his cheek. “And you still want to do this?”

His breath was slow, deliberate. “Yes.”

Your fingers had drifted higher, threading into his hair, the strands silky and cool beneath your touch. You swept a loose lock from his forehead, letting your fingertips linger against his temple. “And if you don’t want this at any point, what do you say?”

“Stop.”

“And what will happen if you say that?”

“You’ll stop. We’ll stop.”

“Good.” You praised him, your smile widening as you felt him squirm beneath you. There was a subtle hitch in his breath as your hands began to trail lower, palms smoothing down to his chest. The pulse at his throat fluttered beneath your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying the calm he was trying to hold onto. You leant closer, your breath warm against his skin as you pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple. Then lower—to the sharp line of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, and finally to the hollow of his throat. A shudder ran through him, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” He uttered after a thick, audible swallow.

You pulled back just enough to study him, to see how his lips parted slightly as though chasing the warmth of your touch. A quiet, almost reluctant noise rumbled in his chest, just shy of a whine. You traced your fingers along his jaw before tilting your head, considering him. “I want to try something.” You hummed to him. “You can say no if it’s too much, but I think it might help you.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah?”

“I want to blindfold you—”

“You want to what?” He went rigid beneath you, every muscle tightening again as if you’d flipped a switch and snapped him back into defence mode.

“Hold on, just let me finish.” You held up your hand, hoping to counteract his immediate, instinctive reaction.

He huffed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the response, but said nothing. 

“I want to blindfold you,” you repeated, slower this time, words deliberate. “And I want to kiss you. And touch you. I want you to focus on feeling good rather than anticipating something bad. I want you to just… be here with me. Not thinking about what comes next, not waiting for an attack. Just focusing on feeling. That’s all.”

His expression was cautious before turning to contemplation—as though weighing the idea against everything instinct told him.

“You can say no,” you reminded him gently.

“No, I—” He hesitated, his fingers twitching against your hips.

You shifted back just a little, offering him the space to decide. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do it.”

“No, I—shit—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean—no, I want to. Yes. I want to try that.”

Your gaze searched his. “You’re sure?”

His lips pressed together, and then he nodded once, firmly. “Yes.”

You grinned, pressing a sloppy, lingering kiss to his temple before slipping off his lap with ease and rolling onto the bed beside him. “Do you have something we could use?”

“Uh, I don’t—”

“Like a tie, maybe? You wear suits, right? Or does Stark demand them back the second you step foot in the compound?”

Bucky let out a huff, eyes narrowing. “I don’t want to talk about Stark right now.”

You shot him a knowing look, but before you could tease him further, your gaze flickered downward—and you smirked. Even through the soft material of his sweatpants, you could see he was already half-hard. “Sure.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, staining his ears and cheeks pink. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Top drawer. In the wardrobe.”

You were on your feet before he could finish, slipping into his walk-in wardrobe. Every apartment in the compound had one, though Bucky’s was noticeably bare. His clothes were monochrome, muted shades of grey, navy, and black. No bursts of colour. No sign of impulse. It was not a lack of wealth. You knew that for sure. No, this was intentional—a desire to blend in, to disappear.

You’d always known he was the type who preferred the shadows, slipping between crowds unnoticed. No wonder he hated the tailored suits Stark and Fury forced him into—arm issues aside. For some reason, S.H.I.E.L.D. were determined to parade him around. Look, the Winter Soldier. He’s a good boy now. He plays nice. Nothing to fear anymore. You were unsure how he felt about such displays, but you were sure it wasn’t too far off from how you felt about it. You had once been in his shoes, though more in the eye candy territory. A doll to dress up and play with, to smile and play the part.

Powerful men enjoyed degrading that which they knew to be dangerous, enjoyed playing with fire, and enjoyed the illusion of control. 

Shaking off the thought, you pulled open the top drawer, sifting through a few neatly folded ties. You selected a smooth black silk, running the cool fabric over your palm before returning to the bedroom.

Bucky was still seated at the edge of the bed, stiff as a board. His hands curled into fists atop his thighs, knuckles taut. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You slowed, holding the tie between your fingers like approaching a spooked animal. Visible to inspect and assess. No threat.

“Yes?” you asked, giving him another chance to change his mind.

His jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. “Yes.”

You smiled softly. “Just breathe, yeah? Like we always do.” You inhaled deeply through your nose, then exhaled slowly and steadily through your mouth.

After a beat, Bucky mirrored you, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

You moved behind him, settling onto the bed. He sat still, poised for an attack. Carefully, you draped the silk tie over his eyes, looping it around his head and securing it with a loose knot. It wasn’t tight—one purposeful tug and it would slip free.

You could feel the tension radiating from him. Even blindfolded, he was hyper-aware, attuned to every rustle of the sheets, every shift of your weight. His breathing had turned shallower, the serum sharpening every sound, every sensation.

“If you need to stop for any reason, just say so.”

He jolted slightly at your voice, caught off guard in the quiet. “O-okay.” His voice wavered, and then he cursed low under his breath in Russian.

You grinned. Some habits died hard.

“I’m going to touch you now.” You crept closer, lifting onto your knees behind him. “Just focus on me and how it feels. Nothing else. Can you do that?”

He gave a slow, hesitant nod.

You started at his shoulders, palms skimming over firm muscle, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Every dip and ridge, every knot of tension. Your hands slid to his collarbone, then across the joint where flesh met metal, mapping out the contrast between warm skin and the smooth, cold vibranium.

He was solid beneath your touch, every muscle taut and solid as it stretched across the bone.

You had noticed the way his shoulders gave him grief. The slight tilt of his frame and the way his left arm always sat heavier. It was incorrect weight distribution; the metal limb was too heavy compared to its flesh counterpart. S.H.I.E.L.D had surely offered him physical therapy—massages, treatment plans—but you doubted he had ever taken them up on it. He didn’t like to be touched by strangers. Too wary. Too untrusting. 

“Can I take off your shirt?” you asked softly.

He stilled.

“I don’t—” His voice was lower now, rougher. “My scars. They’re not—”

“I don’t care about that.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t?”

“No,” you said firmly. “Why would I?” 

Without a word, his hand reached behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt. He yanked it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. You adjusted the blindfold where it had shifted, then let your gaze drift over the broad expanse of his back.

His shoulders were massive, sculpted with muscle. The scars on his left shoulder were brutal—jagged lines of gnarled tissue where the vibranium met flesh. It might have been seamless after the amputation. Painless even. But it had been H.Y.D.R.A who had ruined him, left scars so deep even the Wakandans couldn’t erase.

And H.Y.D.R.A didn’t care for comfort. They cared for necessity. Likely, you suspected, they had wanted him to suffer.

An endless reminder of their ownership.

You swallowed, then placed your hands on his shoulders again, thumbs pressing gently into the base of his neck. You started slow, careful, massaging along the muscle, working your way down. His skin was warm beneath your palms, the mass taut and unyielding at first, like stone beneath your fingers. But you took your time, applying gradual pressure, thumbs circling into the knots built over time.

Beneath your hands, Bucky let out a low, guttural sound—a half-growl, half-sigh of approval. His head dipped forward slightly, chin brushing his chest, an unspoken invitation to continue.

You kept going, kneading deep into the knots in his shoulders, feeling the tension resist before you coaxed it loose. With each press and roll of your fingers, the stiffness unravelled like a cord being undone, thread by thread. You worked methodically, digging your thumbs along the curve where his neck met his shoulders, pressing firmly enough to elicit another low, unconscious groan from him.

You bit back a smile as you felt him lean into you just a little.

Trailing downward, you traced the slope of his shoulder blades, following the ridges of tendons and old wounds. The scars on his left side were tougher, the tissue uneven where flesh met metal, but you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers brushed the seam between the vibranium and skin, then continued downward, thumbs pressing slow, firm circles along the fuse.

Bucky shuddered.

His breath hitched as you dug into the deep-seated strain along his spine. A sharp inhale, a low exhale—he was losing himself to the sensation, surrendering to your touch. You didn’t rush. You worked him slowly, thoroughly, feeling him yield with each measured stroke. When you reached the dip of his lower back, you flattened your hands, smoothing over the tightness that lingered. He was warm now, his skin melting like wax beneath your fingers.

Satisfied, you finally pulled back, smoothing your hands along his spine one last time before shifting your position.

Rising onto your knees, you moved around him, hands trailing over his shoulders as you slid into his lap. His breath stuttered, but he didn’t pull away. You settled against him, straddling his lap, your arms draping lazily over his shoulders. The blindfold was still secure, and he looked… calmer now. Less wound up, his jaw no longer locked so tightly.

“You okay?” You murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you hummed, tilting your head, lips just inches from his ear. “I think you needed that.”

Bucky exhaled a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh, but he didn’t deny it.

Your fingers trailed up the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly against the short hairs, and you felt him shiver beneath you. You leaned in, lips brushing over his cheekbone, just at the edge of the blindfold, before trailing downward. You kissed along his jaw, soft and teasing, pressing your lips into the warm skin beneath his ear, down the column of his throat.

His hands fidgeted at his sides, tightening around the sheets. Then, as if giving in to some internal battle, they rose—hesitant but desperate. His fingers found your waist, sliding over the curve of your hips before gripping tight.

You grinned against his skin.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice a breath of silk against his throat.

A sharp exhale left him, his fingers tightening, pressing you closer, holding you in place. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky groaned into the kiss.

It was soft at first, your mouth moving against his, teasing, coaxing him deeper. But it wasn’t long before he cracked. The tension he had held onto for so long—his control, his restraint—it frayed at the edges with every pass of your lips against his. You pressed closer, shifting in his lap, and the moment your hips rolled against him, his breath stuttered.

A broken sound escaped him, part groan, part whimper.

You did it again just to hear it.

His hands flexed against your sides, his hold firm, frantic, but he didn’t stop you. He only breathed harder, his forehead falling against yours as you peppered kisses along his lips, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Then you moved again, grinding against him slowly, carefully, and Bucky outright whimpered.

He made no effort to stop you—no attempt to control the rhythm, no resistance left in him. His mind was no longer caught in the tangle of right and wrong, of what he should or shouldn’t do.

He only felt.

Only responded.

You kissed him again, deeper, fiercer this time, and he met you with equal hunger.

Bucky’s hands roamed, sliding up your back. Then, his vibranium hand found your face, cradling it between cool, unyielding metal, and you shivered at the contrast—the bite of cold against your flushed skin, the sheer strength in his hold, barely restrained.

He kissed you like he was starving.

You sighed into his mouth, rolling your hips down to meet his, and he groaned—deep and guttural as his body jerked beneath you. He was fully hard now, the evidence pressing against you through his sweatpants, and you couldn't help the soft, breathy giggle that escaped between kisses.

Bucky growled, his grip tightening, his body chasing yours as you rocked against him.

Your hand trailed down, slipping between your bodies, fingers teasing along the waistband of his sweatpants. You could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched as your fingertips ghosted lower—

Then he flinched, catching your wrist in a shaky grip.

“Too much,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but the strain was evident.

Immediately, you withdrew, pulling your hand away without hesitation. “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop—”

“No.” he replied quickly, breathlessly.

You cupped his jaw, kissing him slowly, tenderly, as he shuddered beneath you. His hands flexed where they held you, his body still trembling with need, but he didn’t pull away. You kept your movements soft and gentle, pressing your forehead against his, letting him breathe as you kissed him repeatedly. 

“Is this better?” you checked in between kisses, voice warm, reassuring.

“Yes.” He muttered against your lips.

You kissed him deeper, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and into his mouth.

His body convulsed beneath you, hips twitching up to meet yours, his breath turning shallow and erratic. You could feel the tremors coursing through him, his muscles tensed, his restraint crumbling with every slow, dragging roll of your hips.

Then, with a choked groan, he stiffened.

A broken moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering beneath you. His breath hitched, then stilled, his head falling back onto the bed as he panted heavily, completely spent.

You smiled, watching his chest rise and fall, his body finally wholly relaxed.

You let him catch his breath, your hands smoothing over his chest in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes were still covered, the black silk of the tie snug against his skin, and for a moment, you just watched him—his expression relaxed in a way it so rarely was, his lips parted as he inhaled deep, steadying himself.

Reaching up, you brushed your fingers over his jaw before carefully undoing the knot at the back of his head. The tie slipped away with ease, and his eyes fluttered open, blinking as he adjusted to the room's dim light. His pupils were blown, irises hazy, but there was something else. Softness. An openness you didn’t often see.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Hey.”

You leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before shifting off of him, allowing him to breathe. He hesitated momentarily before sitting up, his movements slow, almost reluctant. His sweatpants were clinging damply to his skin, and he grimaced slightly before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should, uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, watching as he climbed off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The soft sound of running water followed soon after. You stayed where you were, fingers idly playing with the silk tie as you listened, giving him the space to clean up and gather himself.

When he returned, his sweatpants had been swapped for a fresh pair, the fabric hanging loose around his hips. His hair was damp in uneven patches where he’d raked wet fingers through it, a lazy attempt at tidying up. He lingered in the doorway, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyes flickering over you like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You patted the empty space beside you. “Come here.”

His shoulders loosened just a fraction before he climbed back onto the bed, settling beside you with a quiet sigh. He was warm—solid and steady. Without thinking, you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. His arm came around you automatically, like muscle memory, pulling you in and holding you there.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, barely above a whisper, you asked, “Did you like it?”

Bucky exhaled a deep, slow breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice lower than usual, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “I did.”

You smiled, tracing absentminded circles against his chest. “What did you like about it?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

“It made it easier,” he murmured. “Not seeing. I could just… feel. Focus on what was happening instead of everything else.” His thumb brushed lightly against your side. “Didn’t have to worry about if I was doing something wrong.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Bucky, you’ve never done anything wrong.”

“I know,” he said, but his voice was tight, a shadow crossing his expression. “It’s just—” He stopped, mouth pressing into a thin line.

You reached up, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “Talk to me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I’m scared of it sometimes.”

Your brows furrowed. “Scared of what?”

“Pleasure.”

His fingers tightened slightly against your side like he was bracing himself, but he didn’t look away from you.

“I was taught…” He inhaled sharply. “That it could only be taken. Taken from me. That it was never given freely.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “That it wasn’t mine to have.”

Slowly, carefully, you sat up, shifting so you were fully facing him. He looked at you, expression guarded, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, something fragile in the way he held himself.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Those people, the ones who taught you that, they were trying to hurt you, degrade you,” you told him firmly. “Pleasure is to be shared equally. It’s something you deserve.” You squeezed his hand, your voice softening.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

“I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything to earn it,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening. His voice was barely above a breath when he said, “I don’t know if I know how.”

You smiled softly. “That’s okay. We have time.”

You lifted his hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles before settling back down beside him. His warmth seeped into you, but the ache in your chest remained—persistent, lingering. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, the tension in your muscles, or even the way your body still hummed with remnants of touch. No, this ache came from somewhere deeper, from the thoughts unravelling in your mind like a loose thread tugged too far, too fast as you contemplated his confession. 

You had always been a giver. That was your role, your purpose. You gave and gave until there was nothing left. Until you were hollow inside. And yet, the world kept asking for more. You wondered if, over time, it had chipped away at your soul, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

The words left your lips before you could stop them, before you had the chance to weigh whether you truly wanted to say them aloud.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not… whole?”

Bucky turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the low light, lids heavy as he blinked his dark lashes. He didn’t press or demand, didn’t look at you as if he needed clarification. He just waited, silently, like he knew you weren’t finished.

So you kept going.

“Like with every mission, every fight, every demand, you lose something? A tiny piece of yourself, given away without even realising it?” Your voice dropped lower. Bucky was still beside you, completely still, only his breath tickling your cheek with each slow rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t even know if I’m still the person I was when I was born or if I’ve just been rebuilt from borrowed parts. Pieces given to me, made for me, shaped to fit what I was supposed to become.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Or maybe… what they wanted me to become.”

The words were bitter on your tongue, and yet they kept coming.

“And I think… maybe I’m afraid that if I ever showed the real me, the world would reject me. That they’d be disgusted by my soul. By everything I have done.”

A shaky breath left your lips, your voice barely more than a whisper now.

“Because sometimes… sometimes I think the only way people will keep me around is if I give them something in return.”

Silence.

You turned your head toward him, searching his face, waiting for something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking. You hoped for a look, a breath, a word to ground you. But as your gaze swept over him, you realised his breathing had evened out, his lashes fluttering softly against his cheeks. The sharp furrow of his brow had smoothed, his lips slightly parted in a way that spoke of exhaustion finally pulling him under.

Asleep.

Your words had been lost to him.

You weren’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Maybe it was for the best. He needed the rest, the peace of slumber more than you did. Even now, in the soft glow of the room, dark circles remained etched beneath his eyes.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling momentarily before carefully slipping out of bed. You moved with quiet precision, gathering your things without making a sound. When you reached the door, you hesitated, glancing back.

For a second, a small, selfish part of you wished he had—wished he had heard you, had held you, had given you something, anything, to quiet the storm inside your chest. But he hadn’t.

And maybe that meant you could take the words back.

Tuck them away for another time.

Or hold onto them forever, maybe all you had needed was to say them aloud, even if only silence itself was listening.

Bucky didn’t stir from his slumber, not even when the door clicked shut behind you.

PART THREE

---

taglist: @civilbucky @buckysbbydoll @rosegarbage @fleurenoir @oikarma @blackstabbath6 @kcbug1128 @ellesbellswrites @thaynarajejheje @wunder-blunder @oceanaroma @dyscalculiaaa @murdocklvrr @pursuedbyamemoryy @fantasyheroine @chronicallybubbly @nikkinss @maryevm @doilooklikeagiveafrack (sorry if it didn't tag anyone properly)

[apatheticsunday]

Dead Tired College AU

AKA "Danny Fenton and Tim Drake go to college at Gotham-U together" headcanon!!

Maybe Danny moved to Gotham to avoid his parents finding out about Phantom and Tim is a part-time college student trying to get his business degree so people stop accusing Bruce Wayne of nepotism after Tim inherited WE. (It absolutely still is, but at least this way Tim is at least somewhat more qualified on paper.)

Anyways, they both took Anthropology as their humanities/pre-requisite elective and they're discussing death rituals, afterlife, etc. Now imagine Danny, officially Half-Dead, and Tim, who's brothers (Jason and Damian) literally died, getting into a heated discussion about spirits.

I also find the idea of them arguing via fucking Canvas (or whatever discussion forum/platform Gotham-U uses) so, so funny.

Imagine it's like 3am;

Danny, insomniac, been awake for 42 hours and popping melatonin gummies like gummy bears, furiously typing: i'm literally THE KING of infinite realms?? i know what i'm talking about, i fucking died

Tim, also been awake for 42 hours, chugging an energy drink, sending a response in 0.2 seconds: Half of Gotham has died at some point. You're not special, dumbass.

Give me "group of scientists losing their minds and climbing over the table to assault one another during scientific conference" vibes!!

And then they get paired up to do a group presentation (and Brad, who they ignore because they're both Experts, so this poor frat dude just slowly sinks into his chair between two sleep-deprived maniacs screaming at each other in the library). But Tim notices something weird about Danny, aside from his insane views on afterlife. Danny... glows? And sometimes doesn't really touch the floor when he walks. They're going to get coffee (so they can keep arguing debating, obviously, not because they enjoy each other's company or anything), and Tim watches as Danny just kind of... floats. Like, he's still walking but he's not really touching the ground.

Danny's hands are also super cold. Tim knows this because he grabbed Danny's hands once or twice (or more) to do... something, idk. But since his hands were so cold, Tim figured he should probably keep holding them; y'know, to warm them up.

And when Tim leans in to ask a question or insult him, Danny's breath comes out almost like a mist. Visibly white, like exhaling a hot breath in winter. Which... what. Holy shit, is his presentation partner actually sort of dead??

Danny, on the other hand, has no idea that Tim doesn't know. He literally said he died? And Tim took it so well, snarked back that he's not special - it was so nice to just feel normal. So he lets his guard down a bit. Maybe isn't as tangible, maybe is a bit more floaty, lets his body temperature drop enough to be comfortable. Doesn't put a whole lot of effort into making himself look so alive (because it's really tiring to pretend to be something you're not) when it's just him and Tim because Tim already knows, right?

They could be friends or they could be more! Whatever floats your boat.

But I could totally see Danny squinting at Tim holding his hand, remembering how Tim bought his favorite coffee, saved him a spot a the library, constantly texted him (because, c'mon, Tim is a bit obsessive and you don't think he'd be texting his new "friend ;)" every minute he has the chance?), and always leaned in super close to "ask a question"...and be like, are we flirting?? Oh, Hells, am I into him??

For plot reasons, Danny could be like, "I can't tell Tim I like him! What if I ruin our friendship? It'll be my secret."

And then, one day, Tim is like, "Hey, I know you're keeping something from me. I think I know what it is." And Danny's like ohshitohfuck. This cumulates into them saying, at the same time, I know you're a ghost and I have a crush on you.

Tim and Danny: *shocked Pikachu face*

Then, Danny's like, "I can't believe I have a crush on a fucking idiot."

[starkeymeow]

authors note: broken up with so i made THIS its 3am please

is it okay to want your ex to be the person beside you when you wake up from a dream about them, even when you know you’re supposed to be moving on?

because if it’s not, then you’re already doing this all wrong.

you wake up too suddenly, almost like your own body betrayed you, forcing you out of something you weren’t ready to leave behind. your eyes snap open, heart hammering, the kind of startled wake-up that leaves you disoriented for a moment, stuck between dream and reality.

you lift your head, blinking against the dark, and look down at the sheets pooled around your waist, then slowly, like maybe you already know what you’ll find, you glance toward the other side of the bed.

empty.

your stomach sinks, but you tell yourself that’s stupid. of course it’s empty. why wouldn’t it be?

but it doesn’t matter what your head knows. it’s what your heart feels that always screws you up, because for one blissful, delirious second, you expected him to be there. warmth beside you, an arm draped across your waist, his steady breathing pulling you back under.

but that was the dream.

and god, what a cruel dream.

you don’t even know if you were just friends or something more in it, if you’d crossed back over that invisible line or if you were still dancing around it, but what you do know is how it felt. how you felt. that dizzy kind of giddiness, the way your stomach flipped with every glance, every touch, every little moment of something unspoken but understood. it felt like starting over, like all the space between you had been erased, like maybe you could still have him.

and then you woke up.

you swallow hard and let your head fall back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. you shouldn’t be dreaming about him. you shouldn’t be feeling like this.

you’re supposed to be getting over him.

but now it’s four in the morning, and you’re wide awake with a lingering ache in your chest, a knot in your stomach, and a dream you can’t shake no matter how much you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

you try to sleep again. you roll over, adjust the blankets, close your eyes, and breathe deep like you read somewhere that might help, but it doesn’t. so you grab your phone from the nightstand and scroll through tiktok, letting the mindless flood of videos wash over you, but none of them make you laugh, none of them distract you the way you want them to. the flashes of what you remember come every now and then.

you think about making food, something small, because eating always makes you sleepy. but that feels like too much effort, and the last thing you want is to be alone with your thoughts in the kitchen, staring at the clock and counting the hours until you have to pretend like you’re fine.

so you give up and swipe through your notifications instead, clearing some out, replying to a text from your mom, letting the dull routine of it settle you.

but then you see his name, just sitting there in your recents like it belongs, like it hasn’t been haunting you since the breakup.

your thumb hesitates over the screen, and that’s all it takes. the thought is already there, already burrowing into your brain like an instinct you can’t fight.

you shouldn’t. you know you shouldn’t.

are you on non-speaking terms for now?

is it safe to send just one text?

but the dream is still fresh, still clinging to you like secondhand smoke, and every fiber of your being is screaming at you to just reach out. just once. just this one time.

before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can convince yourself to be strong, you tap his name and press the call button.

you sit up slowly, pressing your phone to your ear, and listen to the dial tone.

one ring.

two.

three.

your stomach twists. this was a mistake. he’s sleeping. maybe he has his ringer on and you’re waking him up. shame on you. you should hang up. you should—

then a noise. a shift.

your breath catches, your heart lurches.

you pull the phone away, staring at the screen, frozen in panic. maybe it was nothing. maybe he just moved in his sleep. maybe he won’t even remember this in the morning—

“hello?”

his voice is groggy, rough around the edges like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. like he doesn’t know who’s calling him at this hour.

and holy shit, you almost hang up right then. almost.

but something in you makes you lift the phone back to your ear, makes you swallow the lump in your throat, makes you whisper, “hello?”

there’s a pause, like maybe he’s still caught somewhere between sleep and reality. you hear the shift of fabric, the rustling of blankets as he moves, like he’s rolling onto his back, maybe rubbing at his face, trying to shake off the haze of sleep.

and then, recognition. “y/n— hey? why are you up?”

your lips part, but for a moment, nothing comes out.

because what are you supposed to say? that you woke up from a dream about him, and it felt so real that for half a second, you thought he’d actually been there? that it left you feeling warm and whole and painfully desperate to hold onto something that isn’t even yours anymore? that the idea of moving on feels impossible when your subconscious won’t even let you pretend you’re over it?

you swallow, forcing yourself to say something, anything, before the silence stretches too long.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you whisper, and before the guilt can settle too deep in your chest, you add, “sorry if i woke you.”

on the other end, you hear him shift again. there’s a faint rustling, the kind that makes you picture him shaking his head, before he murmurs, “you didn’t.”

you let out a small breath, a quiet scoff, something close to a laugh but not quite. “yeah?” your voice is just a little teasing, just a little skeptical. “you sound like it.”

for a second, there’s nothing. then he chuckles.

soft and low, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist, that makes you feel like you’ve caught him in a lie. and you have, obviously. you know his voice too well, you can hear the exhaustion in it, the roughness in his throat. you know he was asleep. but he’s trying to make you feel better about it, trying to brush it off like it doesn’t matter.

it’s nothing. it’s barely anything.

but it’s enough to make you slip.

you press your lips together, fingers tightening around your phone. because for a second, just a second, it feels normal again. like you can still call him in the middle of the night just because, like you can hear his sleepy laugh and joke about it, like you haven’t lost this part of him.

but then reality catches up.

your stomach sinks, the warmth in your chest cooling into something heavier, something bitter. your smile fades, and you shift, pressing your forehead against your knee, closing your eyes.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you shouldn’t be letting yourself fall back into something you know isn’t yours anymore.

but you force yourself to get to the point.

“would it be stupid if i asked you to come over?” you murmur, barely louder than a breath, barely brave enough to ask, but desperate enough to say it anyway.

the second the words leave your mouth, you regret them. the silence is immediate. so much silence that it makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse spike, makes you feel like you should just end the call right now and save yourself from whatever is about to happen next.

you pull your phone away for a second, checking to see if the call is even still connected.

“y/n.”

it’s soft, but the weight behind it is heavy. there’s something careful in the way he says your name, something almost hesitant, like he’s reminding you of something neither of you want to say out loud.

you know what he’s about to tell you. that there’s a reason you aren’t in each other’s beds anymore. there’s a reason you aren’t supposed to be doing this. and suddenly, panic sets in.

“nevermind,” you rush out, shaking your head at yourself like he can see you. “that was— i shouldn’t have asked. i just— i’m tired. i’m sorry i woke you, i’ll let you go. goodnight—"

“stop.” his voice is firm, cutting through your words before you can finish. you freeze, fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket, breath hitching, and you wait. you don’t say anything.

then, more shuffling on his end. you strain to listen, and then it hits you. he’s moving. getting out of bed.

“yeah,” he exhales, voice still thick with exhaustion, but steady now. certain. “i’ll be there.”

there’s a pause, the quiet hum of the phone line stretching between you both. you can still hear him moving; maybe grabbing his keys, maybe slipping on a hoodie. the thought alone makes your stomach flip. then, his voice, softer this time. careful. “do you need anything else?”

the question is simple, but there’s something about the way he asks it that makes you hesitate. like he’s offering you something more than just his presence. like if you asked for it, he’d give you anything. but you’re already pushing it. you know that.

so you shake your head, pressing your lips together before making a small sound of refusal, “mm-mm.”

on the other end, drew exhales, barely audible, and when he speaks again, it’s quiet. steady. “alright,” and then the call ends.

you lower your phone from your ear, staring at the screen as the seconds of silence stretch on, until the brightness fades and leaves you staring at your own faint reflection.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, eyes flickering toward your dresser, but you’re not really seeing it. your mind is running too fast, thoughts spiraling, pulling you in two different directions.

there’s an uneasy feeling settling in your chest, pressing against your ribs. like maybe you shouldn’t have done this. like maybe this is exactly why you and drew shouldn’t be calling each other in the middle of the night anymore. but then, there’s something else. something warmer.

because he agreed. without hesitation too. without a single question. he’s coming over. does that mean something? the thought almost makes you smile. hope.

drew doesn’t live far, thankfully. all that space in los angeles, and yet, somehow, you both ended up just a mile or two apart. it had been convenient back then, when late-night filming ran over, when you were both too tired to do anything but collapse into each other’s arms, when going home meant a five-minute drive instead of a long trek across the city.

it made sense, being close. you’d even talked about closing the distance completely before, like moving out of your separate places and into one together. it wasn’t a serious discussion, more like a fleeting idea thrown out between shared meals and lazy mornings, but it had lingered. but you never put any real time into it. and maybe that was for the best. or maybe it wasn’t.

because if drew can come over now, without question, without hesitation, just because you asked, then what would it have been like if you had actually lived together?

you can’t stop your mind from running with the thought, from spiraling into a thousand different possibilities.

if you had shared a home, would he have stayed in your bed on nights like these, when you couldn’t sleep, when the weight of missing him pressed heavy on your chest? or would he have made himself comfortable in some extra room, always just across the hall, close enough to feel present but far enough to keep a safe distance?

if you had already built a life under the same roof, would he have been the one to move out? or would he have stayed, finding excuses to linger, to keep things from changing too much, to hold on to something that neither of you were sure how to let go of?

or would he have stayed in the same bed, too disciplined to let emotions dictate his choices, too mature to act like sharing a bed meant something more than what it was—just sleep, just comfort, just the two of you existing in the same space like you always had?

because that’s who drew is. realistic, rational, someone who believes in keeping things separate, even if it hurts.

he wouldn’t have been reckless about it. he wouldn’t have let longing turn into excuses or blurred lines. he would have figured out what to do, how to move forward, how to live in the same space while still trying to get over you. he wouldn’t have let himself slip.

but you? you don’t think you’d be able to pretend so easily. because lying next to him, feeling his presence just inches away, knowing it was him but that you weren’t his anymore. it would break you, piece by piece, every single night.

but he’s there soon, riding up the elevator like it’s nothing, like this isn’t something that should feel bigger than it is. like this isn’t something that should be happening at all. ten minutes. that’s all it takes.

when the knock comes, you practically stumble out of bed, feeling unsteady in your own body. you don’t know how to carry yourself, don’t know if you should be composed or apologetic, don’t know if you should even be doing this. but you move anyway, making your way to the door on autopilot, fingers unsteady as they reach for the handle.

when you open it, there he is. hood on, sweats hanging low on his hips, a stupid pair of sandals on his feet like he didn’t think twice about what he was wearing before leaving. like he didn’t care. but his eyes . . . his tired, knowing, impossibly soft eyes, tell you otherwise.

and you feel it then. the guilt. all over again.

it’s humiliating, the way you can’t get over him. the way your chest tightens just from seeing him stand in your doorway. the way he can read it all over your face like it’s written there in bold letters. he exhales, something quiet, something almost affectionate, and then murmurs, “c’mon, angel.”

his voice is low, thick with sleep, and it only makes you feel worse, but you let him in anyway. you step aside, and he moves past you, closing the door behind him, locking it with the ease of muscle memory. it’s dark. the lights are off, nothing illuminating the space except for the soft, golden glow bleeding through the thin curtain covering your balcony door. it’s just enough to see him, to see the way he’s watching you, the way his brows pull together when he sees the wetness brimming in your eyes.

you cover your face with your hands, disappointment settling deep in your stomach. you shouldn’t have called him. you shouldn’t have let him come. you shouldn’t be standing here, crying in front of him like you’re still his to comfort.

but then his arms are around you, wrapping around your shoulders, around your head, pulling you into his chest before you can even think to push him away.

he’s warm.

his scent, familiar, overwhelming, engulfs you instantly. and suddenly, it all feels . . . warm in here. safe. like something you shouldn’t still want. like something you don’t know how to let go of.

and soon you’re back under the sheets, and so is he.

it’s quiet. on purpose.

he sits upright against the headboard, back pressed into the pillows, the fabric of his hoodie bunching slightly where his shoulders meet the wood. you’re not sure where he’s looking, but his gaze is far away, unfocused, lost in thoughts he won’t say out loud.

you don’t try to figure them out. you don’t ask. instead, you just let yourself sink into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath you. his warmth seeps into your skin, into the cotton of your sleep shirt, into the spaces between each breath. it feels familiar. dangerously so.

one of your hands stays curled between your bodies, fingers pressing into your own palm like you’re trying to hold something in. the other rests lightly on his abdomen, just for a second, just enough to feel the soft give of fabric over skin. hesitation creeps in, a warning, a reminder, but you ignore it. your fingers trace a barely-there path lower, brushing against his hand.

he doesn’t pull away.

your fingertips graze his knuckles first, featherlight, and then you take his hand completely, slipping your fingers between his, linking them like muscle memory.

he squeezes.

it’s subtle, almost unconscious, but it’s there. his hand is warm, slightly calloused, the way it’s always been. the way it shouldn’t still feel so right.

he exhales slowly, and you hear it more than you see it, feel it more than you acknowledge it. but when you glance up at him, you catch the shift in his face. the slight furrow of his brows. the parting of his lips, like there’s something sitting on his tongue, something he won’t say.

his eyes are trained on nothing. somewhere in the distance. worried. like he knows this is wrong too. but he stays. neither of you move, neither of you loosen your grip.

he reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp, but nothing really changes. the silence lingers. the warmth stays. you both just lay there, tangled in something you shouldn’t be, holding onto something neither of you know how to let go of.

and maybe that just sums you two up as a whole.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part two)

part two ; top secret arrangements

warnings ; none! (unless you count oc threatening murder about 293939 times as something that warrants a warning.)

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; greetings my loved ones! ah yes, another part that i deliriously edited at 3am bc my corporate job sucks the soul out of me <3 anyways! all your comments on the last part were so sweet and i appreciate every single one of you. MWAH.

this chapter is fun — we learn about oc’s family dynamics, watch her threaten murder a few times, even get to see her ambush an unsuspecting press rep. you guys are oh so lucky to be fed. and you’ll remain full because i just ran the calculations and… next chapter is nearing 15k words

playlist here

series masterlist here

“Have you talked to your boss about your promotion timeline?”

Your mother’s voice crackles through the speaker, overly crisp and awake for this hour. She always sounds like she’s calling you from inside an interrogation room, even though you know she’s sitting at the kitchen counter in her robe, nursing a mug of instant coffee with one slipper half off her foot.

“No,” you sigh, balancing your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you try to zip your pants. “Not this week.”

“You said that last week.”

You groan out some animalistic noise. “Moooom.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, undeterred by your sound effects, “these things don’t happen unless you advocate. You’re not a college kid anymore. You should be thinking about upward mobility, and your brand.”

She says mobility like she’s delivering some pathetic TED Talk in kitten heels. You make a face at your closet door and tug on a button-down that still smells faintly like the press room.

For all her perfectly cynical practicality, your mother has always reminded you of a bloodhound — relentless, sharp-nosed, and born with an uncanny ability to sniff out fear or any hesitation you try to disguise as composure. She’s the type of woman who taught herself how to file taxes on a borrowed library card and once negotiated a hospital bill down with nothing but a polite smile and the threat of local media.

She’s not cruel. She’s just focused. And being raised by someone like that, someone made entirely of high standards and survival skills, means you learned early that love can sound like a to-do list.

You grew up in a two-bedroom apartment with six feet between the couch and the kitchen. Rent was a monthly feat. Every leftover was frozen, labeled, and scheduled for a future meal. Your parents stretched paychecks like rubber bands and made “making it work” a sport. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. Your mother didn’t believe in luxury, but she did believe in work and never, ever wasting potential.

So, of course, she calls every week. And evidently, she asks the same question every time.

“Are you working hard?”

You deadpan at your reflection in the mirror as you swipe on concealer. “Always.”

“Are you doing your best?”

The mascara wand in your other hand shakes a little. “Is there any other option?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, her own exhausted voice: “You sound tired.”

The nerve.

You let out a small laugh. “It’s the White House, Mom. We’re all tired.”

Unimpressed, she hums. “Just don’t let anyone outdo your work.”

“I know that, Mom.” Really, you do. Does she mistake you for some fool with an Ivy League degree?

“We know you do. Quick reminder though.” She references your father quickly. The relationship between them has grown complicated, you’ll be the first to admit it. However, your desire to analyze the ins and outs of two people with avoidant tendencies feels like the last bullet on your list of priorities.

You stare down at your phone like it betrayed you. “How is Dad, by the way?”

“Good.”

Another agonizing second of silence.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and inhale through it. “Cool. Do you need money?”

It comes out sharp, but not unkind. It’s muscle memory at this point.

Ever since you started this job — also coinciding with when your apartment started having more than one window — you’ve asked her this every time she called. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, but always without fail.

Do you need money? Are you okay? Do you need anything?

It’s the ritual you’ve carved into every phone call, a breadcrumb of care disguised as annoyance. She never says yes. Always waves you off, tells you she has enough, tells you to save. But asking makes you feel like you’re still doing something. Like you’re still useful.

“I’m fine,” she says now, predictably. “But thank you.”

You press your lips together. Nod to no one. Nearly knock over one of the many awards on your shelf while you shuffle around the bedroom.

Pulling your hair into a low, half-hearted bun, you glance at the time. Shit. Somehow it’s 8:50 AM again and you’ve given more time to this check-in than you wanted.

“Gotta go,” you say, grabbing your press badge and keys. “Talk soon?”

She makes a noise that sounds vaguely like approval.

“Be smart,” she chastises. “Be faster.”

And then, thank God, she’s gone.

You exhale. Look down at your phone. Try not to think about how expectations weigh on you like a slab of concrete.

Whatever. That’s a lot for a Wednesday morning.

By the time you get to work, the humidity has already declared war on your hair, your Celsius is sweating in your hand, and you’re pretty sure the inside of your flats have decided today is the day it slowly starts to detach just to humble you.

You swing into your usual hallway with a nod to the security guard who never remembers your name, badge swinging off your hip like a stressed-out FBI agent in some HBO drama.

Like every morning for the past few months, you find Emma already at her desk, hair twisted up in ponytail, glasses on, earbuds in, typing like the building is on fire and she’s the only one with a hose.

You plop down next to her, all theatrical effort and long-suffering sighs.

Nothing.

It doesn’t even earn you a glance.

“Good morning to you too,” you mutter, unwrapping your breakfast wrap that you snagged on the way in. “In today’s breaking news: the cafeteria is advertising something called ‘Tuscan Bean and Egg Wraps.’ Thoughts and prayers.”

Still nothing.

You lean toward her, waving the food like a white flag. “Do you think ‘Tuscan’ just means they dump a can of white beans into a tortilla and hope for the best?”

Emma blinks, looks up, finally clocking your existence like you’ve materialized out of thin air. She pushes one earbud out and glances at your breakfast. “Do not project your poor food choices onto me before 10 AM.”

“Bold of you to assume this has anything to do with choice.”

She snorts, pushes her glasses higher. “Eat your sad wrap and suffer in silence.”

“You have no empathy.”

“Correct.”

You settle in, taking a bite and immediately regretting it. There’s a faint remnant of bean paste. Why is there bean paste?

Emma’s already halfway through what looks like a policy brief and a media prep outline, and you find yourself watching her out of the corner of your eye. She’s been getting here earlier lately. A little too early. You’ve noticed it; how she’s always already seated when you walk in, coffee half-finished, eyes glued to the screen like the world might fall apart if she looks away.

You could ask her about it.

You want to. You’re good at asking things on paper. Sometimes though, with your friends, it's never the right things. The things that might mean someone has to ask back.

So instead, you pick the safer option.

“So…” you say around a mouthful of regret wrap, “Monroe and Delgado, huh?”

That gets her attention.

Her eyes flick to yours, and for half a second you think you see it. A flicker of something. Interest. Irritation. Annoyance?

“You heard anything else?” You ask casually. Like you weren’t up until 1 AM refreshing Twitter and trying to decode leaked parking lot footage like it was the Zapruder film.

Emma shrugs. “Same as you probably. Everyone’s scrambling. It’s a mess.”

You nod. “Jenna’s losing her mind. She thinks it’s going to blow wider.”

There’s a momentary pause again. God, you’re really starting to hate these silences people in your life keep inflicting upon you. You go back to dissecting your wrap.

Then, Emma muses, “So… you think Jenna’s gonna put you on the press pool?”

You briefly peek over at her. “Probably. She hasn’t said anything official yet, but she made comments the other day.”

Emma blinks. “Like what comments?”

“Wanting to send me since I’m apparently intimidating? Whatever that means in Jenna’s language.”

She hums, eyes flicking back to her screen. “Well. Would make sense.”

“You sound thrilled for me,” You raise an eyebrow.

“I am thrilled,” she says, tone even. “Who wouldn’t want to spend a week attached at the hip to every misogynistic correspondent on the Hill?”

You pause, mid-chew. “I’m choosing to believe that was sarcasm.”

She avoids eye contact. “Believe whatever gets you through the week.”

Leaning back in your squeaky chair, you stare at the ceiling. “If I do get picked, I swear to god I’m packing tranquilizers.”

Emma doesn’t respond right away, just goes back to typing slower now. Subtlety simmers beneath her usual calm, but she masks it well.

You mutter something about needing another energy drink and whether Tuscan Bean Wraps are a sign of punishment, and Emma’s now moved on, two sentences deep into her reply to a senator’s communications rep, hands steady, mouth pressed in a straight line.

Something in your soul feels the need to disturb her peace again.

“I mean, obviously I’m honored or whatever. Yay, journalism. But also.. Jungkook.”

Now that intrigues her. She looks up again, brow raised. “You two gonna kill each other if you get chosen for the press pool again?”

“Unclear. Depends if he tries to mansplain joint bylines again.”

She smiles at that, pearly teeth unveiling themselves. “God, don’t let him outwrite you.”

A scoff leaves your lips, “Please. He’s still mad I beat him in college. He’ll implode before he gives me the last word.”

Emma turns back to her screen, but there’s a fleeting moment in the way she exhales. Not jealousy, really. The kind of thing you’d never catch unless you were looking for it.

You’re not. So you don’t.

You just keep eating your terrible wrap, think about your tasks for the day, and pray to god the lunch options are better than breakfast.

Outside, the city hums with noises through the one tiny window the rest of your team cracked open before you got there.

You’ve always loved Washington.

You came here for the first time when you were fourteen, cramped on a yellow school bus with your debate team and a $20 bill your mom told you not to lose, and it felt like stepping into something cinematic. The marble, the flags, the constant buzz of ambition in the air. Everyone here had somewhere to be and something to prove, and you remember thinking how do I get in?

You weren’t the loudest kid, or the one with the shiniest shoes, but you were intelligent. You had a hunger most people couldn’t see, the kind that made you rewrite arguments three times and memorize congressional committee names like flashcards. You didn’t come from legacy. You didn’t have connections. But that just meant you had to work harder.

Washington never made you feel small, not even when it tried. It made you feel like you could stretch yourself until you became something unignorable.

Which is why, when Jenna breezes into the room like she’s delivering news from Mount Olympus, you sit up just a little straighter.

“Morning, queens,” She sing-songs, coffee in one hand, iced green tea in the other, sunglasses still on despite being very much inside.

Emma perks up immediately. “You’re unusually chipper. Did something explode?”

“Exploded in our favor,” Jenna grins, handing you your coffee without asking your order. She hasn’t asked in over a year. She shows up with the perfect, soul-saving, too-expensive iced oat milk latte situation like a fairy godmother in a tailored pantsuit.

“Be honest,” you begin, eyeing her suspiciously. “You only get like this when someone quits, gets canceled, or calls you brilliant.”

Jenna sips her drink like it’s the blood of her enemies. “Guilty.”

Emma’s chocolate brown eyes widen. “Spill.”

Jenna shrugs off her coat, places her iced green tea down, drapes said jacket on the back of your chair (rude), and leans against your desk with the energy of someone about to ruin your life with a statement.

“There’s movement on Monroe and Delgado,” she clasps her hands together excitedly. “Source confirmation just came in. We’re about to be a few days ahead of the rest of the nation.”

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your face neutral. “That’s great.”

Here it comes.

“It is great,” Jenna nods, popping the lid off her green tea. “Because it means the press pool is going to heat up fast.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “And who’s going?”

Jenna glances between you both, grins deviously “Oh, her. Obviously.”

Your heart betrays you, skipping a beat with phantom excitement.

“Me?” You point at yourself as if there’s anyone else she could possibly be referring to. Suddenly, the bean and egg wrap taste feels lodged in the back of your throat.

“Who else would I send?”

Emma doesn’t say anything to that at first. Just slumps a little lower in her chair, like her spine suddenly forgot what good posture was. It’s subtle. But if anyone were watching closely — which you aren’t — they’d see it. The slight downturn of her mouth, the way her fingers hover over her keyboard.

“Literally anyone,” you retort immediately. “A well-trained intern. A potted plant. A ghost.”

Emma chokes on her saliva, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

Jenna laughs, although you’re not joking. “Relax. You’re the best we’ve got. Also the only one scary enough to intimidate the other networks out of quoting us without credit.”

Emma’s back is upright again. Mask back on.

“Flattering,” you mutter, taking a long, bitter sip of your iced latte like it’s going to protect you from what’s coming next. “Who else is going?”

You actually know exactly who else is going. The name is flashing across your frontal lobe in neon lights.

Jenna shrugs, like that’s a you problem. “Check the list outside. Should be posted by now.”

“Cool,” you cross your arms over your chest. “Super helpful. Really loving the clarity.”

Jenna taps your desk twice before snatching her green tea off your desk. “I’m gonna go steal someone’s yogurt. Be amazing.”

And then she’s off, gliding through the room like she didn’t just drop a career-altering bomb in your lap.

You sit there in stunned silence for a second, brain buzzing, caffeine doing nothing to calm the impending doom crawling up your spine.

Emma gives you a knowing look.

“Goddamnit,” you murmur. “Fuck me.”

Emma bites back a grin, the screen of her laptop illuminating her features. “You gonna go check the list?”

The list. Ah, yes. It’s been your best friend and your worst enemy. The first time your name appeared on the list, it was your first year working for CNN, and it felt like the puzzle pieces were sliding into place. Now it holds the same kind of excitement for you that someone on death row would probably have for the electric chair.

“I’m gonna pretend it’s not Jungkook and then collapse when it inevitably is.”

“You’re a beacon of resilience,” She places a hand over her heart in mock sympathy.

You stand up anyway, dragging your feet toward the hallway bulletin board where updates are usually tacked up with passive-aggressive thumbtacks and outdated formatting. Half of you is praying it’s not him. The other half already knows it is.

For everything in your life, the universe has taste. And apparently, a vendetta too.

You don’t rush. You walk with purpose, which is basically the same thing except your bun stays in place and you don’t look like a deranged intern sprinting to deliver coffee. You push past a gaggle of hungry correspondents hovering by the board like vultures, shoulder your way around two guys from the Wall Street Journal who once cornered you at a happy hour with “do you think it’s hard being a woman in political journalism?” like it was a pickup line. You sidestep a couple of overachieving interns whispering about embargoes and then, finally — there it is.

The List.

Printed out in 11-point Times New Roman and taped to the hallway bulletin board like a college theater audition call sheet. Which, fine. It might as well be. People are already murmuring behind you, trying to read over your shoulder.

You plant your feet. Press the tip of your nail to the column marked CNN. Drag it slowly down the page.

[Y/N, L/N]

In bold too. Curse the managers who used fonts and bold letters and other keyboard tactics to torture you.

Jenna has never once not picked you. You don’t know why you’re surprised. Your brain tries to say called it, but your stomach flops anyway.

Although your finger stays on CNN, your eyes keep scanning. Past NBC. Past Reuters. Past AP.

You’re not looking, not really, but your body betrays you before your mind can stop it.

Fox News: Jungkook, Jeon

You exhale like someone just unplugged your soul.

“Fuck me sideways.”

Some correspondent looks at you with a bewildered expression at that, but you’re too busy wallowing in self-despair to care.

You stare at his name for a second too long, as if the sheer weight of your gaze will make it disappear. It does not. It remains bold. Centered on the page. Clearly, the universe got bored and decided to make your existence recreationally miserable.

“Of course it’s Jungkook,” You sigh, pressing your forehead lightly against the wall, because humiliation rituals are best served on drywall.

Behind you, someone coughs.

You straighten quickly and pretend you were just squinting at the lighting or something equally embarrassing. Grab your phone out of your back pocket. Snap a photo of the list like it’s evidence in a trial and not your own personal descent into madness.

You know what this means.

Early mornings. Late nights. Shared interviews. Shared documents. Communal air.

You remember the last time you two got picked for the same story, a few months back. You both nearly got escorted out of a press van in Iowa for arguing over whether a quote was technically on or off the record. He kept repeating “just admit I was right” under his breath like it wouldn’t lead to his timely death.

And now here you are. Yet again.

You pivot and walk backwards in the direction of the CNN office, fast enough that your shoes move with intent but slow enough that you don’t draw attention. You pass the Wall Street Journal guys again. One of them winks.

In your dreams, fucker.

Mental curses ricochet through your skull like a smoke alarm — God, no. Please. Just once. Can you catch a break?

Possible strategies start flooding your brain. Maybe you can trade assignments. Fake mono. Throw yourself down the Capitol steps and hope it earns you a leave of absence.

“Oh, don’t look so devastated. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

You whip your head again — there goes your cervical spine — and sure enough, Jungkook is leaned against the wall a few feet away from the bulletin board, arms crossed, sleeves rolled halfway up like he’s starring in some Gap campaign for Congressional Casual. His hair is still damp like he just showered and didn’t bother drying it.

You stare at him like the audacity is physically painful.

“Were you… just waiting there?” You ask, brows amusedly raised.

“I was reading,” he replies, innocence deceitful. “Is that not allowed?”

You glance back at the list. “Slow reader, I presume? Take you that long to sound out your own name?”

“Time flies when you’re visualizing your shared press pool victory.”

You snort. “Please tell me that’s not what you call it in your head.”

“I mean—” he adjusts his position against the wall, slightly coming off it “—it is a victory. Two great minds. One huge story. What kind of snacks do you want me to bring?”

“I will set those snacks on fire.”

His smile is bordering on shit-eating territory now. “You always threaten arson when you’re nervous.”

“And you always mistake disgust for nerves.” Behind him, you glance at the clock. You didn’t really pencil in time for ‘argue with Jungkook’ on your calendar.

Jungkook pushes off the wall and walks closer, casual as if he’s not purposefully entering your personal space bubble like he’s been doing since freshman year.

“Relax,” he says, eyes glinting. “I’m excited. It’s been a while since we’ve been in the same room, working on the same story.”

Not that long, Jeon. You can count the months on your fingers if you really wanted to.

“Well, the last time it happened, you tried to quote me mid-sentence and almost caused a media blackout.”

“Allegedly.”

“You handed a live mic to a source on Capitol Hill and asked if they wanted to ‘clarify the vibe.’” The air quotes you make are condescending at best.

“It was a bold strategy. You have to take risks in this field.”

“You’re a walking liability.”

He smiles like it’s a compliment. “See? I’ve missed this.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose. Do not murder anyone before lunch. You just bought this button-down.

“Look,” you step forward, keeping your voice even, “I don’t care what story you think you’re writing. You stay in your lane, I stay in mine. We don’t sabotage each other, and we make it through this without an ethics investigation. Sound fair?”

Jungkook tilts his head, looking painfully unbothered. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ve said that so many times I’m starting to believe you actually will,” he holds up his hands defensively. “I feel like that’d be hot. You all bloody, with a knife in your hand.”

Your gaze trails down to the tattoos that litter his arm, and you swear he has the sleeve half rolled just to prove no one is going to come and yank it back down for him.

Any color you had drains from your face. “Did I mention you’re deranged?”

He pats your shoulder, the touch searing through you like Satan just came up and personally felt you himself. “Tragically, you’re stuck with me.”

Your eye twitches. “There has to be a loophole. Some kind of clause.”

“Oh, I checked,” he comments brightly. “We’re bonded for at least a month. Like a very sexy journalism duo.”

You stare at him. A remark you hope will be scathing builds up on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted by one of his winks before it can escape.

For the first time all morning, you seriously consider filing for witness protection.

Being in a room like this, with every top correspondent from every major news outlet packed shoulder to shoulder, all of you corralled into neat little rows like Type A livestock, feels less like journalism and more like being a zoo animal in a glass cage.

Everyone’s circling. Microphones are being tested. Cameras blink red.

And at the front of the room, Monroe’s press rep sits like he’s preparing to wrestle an alligator with his bare hands and call it diplomacy.

You’re gripping your notepad so tightly the edges have started to bend into soft curls. The same line has been rewritten three times just to keep your pen moving. Across the aisle, NBC’s political correspondents are arguing in hushed tones over language choices. To your right, a New York Times rep is chewing on his own thumb.

You’ve already rehearsed your questions at least 2,939 times. You know which quote you’re fishing for, which phrasing will work. You’ve triple-sourced the angle, practiced tone variations in the mirror like a lunatic, and cross-checked your questions against Jenna’s latest “make them squirm” rubric.

CNN has always been known for getting answers. They’re the “people’s news.”

You breathe slowly through your nose, eyes flicking from Monroe’s press rep to your legal pad and back again as a Wall Street Journal guy throws out a lukewarm question about committee oversight that gets swatted down with the elegance of a cat batting a fly. A few heads turn. Everyone’s circling the story but no one’s made contact yet.

“Would the congressman like to comment,” another recognizable deep voice says, “on whether Delgado’s trip to Puerto Rico last spring had any overlap with Monroe’s?”

Checkmate.

There’s a sharp inhale somewhere near the Reuters team. Someone else whispers “Jesus Christ.”

Your brain — your brilliant, well-trained, self-controlled brain — short-circuits.

You must have committed a devious crime in a past life. There's no other explanation for why the universe keeps hurting you like this.

That was your question. You’d buried it in your notes as a backup, a longshot, a play you’d pull if the answers were dry and the mood was right. Granted, this time, you did not plant it for him to find somewhere around the Hill.

This one was thought of with his very own brain cells, which somehow concerns you more. How some imbecile with a penis for a brain put together that invasive, probing question.

Jungkook read your angle. Now he’s thrown it into the fire like it was his to begin with (even though, yes, technically it was. Neither here nor there.)

Your hand shoots up so fast you nearly dislocate something.

The rep hasn’t even fully answered yet, but you’re already in motion. Already powered by pure professional rage and something that might be vengeance but might also be the ghost of college you screaming don’t let him win, don’t you dare let him win in the back of your skull.

The moderator acknowledges your hand. So does the rep.

“CNN?” They nod toward you.

You clear your throat, smooth the edge of your shirt with one hand and hold your notepad with the other. “To follow up on that,” you say dryly, “would you say Monroe’s own itinerary during that trip coincided with any other meetings not yet disclosed to the committee?”

You feel Jungkook’s beady eyes imprinting on your back.

The rep stutters. There’s a shuffle of pens moving, papers rustling.

You’re not sure what wins feel like for normal people, but for you, it’s this: a perfect follow-up delivered, a headline taking shape in real time, and Jungkook rows behind you, no longer smiling.

The answer you get is cagey and tactful but relevant. Enough to lead the narrative, to throw red meat to Jenna, to start sketching out the bones of what could be a front-page exclusive. You jot down a few key phrases, underline them, circle the most damning one like it’s a lover’s name in a diary.

You’re glowing a little. Still warm with the righteous satisfaction of a public takedown. The floor is yours, the quote is yours—

“Fox News?”

Your spine stiffens like someone just cracked a ruler across your back.

“Has there been any internal response from the committee regarding Monroe’s travel reimbursements?” he badgers politely. “Or is the team planning to handle that… informally?”

You flip your notepad to a new sheet so fast it’s a miracle you don’t give yourself a paper cut. There’s scribbles and venn diagrams that look like conspiracy boards until you land on your next question.

Hand up.

You could power the city grid with the force of your blood pressure alone.

The moderator blinks. “CNN…?”

The poor rep looks like a human paper straw. Wilting. Already on the verge of folding under the collective pressure of 25 ravenous correspondents. His tie is crooked and eyes are darting like a substitute teacher who knows he’s lost the room.

“Is there concern from the office about the appearance of misconduct regarding campaign funds being used for that trip? Especially in light of the allegations?”

You say it like you’re reading him his Miranda rights.

There’s an overhead light that keeps flickering. A few people scribble messily in notebooks, on post-its. A woman exhales, low but impressed.

The representative gives a forced nod. “We’ll be… issuing a statement later today,” he looks like he’s going to pass out. “We’re confident in our transparency.”

Translation: please stop asking us things.

You don’t admit victory. You just shake your head up and down, jot down statement = stall tactic, and allow yourself two full seconds of pure, undiluted smugness.

But before the moderator can even finish her next breath—

“Would the statement include a projected timeline for releasing that financial report to the public?”

You turn around so fast your chair squeaks. They really need to raise the budget on housekeeping and get chairs that don’t speak to your every movement.

Fucking Jungkook is leaning back in his seat like he’s posing for a campaign ad.

He lifts one hand in a lazy little wave and smiles over at you. Like he didn’t just hijack the pacing of the entire goddamn briefing. Like this is fun for him.

You imagine launching your pen at his face like a dart.

One time, he edited your op-ed with red ink and then smirked while asking if you wanted him to walk you through AP style. This is more dehumanizing than that.

He’s not just competitive. He’s observant. He watches your questions build, your rhythm form, your angles take shape and then undercuts you by milliseconds.

Turning slowly back around in your seat, your teeth grind like a dial-up modem. You write murder is free if you do it with a pen in the corner of your notepad just to calm yourself down.

Behind you, Jungkook clears his throat, essentially his mating call for war. You’ve known him long enough to catch on to even the most subtle of his quirks.

Quite frankly, you’re going to burn him to the ground.

It goes on longer than you’d like it to, though.

Back and forth. Ping. Pong. CNN. Fox. CNN. Fox. CNN. goddamn Jungkook. You.

There’s a strategy you’re both playing at now — nonverbal warfare. If he sees you flinch, smirk, or breathe too obviously, he’ll take it as encouragement.

The New York Times correspondent beside you keeps trying to interject, his hand half-raised in that tentative way journalists get when they’re not sure if they’re about to get obliterated. But every time he opens his mouth, Jungkook’s voice cuts clean across the room like it’s been waiting in a slingshot.

The other guy next to you sighs loudly and mutters something under his breath about “overachieving twenty-somethings.” You don’t acknowledge it. You can’t. You’re too busy jotting down your next question and preparing to strike like the world’s most caffeinated viper.

You prepare to go again — ask about Monroe’s office phone logs from last quarter, fully aware that the phrasing is risky but too good not to use. It lands like a bullseye. The press rep stammers over his own words, a few chuckles surfacing around the room. You bite your cheek to keep from smirking.

Across the aisle, you can taste Jungkook getting ready to respond. Probably some sly dig about his text messages.

You shoot your hand back up because absolutely not.

It’s gotten ridiculous, the two of you fencing with weaponized diction while the rest of the room slowly becomes collateral damage.

By the eighth exchange, someone coughs pointedly. By the ninth, a guy from Politico leans back with crossed arms and full-blown exasperation.

“Maybe…” the moderator says, voice cracking, struggling with the effort of staying professional, “maybe CNN and Fox News aren’t the only outlets in the room today?”

The tension breaks like a needle to a balloon.

Some dude near the back murmurs “thank god.” The New York Times guy next to you raises his hands to the ceiling in silent gratitude, like he’s been rescued from a hostage situation.

There’s a smile that threatens to unleash its full glory onto your face. Your ears catch Jungkook’s laugh across the room. You want to staple his mouth shut.

The pen gets wrapped around your thumb and pointer finger again, and you scribble stop reacting to him, you’re a professional at the bottom of your notepad. Then underline it four times.

The moderator clears her throat. “Alright, uh… Reuters, I believe you had your hand up?”

This is fine. This is normal. This is just another day in the press pool jungle, and if Jungkook thinks he’s winning this war?

He better start taking better notes.

The session wraps not long after the rest of the outlets speak, questions slowly fizzling into half-baked comments, reporters distracted by their own looming deadlines or the promise of free donuts in the next room. Monroe’s rep offers a pathetic and dull closing statement about transparency and continued cooperation, which is ironic considering he’s sweating through his collar.

You’re already grabbing your bag before the word “adjourned” finishes echoing through the room.

Success can only be determined by one person: Jenna. And until she gives you the proverbial thumbs-up (or better yet, a bottle of tequila and the words “great job, babe”), you are in full damage control mode.

You push past a specific breed of reporters, muttering random ‘sorry’s’ while speed-walking with the urgency of a woman who just saw her ex on a Tinder ad. Sometimes, you’ll hide behind the door and wait for the press rep to walk by to badger them for any last comments, but not today.

You make it about twelve feet down the hall before you hear it.

A cough.

That very specific throat clearing that says hey bestie, remember me? The bane of your existence?

There is a stupid, traitorous whiff of cologne wafting into your nostrils right about now. Woody. Warm. Expensive in the way that only someone with emotional detachment issues could pull off. You’ve never known the name of the cologne, but you know what it smells like: ego.

“I swear to god, Jeon, if you try to do a post-game wrap-up—”

“That was fun,” Jungkook interrupts, matching your stride and appearing beside you like a thief in the night. “Really took me back.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. “To what? The last time you tried to steal a quote and nearly caused an internal investigation?”

He shrugs. “To simpler times. You, me, the scrawny dude up there sweating bullets. Felt like college all over again.”

“You mean where you coasted off other people’s research and called it collaboration?” you clarify.

He gasps, mock offended. “I offered to footnote you.”

You stop walking, hold your ground. “Footnote me?”

Now that you're standing there under the lights that make anyone look horribly pale but, regrettably, work wonders for his alabaster skin, you take in his appearance.

He catches your gaze, “Like, ‘[L/N], et al.’ It had a nice ring to it.”

Your mouth opens — possibly to insult him, possibly to commit verbal homicide — but before you can say anything, the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through the corridor.

You squint in unison with Jungkook, twisting your head to see who possibly would dare to interrupt the two of you. You two uphold an unfortunate reputation on the Hill at this point.

Sadly, it’s the rep from the press pool. Jogging. Actually, it’s more like sprinting toward the two of you, tie askew, phone in hand like he’s about to drop breaking news and/or collapse.

Jungkook leans into you, whispers under his breath, “Oh no. He’s doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where they chase us down because we either scared them or accidentally got too good of a quote and we need to redact it.”

You glance at him. He’s oddly close to you, past the imaginary no-no square you’ve put up two feet within your body. There’s a faint scar you’ve never noticed on his right cheek.

And then you quickly snap back to peer at the rep, who’s panting now, almost there, waving his hand like an unpaid intern trying to stop a runaway bus.

You grimace at this man’s appearance. “Goddamnit.”

“Don’t worry,” Jungkook adjusts his sleeve, tone calm. “If it’s about me, just deny everything. If it’s about you, I’ll deny everything and throw in some fake tears for flair.”

You side-eye him. “You don’t even have tear ducts.”

“I have range.”

The press rep skids to a stop in front of you both, chest heaving, face that same color of chalk that the hallway lighting bestows upon pathetic people.

For some reason, you’re already bracing yourself for whatever act two of this absolute circus is about to be.

He’s got that “once interned for a senator, now drinks four Red Bulls before noon” vibe. Mid-30s, maybe? Hard to tell. Balding slightly. His face is trying to look calm and in control, but his body is screaming “I am being hunted by scandal.”

“Hi,” he exhales, clearly winded. “Sorry—hi. Yes. Hello.”

Naturally, Jungkook offers him a charming little nod, hands in his pockets like he’s not actively considering setting this man’s tie on fire.

The rep straightens his blazer (badly), pats his front pocket like he’s making sure his wallet is still there, and finally extends a clammy hand to no one in particular.

“I’m Mark. With Monroe’s team.”

His voice is wheezy, but trying.

You don’t take the hand and Jungkook doesn’t either. It kind of lingers there, awkwardly floating mid-air.

“Right,” you say after a beat, nodding stiffly. “And you… sprinted here because?”

Mark chuckles nervously, wipes his hand on his slacks. You’re starting to think it’s his first day on the job. Poor dude. Does he know there’s still time to escape?

“Just wanted to, uh, confirm,” he gulps, glancing between the two of you. “You’re the press reps? For CNN and Fox?”

Tentatively, you show signs of agreement. Jungkook, because he’s a show-off, salutes.

You’re standing there thinking: who the fuck is this guy, really? If you had to put money on it, your guess is some overpaid puppet with a job title like ‘Special Communications Liaison to the Chief of Staff.’ Probably thinks he’s the next Olivia Pope. You see the scuffed shoes, the fraying cuff on his blazer, the desperate gleam in his eyes. This guy’s not the mastermind.

He’s a chess piece. You want Monroe.

Mark lowers his voice like he’s about to hand you the nuclear codes locked in the Oval Office. “So… just between us, okay?”

You arch a brow, interest piqued.

Jungkook blinks, arms crossed. If this was Halloween, you two would be pulling off an honest interpretation of Bonnie and Clyde. “Is this off the record or…?”

“No! Well.. technically no,” Mark scratches the back of his neck. “But, like, also… you know.”

You do not, in fact, know.

“Right,” your voice is flat. “Very clear. Continue.”

Mark leans in, glancing over his shoulder like the ghost of Monroe might apparate in this very hallway.

“This thing,” he gestures vaguely as if the scandal is floating above you, “it’s messy. We’re trying to get ahead of it. We think it’s important that the public sees this the right way. Context is necessary. It’s.,, nuanced.”

Context. Nuance. Hmph. All words you equate with overachieving reps who are doing anything to keep the rumors afloat.

You fight the urge to pull out your recorder and hit play with your middle finger.

He keeps going. “And obviously, CNN and Fox… massive reach. Opposite ends of the aisle. But you kind of… shape the public opinion.”

You exchange a glance with Jungkook, who looks vaguely amused, like someone just asked him if he wanted to share his Netflix password.

“Get to the point,” you motion with your hand.

Mark nods, like he’s been waiting for your permission. “We want you two to help us tell the story.”

The ghost of Monroe may have actually possessed his body. There’s no other explanation for this.

A snort escapes your body. A real life snort. “Oh, nice try, buddy.”

Jungkook tilts his head at him. “I’m sorry, are you trying to pitch us a collab piece?”

“I’m sorry,” you add, “did you just chase us down the hallway to ask us to… team up and play Monroe’s PR Barbie?”

Mark flinches. “It’s not like that,” he insists. “We just think, if you two handle this with balance, with neutrality—”

“Neutrally report your version of events,” you clarify.

“Exactly.”

What the fuck is happening? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is still completely, absolutely blank with nothing but insults and denials loading into your brain in a single-file line. “Do we get stickers afterward?”

Jungkook turns toward you. “Maybe matching tote bags. ‘I survived a government scandal and all I got was fired.’”

Mark’s eyes are doing this twitchy thing now, scanning between the two of you like he’s starting to regret every decision that led him here. “We’re just saying… you’re already on it. We know you’re both on it. We’re just… trying to offer cooperation. A foot in the door. We’re hoping to help shape the conversation before it spirals.”

You look at Jungkook again, and for a flicker of a second, your eyes glimmer in that weird, quiet way they do when something actually is serious.

‘Mark’ is right. This is them trying to control the damage, trying to spin you both into pawns.

You didn’t claw your way from a rent-controlled walk-up in New York City to regurgitate talking points from a man who’s probably laundering donor funds through his third wife’s consulting firm.

You spin back to Mark.

“Thanks,” your voice is sugar-sweet. “But if we wanted to write her story, we’d be working for her team.”

Mark’s lip twitches. “So… that’s a no?”

Jungkook gives him a polite, diplomatic smile. “We’ll be in touch if anything changes.”

Code for: if our editors call us stupid, we might pick up the phone and beg you for a second chance.

You both walk off into the abyss of the hallway without another word. The shared satisfaction of a very well-executed fuck off lingers in the air. Honestly, you’re a little proud and surprised by Jungkook’s actions; for once, the man isn’t trying to pull the rug out from under your feet. He is choosing to deny a leg up on the competition, a—

“Wait! I have something you want!”

You and Jungkook halt mid-step.

Like the ghost of Monroe has returned to haunt you, you both whip around in unison. The hallway lights sparkle off Jungkook’s silver watch as he adjusts his cufflink. You fold your arms over your chest because if you don’t anchor yourself, you might actually sprint back and shake the answer out of Mark yourself.

Mark, for his part, looks like he wasn’t expecting that to work. He steadies himself, then offers a sheepish, almost triumphant smile. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I don’t know. Sounds pretty done to me.” Take a hint, Mark.

But he’s barreling towards you again, straightening his blazer like it makes him more credible, “Monroe. She’s been… cautious about this. About the media. But if the two of you together handle it…”

You frown. “What does that mean? Handle it how?”

“You want a puff piece?” Jungkook mirrors your current position, beefy arms crossed over his chest.

“No. Not a puff piece,” Mark refutes quickly, “I told you, we want neutrality. Credibility. That’s what the public needs.”

What the public needs and wants is an article with the likes of a Korean drama.

You narrow your eyes. “Cut to the chase”

Mark hesitates, then puffs out his chest. “She’ll talk. Off the record at first, but open to recording if she feels she can trust you. But only if you two do it together.”

The words drop at your feet, fall below the building, plant themselves in the dirt.

You go unresponsive. Hands fall to your sides. You swear the hands of the clock on the wall nearest to you stop ticking.

For the first time in a long time, you have been rendered utterly and completely speechless.

“Monroe will speak,” Jungkook enunciates slowly, as if trying to confirm that Mark hasn’t just had a stroke. “To us. Together..?”

Mark nods like a broken bobblehead. “Only to you two. It’s optics, if you think about it. It keeps her from looking like she’s hand-feeding one party.”

Your stomach churns, all giddy and horrified at the same time.

Oh, god.

This is the story.

This is exclusive access to the eye of the storm, a one-on-one with a political figure who’s been dodging cameras like they’re carrying the plague. This is headline-making, career-elevating, promotion-sending-you-to-the-moon type shit.

You actually might faint.

Then it all comes crashing down like Jenga blocks toppling over after a five-year old pulls out the middle one on purpose.

The catch. You… Jungkook… same room. For an extended period of time. Trying to extract intel while also trying not to throw a chair at his face.

You glance sideways, and of course he looks unbothered. No, ctrl, alt, delete that. He looks excited. Like he just got picked for the varsity team again and fully intends to score the winning goal.

His jaw tightens, the smallest flicker of hunger flashing in his eyes. He wants the story.

You know that look. You’ve worn it. Slept in it. Shaped your entire career around it.

For a brief second, you hear Jenna’s voice in your head. You hear her saying “great job,” hear the “we would love to offer you the position of Senior Correspondent.”

You’re entirely certain Jungkook wants the intel, and the promotion.

Honestly?

Fuck it. So do you.

“Fine,” you agree, stepping forward. You hold your hand out toward Mark. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for six years. He shakes your hand then turns to Jungkook, who gives a little half-smile and nods like, well, this should be fun.

You peer at the two of them. Under your breath, you mutter mostly to yourself, “I’m going to regret this.”

And beside you, Jungkook beams ear to ear. “I know.”

You’re not entirely sure this is a good idea.

Scratch that. You’re very sure this is a terrible idea.

You can already envision it: Jungkook slowly rotating in his chair mid-interview like a comic book villain, trying to slip cyanide into your iced coffee while simultaneously plagiarizing your closing paragraph. He’ll flash that dumb, media-trained smile, quote Monroe’s confession word-for-word, and beat you to publication by six minutes and forty three seconds.

But two things are true.

One: you are not about to sabotage your chance to get firsthand information out of Monroe — the kind of scoop that makes editors salivate and might get you an actual door to your office instead of a desk by the printer.

And two: you’re playing to win.

And you’ll be damned if you lose to Jungkook.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr

[letsgoletsgetit08]

ateez unholy hours - kinks

some kinks I could see ateez members having.

warnings: MDNI!, mentions of freakteez idk, kinks

author's note: I'm quite literally running a fever right now and this is where my brain went. I have two psych degrees and this is what I'm using them for. If you're offended by any of this, I guess scroll on, it's not even serious.

word count: 700ish

hongjoong: somnophilia. hear me out, the man keeps weird hours. you're not guaranteed to be awake when he gets home. he's hesitant at first, but you've had a long discussion about it, and he starts to be brave and explore it, he's SO hooked. watching your face scrunch up in the dim light at his first touches, only for it to turn to gasps of pleasure as you wake up to him pushing inside you. it's 3am on a tuesday and neither of you could care less.

seonghwa: finacial domination. look, the guy has money, there's no denying that. but the idea of you telling him how he can spend it? it fucks with his brain in the best ways. oh, he wants that new lego set? he better be good for you all week and prove he deserves it. when he spends within his means of the allowance you give him and you reward him for it? his brain short circuits. he hopes he forgets what bank he uses, he never wants to think about being in control of his account again.

yunho: size kink this, breeding kink that. i hear you and i agree HOWEVER, that man is eating your ass. sorry. he just is. the man is captain of freakteez and he's the king of oral fixation. he's obsessed with finding different ways to get you off, and his sexual appetite knows no bounds. he's not mingi, he's not afraid of getting his hands dirty (metaphorically). you might be worried about it being unsanitary at first, but once he gets you in the shower and helps you wash - everywhere - you feel much better about it. and let me tell you, you won't regret it.

yeosang: ear fetish. i read a fic (shout out to op) about this, forgot what the specific -philia is called and I really don't want to fumble around on google to find it, but all i can say is yes. yeosang is an odd duck but also a rule follower, which leads me to believe he's very curious about the taboo, but not something so taboo that would be risky or anything. he just wants to lick your ears a little. let him. just look at him and tell me you wouldn't let him do it.

san: he wants to fuck your titties. hear me out, he has smallish hands already, which means that even if you're rocking some a cups, they would feel sizeable in his hands. hell, his tits might even be bigger than yours. doesn't matter. he's squeezing and torturing (pos) yours any chance he gets. something about this whiny pouty water sign man begging you let him do it because he's so curious just. ugh. yeah.

mingi: chastity. mingi is sooooo subby, especially for the right person and for that person (pick me!) he would be so eager to please and to prove that he could be good. he's constantly poking our eyes out with that thang on stage, as well as touching it subconciously any chance he gets. can you imagine, locking him up for all of tour? his whiny phone calls. teasing him. how desperate and needy he'd be for you when he finally got home and you could give him some relief.

wooyoung: body hair. i stand by him being a lowkey furry and you know what, whatever that man wants, tbh. i just think the first time you stopped shaving for the winter, it would unlock a whole different side of him. he wouldn't be able to stop touching your newly fuzzy legs and he'd bury his pretty nose in your softy, downy armpits. he'd finally show you the cat ears he's been wanting to wear while he fucks you. meow meow.

jongho: this mischievous little shit sweetheart wants to push the limits on what he can get away with as far as fucking you in public goes. fingers between your thighs at the restaurant, fucking you on a balcony at a hotel, on the tour bus, plane bathroom, green room on set for music video shoot, car sex, you name it, he's trying. the two of you are always reappearing after being mysteriously gone for too long to be innocent, clothes rumpled, cheeks flushed, matching shit eating grins poorly concealed on your faces.

[hereforhalstead]

Shall I try someone else?

Spencer/MGG x Reader

Listen, I have no shame in using this gif

NOT PROOFREAD

*******

‘ I cant believe I’m gonna text him’

You scoffed to yourself, eyeing the phone you held in your hand, thumb hovering over his name on your chat list on whatsapp.

Almost daring yourself not to give into the desires you knew you craved and that he could so easily fulfil.

‘are you awake?’

You sounded like a foolish teenager, thinking that sounded better than the stereotypical ‘you up?’ at 3am text.

Spoiler alert, it didn’t .

You almost threw your phone on the ground, it landing face up beside you as your knees were instinctively bought to your chest in panic, regretting sending the text as soon as you pressed send.

Almost instantly, the screen lit up. You could see it from the corner of your eye, reluctant to look down.

You peered over your arm, wincing as you read the message through squinted eyes.

‘Of course, darling’

Your heart melted, your stomach flipped, your heart rate quickened.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t feel this way.

He told you not to fall for him.

Yet what did you do, oh yeah.

You fell absolutely head over heels, 100%, life consumingly in love with him. Good one.

Mere moments had passed, you hadn’t unlocked the phone as you sat and mustered a response.

He hardly gave you much to go from, did you completely out yourself and admit why you messaged him or did you play it off with a simple ‘cool’?

Your phone once again, lit up in your hand. Your eyes darting to the screen without a second thought or hesitation as you scanned the words on the screen.

‘any particular reason you wanted to know, pretty girl?’

Shit, even through a screen he had you backed against a virtual wall. Making the hunger for him to have you actually pushed up against a wall, ten times more intense.

‘just wondered if you wanted to come over, cant sleep ☹’

You laughed at the innocent sad face added to the end, feeling the complete opposite and knowing he would see through it.

The grey ticks turned to blue as soon as you sent the message, quickly exiting out of the chat as though you didn’t want to seem desperate.

Not like your phone was now stuck to your hand with your eyes not leaving the screen as you wait for his response.

‘Poor baby, not sure how I would be able to help though?’

You could practically see the smug grin on his face, arm folded behind his head to prop himself up against the headboard of the bed. Thumb dancing over the keypad as he probably typed out all the ways in which he could help, before deleting them as if nothing happened.

‘oh no!’

You yet again, sarcastically added the exclamation. Clearly having too much fun with the situation yourself now.

‘guess I will just have to try someone else’

Ordinarily you wouldn’t have sent such a text, you didn’t have anyone else you could ask, you weren’t one of those girls who had the ‘lucky’ bunch stored in your phone who you could text at early hours of the morning to come over.

Even if you did, you wouldn’t want anyone else. Just him.

You wanted to see how far you could push him, knowing the way his eyes would’ve darkened with reading the message.

Probably reading it a few times to ensure he read it right, phone clutched in his hand, bringing it up to his pursed lips in frustration.

It took a significantly less amount of time to yet again see ‘typing’, flash up next to his name on the chat. Your heart rate though the roof as you hear your phone chime.

‘baby you are funny, we both know you wouldn’t dare’

You sat on his response for a minute or two, letting him sweat as he could see you’d read the message.

‘goodnight sweet cheeks’

You were proud of yourself for your blunt response, even if he didn’t reply, you’d sure be obscenely offended but you wouldn’t be shocked.

If he had sent you a message even close to that, the phone probably would’ve been launched across the room and loud groan that could’ve been heard from down the corridor of your apartment building.

The grey ticks, stayed grey for what felt like an eternity. In fact, you stared at the screen for 4 solid minutes, waiting.

You huffed, regretting your text. Had you ruined it? Took it too far?

He could be an annoying prick sometimes and knew exactly how to push your buttons, especially when it came to making you jealous but in all honestly you couldn’t imagine him sending you a message like the one you had sent.

The room was silent, you took yourself over to the mirror as if you needed to take a long hard look at yourself, but in actual fact you just chuckled. Grow up.

You needed to test him, needed to see how he felt. If he wanted you, he would.

Simple as that.

If you were going to keep falling for him, the least you could do was find out if you were both kind of on the same page, even the same book would be good.

You continued to stare in the mirror as you got ready for bed, accepting your defeat and pondering on how you’ll deal with such rejection on a clear mind in the morning.

Scraping your hair into a ponytail, you saw your phone light up on the bed. Seeing his name flash at the top of the screen with the green and red ‘accept’, ‘decline’ buttons staring you in the face.

You froze.

He knew you hated phone calls, especially when he hadn’t told you he was going to call. Prick.

Your thumb hit the accept button before your brain could scream at you to let it go to voicemail, holding the phone to your ear to hear that raspy voice you so desperately craved.

‘I’m outside, little one. You gonna come and let me in or should I try buzzing someone else?’

[dakusan]

I T ’ S 3 A M A N D T H E Y ’ R E T H I N K I N G O F Y O U

stray kids ot8 x reader | 3am chaos, lowercase love, snacks, stars & soft breakdowns

🌙 synopsis: It’s 3AM. You’re not the only one still awake. This is what they text you when they miss you most but don’t know how to say it. This is what 3AM feels like—when love is quiet, messy, and way too honest to sleep through.

💌 a/n: this post was written entirely on the floor. i became the 3AM i was trying to write about. i just think there’s something painfully romantic about someone texting you at the exact hour they should be asleep. like… you were the thought that kept them up. and they couldn't hold it in anymore. and now they’re sending you cat pictures and half-confessions and pretending it’s no big deal. please enjoy this emotional sandwich of memes, voice notes, and love disguised as “haha i’m fine” p.s. reblogs = psychic cuddles at 3:17AM p.p.s. if your bias ever actually sent you one of these, pls text me from the ER. i’ll meet you there. p.p.p.s. click n listen to the song if u wanna feel like the main character walking home alone at 3:17AM in slow motion… or don’t. whatever. love is fake anyway (jk it’s real and it’s this post)

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Solitude — VX « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Hoodie on. Brain off.

Rerendering the same demo 5x while thinking about your last hug.

Says “you don’t have to reply” but desperately hopes you do.

Wants to call but stares at the screen instead. Imagines your voice like it’s a song he can’t write down.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:04 AM] “you up?” “i mean. obviously. you’re probably not. it’s 3” “but on the off chance ur awake and also not mad at me for being annoying at dinner” “i just wanna say” “i was editing that thing and ur voice popped into my head again” “not like, your real voice. more like the voice that lives in my memory of you.” “that sounded creepy. i’m tired. ignore me.” “unless you’re awake. then pls don’t ignore me.” “come over if u want. i’ll microwave something warm.” (1 audio note, 0:14) “this is the demo. it’s bad. but it has a little bit of you in it so. idk. maybe it’s good.”

🖋️ Mini fic:

The file keeps exporting wrong. That’s how he knows he’s tired — and thinking about you too much. He replays the chorus. Again. Hears your voice in the harmony he didn't layer. Hears your laugh in the quiet reverb at the end of the bridge. It makes his chest hurt in that annoying kind of way where he wants to hold you and apologize for nothing at the same time.

He types three messages. Deletes two. He shouldn’t bother you. But it’s late, and you’re the only thing keeping him company in his mind.

So he sends the demo. Then the texts. Then sits back in his chair, hoodie sleeves over his fists, hoping your “seen” turns into typing bubbles.

Just for a second. Just so he knows he’s not the only one lying awake with the memory of your voice playing on loop.

Lee Know // 리노

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Blanket burrito on the couch. TV is on but muted.

Has already gotten up twice to check that the door is locked.

His cats are all asleep and now he’s staring at the ceiling like it owes him something.

Misses you. Won’t admit it. Will passive-aggressively hint about it until you crack first.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:00 AM] “this cat’s expression reminded me of you” (photo attachment: Soonie looking Judgy™ in a blanket) “interpret that however u want” “also i’m not saying i miss you but i just looked at the empty side of my bed and got annoyed” “if ur awake say something” “if u’re not i’m going to call you rude in my head for the next 6 hours” “nvm. you’re probably sleeping. sleep well. i didn’t say anything. forget i texted.” (follows with a blurry mirror selfie in your hoodie captioned: “this doesn’t smell like you anymore. fix that.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He tells himself he’s not going to text you. He tells himself you’re probably asleep. That he’s fine. That the silence is nice.

So why is he still holding his phone?

He scrolls. Opens your chat. Stares. Then closes it. Then opens it again. He snaps a photo of Soonie curled up next to him, half-asleep with his face smushed into a blanket. Then he types: “this is you.” Deletes it. Types again: “he’s judging me for missing you.” Deletes that too.

Eventually, he just sends the picture. And a few sarcastic follow-ups that come out more honest than he meant. He doesn’t want to sound soft. He doesn’t want to sound clingy. But the bed feels cold. And you’re not there. And that hoodie you left isn’t cutting it anymore.

He stares at the read receipt when it pops up. Heart beating faster than it should. If you reply? He’ll pretend he’s annoyed. But he’ll smile. Real big. And probably get up to make sure the door’s unlocked — just in case. Just for you.

Changbin // 창빈

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Wearing a hoodie 3 sizes too big, hood up, socks mismatched.

Sitting on the kitchen floor with a snack he doesn’t want.

Tried journaling but ended up writing your name 6 times.

Missing you so hard it’s starting to piss him off.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:06 AM] “do u ever get hit with missing someone so fast u forget how to breathe” “bc i was literally just making toast and now i wanna hold ur hand like it’s the last one on earth” “ok that sounded intense. ignore that” “actually don’t ignore that. i mean it” “you make my brain stupid and my chest tight” “i should’ve kissed you one more time before u left” “if i send u a pic of my dumb face will u come back and kiss it??”

(photo attachment: selfie. hood up. pouty. eyes soft. captioned “emotional gym rat. missing u.”) (followed by a voice memo where he starts saying “i love—” and immediately cuts it off with a groan and a “NOPE okay goodnight”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He’s not sure why it hits him when it does. He was fine all night. Played games. Did a workout. Ate something decent. Even cleaned. And then he passed by the sweater you wore last weekend — still folded, still smelling a little like your shampoo — and suddenly it’s like something cracked open inside him.

So now he’s on the kitchen floor. Sending texts at this god forsaken hour. Because everything feels too quiet and too full at once, and the only thing that would make sense is your head on his shoulder and your voice in his ear.

He types, deletes, types again. Sends a selfie before he chickens out. Then sits there for a while, just looking at the time tick by and wondering if you’re awake too. If you’re thinking of him.

Because he sure as hell is thinking of you. Constantly. All the time. And when he sees those three dots? He is absolutely giddy.

Hyunjin // 현진

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Sitting on his bedroom floor in a linen shirt with paint on his fingers.

Candles burning. Music playing. Heart? Open.

Has already drafted a poem and deleted it.

Feels everything. Cries a little. Posts nothing.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:11 AM] “the sky looks like you tonight” “soft. hard to describe. kinda breathtaking.” “i was sketching and my hand kept drawing the shape of your smile” “do you ever think someone could be your muse in every lifetime?” “i think you’ve always been mine” “sorry. it’s late. i miss you.” “...are you dreaming of me too?” (photo attachment: a blurry sketchbook page — your silhouette next to a moon, captioned: “unfinished. like us rn.”) (voice note, 0:22 — whispered: “if you were here, i’d draw your hands until the sun came up.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He’s not trying to be dramatic. It’s just how his heart works.

The candles help. So does the music. But nothing really fills the silence when he looks over at the empty space where you’d usually sit — cross-legged, teasing him, fingers tracing his sketchbook.

So he draws you. Again. Doesn’t mean to. You just... show up in the lines. In the curve of a shoulder, the tilt of a smile. You’re in everything lately.

He snaps a photo before he chickens out. Types a message. Sends it. Then another. Then lies back on the floor with his heart in his throat, hoping you feel him thinking of you — hoping you dream about him too.

Han // 한

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Lying sideways on his bed with one sock on and an empty bag of chips on his chest.

Watching otter videos. Overthinking. Humming your favorite song by accident.

Wants to FaceTime you but might combust if you answer.

Misses you so much it short-circuits his cool.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:14 AM] “do u ever miss someone so bad u start watching animal videos to cope??” “i just watched an otter hold another otter’s hand and now i’m emotional” “ur the otter btw. i’m the other otter. this metaphor is falling apart but i mean it.” “also ur laugh lives rent-free in my brain and it’s getting out of hand” “anyway ignore me i’m normal” “unless u miss me too. then i’m not normal i’m FREE TONIGHT” “ok bye or hi or call me pls i’m fine” (photo attachment: a cursed otter meme that says “this is me when you’re not here 😔”) (voice note, 0:19 — “hi. um. i miss you. but in a chill way. like... a healthy, definitely-not-panicking way. ok. love you. i mean. bye.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He doesn’t mean to text you. He just meant to think about you dramatically in the dark while eating sad snacks like a rom-com gremlin.

But then the otter video hit too hard. And he’s too warm. And the bed feels too big and too cold and too lonely. And that hoodie you wore once? Now it is sitting on his chair looking at him like it knows something or probably judging him silently.

But he breaks nonetheless.

Sends the otter. Sends 7 chaotic texts. Then immediately buries his face in a pillow because what was that?? But when he hears your reply chime a second later, his whole face lights up. And just like that, the spiral? Worth it.

Felix // 필릭스

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Lying on his side, fairy lights on, scrolling your old messages.

Hoodie sleeves covering his hands. Blanket pulled up to his nose.

Thought he’d fall asleep early but then remembered the way you smiled at him today and now he’s wide awake with a full chest.

Misses you so much it turns into little voice memos he has to re-record three times.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:16 AM] “are u sleeping? i hope u are. but also… i miss u and ur dumb adorable face” “if u were here i’d be hugging u so tight ur back would crack like bubblewrap 🥺” “stars are out tonight and they’re all looking at me like ‘damn u soft’” “they’re right” “do u feel it when i think abt u? like... do my cuddles reach ur soul telepathically” “u better be drinking water btw. i will check.” (photo: his ceiling fairy lights and a sleepy smile, captioned “thinking of u looks like this”) (voice note, 0:11 — “just wanted to say i love ur voice. and ur laugh. and ur everything. goodnight, angel.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He turns onto his side for the fourth time. The blanket’s warm but not warm enough. The lights are dim, soft music playing, but it’s still too quiet without you. His phone is cold in his hand and your last message is already 6 hours old — still sweet, still short.

He whispers your name once, like a test. Then again, into the mic this time. Saves it. Re-records it. Still too much. Still too soft. Still you.

He texts instead — messy, affectionate, sleepy as hell. Then stares at the screen, smiling like a boy who’s hopelessly in love and just a little shy about it.

Seungmin // 승민

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Lying stiffly in bed like he’s mad at the ceiling.

Headphones in. Lo-fi playing. You on his mind for 3 straight loops of the playlist.

Absolutely not checking your socials for the third time.

Misses you so bad he might actually admit it. Almost.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:19 AM] “why are you awake” “go to sleep loser” “unless u can’t sleep bc ur thinking about me in which case. understandable” “i’m not saying i miss you but this pillow is bad and cold and not you so.” “whatever.” “hope ur dreaming about me bc i deserve that at least” (photo: his hand holding your side of the blanket, captioned: “not warm. return immediately.”) (voice note, 0:09 — whispered like a confession: “ok. maybe i miss you. but if u tell anyone i’ll deny it forever.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He’s been lying still for over an hour. Blanket tucked tight, eyes on the ceiling like it’s done him wrong. Your hoodie’s still draped over his chair. Your toothbrush still in the bathroom, next to his.

Everything looks normal. Except it’s not. You’re not there. And the quiet’s too big. It feels wrong.

He doesn’t want to text first. He never wants to text first. But your name is already glowing on his screen. So he types something sarcastic. Something low-effort. And then stares at the send button for too long.

When he hits it, his chest softens. Because truly, with you, he always softens. And always will soften. You just bring it out of him.

I.n // 아이엔

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Hoodie hood up. Lights off.

Spotify playing something suspiciously soft.

Just scrolled through your texts from two weeks ago like a fool.

Absolutely wants to see you. Absolutely pretending he doesn’t.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:23 AM] “not drunk just dumb and thinking abt you lol” “if u were here rn i’d pretend not to care but also pull you into my lap in 0.5 seconds” “do u know how annoying u are for making me feel this much??” “anyway. miss ur stupid face. come ruin my sleep schedule or whatever.” “u looked good in that hoodie last week btw. real good. unfair.” “now i’m stuck being in love and it’s all ur fault. congrats.” (photo: his lap, blanket, a corner of your hoodie sleeve he’s wearing. caption: “guess who this belongs to. be here before i steal it forever.”) (voice note, 0:17 — “if u knock on my door rn i won’t even pretend to be cool about it. i’ll just hug u and pretend i wasn’t waiting all night.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He doesn’t mean to open your chat. He just meant to scroll for a second. Just meant to check if you posted. But now he’s lying there, hoodie sleeves over his hands, phone on his chest, screen lighting up his soft grin like a secret he’s not ready to share.

He thinks about texting “sup.” Thinks about just sending a meme. Ends up sending 6 messages and a photo of your hoodie instead.

He doesn't overthink it—just hits send. Because it’s 3:23AM and you’re in his head again. Just how you were earlier. Just how you are every time during his normal day-to-day routine when you're not there. Just you and his thoughts.

[sodaneko]

❥ 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏? ↳ 𝐰/ 𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮, 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨, 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐦𝐚, 𝐈𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢, 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚, 𝐀𝐤𝐚𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢, 𝐔𝐤𝐚𝐢 & 𝐁𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐨

☆ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 & 𝐜𝐰: i would like to thank my insomnia for being useful for once. reader is gn! food mention in the Osamu & Ukai drabbles. the Iwaizumi one is a little bittersweet, otherwise mostly fluff.

☆ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :1.5k

𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 is pretty sure he’s seeing an angel. Illuminated only by the light above the kitchen stove, your silhouette looks suspiciously like it’s wrapped in a full body halo. He doesn’t ask, just shuffles over and wraps his arms around you from behind, his face pressed into your neck and inhaling the scent of what is home to him. Only when you hold out a spoonful of leftover curry over your shoulder does he look up and let you feed him, followed by a low pleased rumble against your back. You tried to be quiet during your 3AM munchies, you really did, but if there’s one thing that wakes Osamu then it’s the sound of a pot lid being lifted and the scraping of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. He doesn’t mind though; he’d rather be up with you than reach for you in his sleep and find your side of the bed empty. The way to the heart is through the stomach or whatever that saying is–he can’t remember, but he knows for sure that he fell in love with you bite for bite, devouring you till his heart was full of you. 

𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐎 is a light sleeper, always has been since he was a kid. If he doesn’t drown out every single sound and every glimpse of light with two pillows smushed against the sides of his face, it’s just not happening. That is until he met you. The first time you slept next to him, curled up against his back, Kuroo found himself confused how easily his body settled in next to yours. His weary head falling against your shoulder, your fingers threading through his messy hair, touching spots no one ever has–before he knew, he was melting into you, one arm snuck around your middle to keep you from moving away from him. Ever. It’s almost ridiculous how he has to fight to stay awake, not wanting the pillow talk to end just yet. Not because you bore him, hell no, it’s just that your presence is more soothing than anything else in this world to him. Your soft voice in his ear carries him into his dreams, allowing him to sleep soundly now that he knows he’ll never have to miss you in his life again. 

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐌𝐀 sees the small green dot next to your name at 3AM and knows you’re probably messaging your fictional husbands in that otome game of yours again. He doesn’t mind. If anything, it gives him an excuse to text you and not worry about waking you up from the sound of your phone going off. You’re so quick to reply to him, too, scolding him that he’s not allowed to pull an all-nighter again, as if you were any better. He laughs quietly to himself when he puts on his headset (the one with kitty ears you got him for his birthday) and starts the voice chat. You sound sleepy, and he knows you’re probably gonna pass out on him in the next couple of minutes, but he’d rather hear your sleepy babbling than not hear your voice at all. You’ll tell him all about your dreams tomorrow, when he lays down for a nap with his head in your lap and you tease him by tracing the dark circles under his eyes, only to run your fingers soothingly through his pudding hair until he falls asleep with a small smile on his lips.

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀 hates those overnight bus rides. It’s too crowded, everyone around him is snoring, it smells like a locker room after a match and he can’t bring his satin pillow with him because the risk of someone else snatching it would be too high. At least there’s you. It’s always you. Only you. He wordlessly slips into the seat next to you, knowing you never find sleep during those long hours on the road either, no matter how tired you are. The two of you have a routine down by now; first he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, then you take out one of your earbuds and hold it out for him before shuffling through your playlist and showing him whatever song is currently stuck on your mind. It never takes long till your head sinks against his shoulder, your hand sliding into his, fitting so neatly like a puzzle piece. His thumb brushes over your knuckles when he kisses the top of your head softly. He can’t wait to be home again to fully indulge in you, but for now this will do. 

𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈 thinks it’s a bad idea. But when you knocked on his door, your pillow clutched to your chest and asking if you could sleep in his bed tonight, his rigidity crumbled in a heartbeat. He couldn’t possibly send you back to your room across the hallway, not when he saw your puffy eyes and the small wobble of your bottom lip. Now you’re lying in bed next to him, the blanket pulled up to the tip of your nose, and he can tell that you still feel like crying but you’re also relieved over not having to be alone anymore. So is he. More than you’ll ever know. Yeah, it’s a bad idea, but when he holds out an arm for you to crawl into and you inch closer to him, your hand coming to rest sprawled out across his ribcage, Iwaizumi promises himself to protect your heart, even if it meant breaking his own in return. His whole world shrinks down to just you and him, and for as long as he can keep his arms wrapped around you, your head tucked under his chin, maybe for as long he can keep on dreaming. 

𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈 is surprised to find you still up. Work has dragged on forever today, the crushing deadline looming over him, and then there was this after-work dinner and karaoke bar with his colleagues he couldn’t decline again, and the commute home took him forever, and… his trail of thoughts is interrupted when your gentle hand wraps around his wrists and pulls him down to sit on the edge of the mattress with you. He doesn’t even have it in him to protest anymore, all of his tension melting away under your soft caress. You take his glasses off and put them down on the bedside table for him before wrapping your arms around him from behind, small kisses pressed to the side of his neck. He tells you all the time that you shouldn’t wait for him, that it’s getting late. But if you’d ask him in secret he’d admit that coming home to you was his favorite thing in the entire world, that the dim glow of your nightstand lamp was like a lighthouse, guiding him back into your arms, right where he belonged.

𝐔𝐊𝐀𝐈 stubs out his cigarette before reaching for the thick blanket he draped around your shoulders, making sure it hugs you nicely. You’re slumped over the table in the back room of the Sakanoshita store, your arms folded underneath your head, snoring quietly without a single worry in the world. The time you spent too giddy to fall asleep last night–all because of the first snow of the year–is now catching up on you, it seems. He told you several times that you could sleep in, that you don’t have to get up during this ungodly hour with him to open up the store, but you insisted and who was he to refuse you anything? Somehow the morning rush of high schoolers and grannies was much more bearable, knowing you were snoozing only a few meters away from him. Your position couldn’t possibly be comfortable, and he takes a mental note to spoil you later tonight–get your favorite takeout, draw you a bath, rewatch your favorite movie while snuggled up on the couch. Loving you left a mark on him like your footsteps in the snow, when it was quiet in the night and just you dancing with your arms held high. 

𝐁𝐎𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐎 is restless. Technically he should be powered out by now, having won a big game earlier today and spending hours entertaining reporters, fans and the rest of his team. But it’s the first night you two get to spend together after weeks apart and there’s no way he can fall asleep just now, knowing he could use that time kissing and cuddling you instead. Fortunately, you feel the same. Your legs are tangled up under the covers, and you don’t get to finish a single sentence without him stealing a kiss from your lips. Bokuto looks at you like you’re the sun, the moon and all his stars, a whole universe just for him. He tries to focus on what you’re saying, he really does, but you gotta understand that it’s hard when he just can’t get enough of the sweet little sounds you make when your lips part for him or the way your body melts into him the moment his arms come around you. You’re his, and he missed you more than anything. And if sleep really dares to come over you both, he’ll find you in your dreams again, not letting you out of sight now that he has you again. 

support your writers! if you enjoyed these drabbles, maybe say something nice in the comments, tags or asks? ♡

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Are There Still Beautiful Things? | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello! This is a part two! I finally got around to writing a sequel to The Ultimatum! So do me a favor and read that one first. Thanks!

Word count: 16.7k

Trigger warnings: emotional abuse, manipulative boyfriend, anxiety / depression

The following morning, Bucky floated through the apartment with silent steps. He moved with the utmost caution, sidestepping the creaky floorboard in the hall. Closing the kitchen cabinets as gently as possible. Anything to avoid waking you. After the night you’d had- the fight, the long walk in freezing rain, the tears, the panic attacks- you needed all the sleep you could get. Knowing you, he figured you’d rise around ten. You always said that anything later was a waste of the day. 

But morning came and went without an appearance from you. He listened at his bedroom door for any sign of life and found only silence. He leaned against the kitchen counter, eating the omelet he’d intended for you. It wasn’t going to be good cold, anyway. 

He wondered what your year under Alex’s thumb had been like. Suffocating, he decided. Claustrophobic. Were you ever happy? In the last year, did you experience even one instance of genuine joy? Or were you miserable around the clock? Were you constantly aching, without anyone to turn to?

Bucky folded the blankets he’d used to turn the couch into a makeshift bed. When he offered you- implored you- to take his bed, he knew you’d refuse. He knew that you’d feel guilty, that you’d say it was too kind a gesture. But it wasn’t a gesture at all. He really wanted you to take it. You’d sleep better in his bed than on the couch. And he wanted you to feel comfortable. To feel safe. 

He even changed the sheets, so you’d have a fresh set to curl up in. 

But you still refused. How could you accept an offer like that? Bucky had already done enough for you for one night; and you didn’t deserve any of it. You told him, time and time again, that the couch was just fine. That you’d survive sleeping in the living room. That he didn’t have to give up his bed for you- but he did it, anyway. 

Around 3am, you couldn’t refuse anymore. You waved a white flag; there was no fight left. On your shoulders rested the weight of Alex’s emotional abuse. And for the last year, you did your best to pretend it didn’t exist. To carry on. You put on a brave face and muscle through it, because complaining would only mean more pain. More punishment. More weight. But as you leaned against the door of Bucky’s bedroom, you couldn’t fight the heft anymore. It split your spine and crushed your lungs. Finally, it broke you.

You were too tired to argue with Bucky about who should sleep where. Too tired to put yourself back together. But Bucky was there to pick up the pieces. 

He carried you to his bed and secured the blankets around you. And for a while, no one spoke. He simply sat on the edge of the bed, holding your hand. His thumb stroked your knuckles every once and a while. His free hands adjusted your blankets where he deemed necessary. It was the most peace- the most care- you’d experienced since the last time you saw him. 

After a while, he figured he should leave you alone; he didn’t want to keep you awake any longer. And so, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, gave your hand a squeeze, and headed for the door. He told you to get some rest. To wake him if you needed anything- and he meant anything. And then he was gone.

You didn’t have it in you to call after him and beg him to stay with you. He’d done enough. So, you toughed it out. Alone. 

Everything in you just wanted to slip into unconsciousness, to sleep for eight or twenty hours. And you should’ve. You should’ve fallen asleep no problem. After everything that happened that evening- everything that happened over the last year- you were empty. Drained. And your body and mind needed rest. 

But sleep didn’t come. 

With each closing of your eyes, you were haunted by fears of Alex’s wrath. Of his consequences and punishments. Of the venom in his voice when he spoke to Bucky about you. Of returning home to him. 

The waking nightmare rooted itself in your mind- or maybe it was always there. Surely, you’d had these uneasy feelings about him before. But this was the first time you really let them sink in. The first time you’d given them any attention. 

Over the past year, you’d simply swatted these kinds of thoughts away, treating them like a bothersome gnat. But deep down, you knew they weren’t there to bother you- they were there as a warning. 

With sleep out of the question, you opted to stare at the ceiling. In the scant light that weaved through the blinds, you took stock of its appearance. It was old. Textured. Yellowed in places from water damage. Cracks veined their way across the expanse of the room, starting in one corner and ending in another. Part of you wondered how stable it was. Wondered if it the whole thing might fall in the middle of the night and crush you. You’d be okay with it if it did.

When staring at the ceiling grew boring, you turned on your side and observed the wall instead. It had scuff marks and indents. Chipping paint. But it was Bucky’s wall. And you were just lucky to be here- in his bed, staring at his bedroom wall. A long scrape across the paint rescued a long-banished memory from your most secretive vault. A vault Alex could never know about. 

It was the day that Bucky tried to put in new blinds. He’d fallen from his rickety step ladder and braced himself against the nearest wall, marring the already chipping paint with his vibranium elbow. The two of you laughed at his clumsy attempt, at his claims to be a “handyman”. 

The scene played out inside your mind and managed to bring a weak smile to the surface. But it wasn’t strong enough to keep the dread at bay.

After a while, the wall no longer held your attention. And the ceiling called your name once again.

On and on the staring-cycle went: ceiling, wall, ceiling wall. Of course, you could’ve gone to see Bucky in the living room. Or even called his name; surely, he would’ve come running. But who were you to wake him? Who were you to bother him in the middle of the night? He struggled enough with sleep as it was, and you’d kept him up late. Very late. He didn’t need you further hurting his chances for a restful night. 

Eventually, the sun peeked through the blinds, and you rolled onto your back for your ceiling-staring shift. Throughout the night, you lamented your insomnia. Cursed the buzzing anxiety that kept you awake. But as you laid there, tracing the border of the room with your eyes, a change in perspective struck you. And suddenly, the crushing weight of exhaustion didn’t bother you anymore. Because you were in Bucky’s apartment, in Bucky’s bed. This was the one place you never thought you’d see again. The one place that Alex strictly forbade. The one place that felt like home.

And though you were so tired that you swore your organs would soon fail, you didn’t care. You’d choose a lifetime of sleepless nights in this bed over a restful eight hours in Alex’s any day.

Around noon, the sharp squeak of an old hinge woke you- and you realized that you must’ve actually fallen asleep. That your body must’ve finally given out. After blinking a few times and giving your eyes a moment to adjust, you discovered the source of the sound.

There stood Bucky, still as stone, watching you. 

“Hey… sorry about the-” he pointed to the door. “The hinges are kinda old.”

“No, it’s…” you let loose a long yawn. “It’s okay.”

Bucky took a few tentative steps in your direction, as though testing the waters. Over the past year, you’d been emotionally gutted. The wounds Alex inflicted were still flayed open, bleeding. Throbbing. Bucky could practically see them spilling crimson all over the bed. Maybe you wanted him close by. Or maybe you wanted your space. 

Either way, he still wanted to check on you. He took another slow step toward you. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to see how you’re doing, see if you need anything,” he said.

Of course, he did. Because that’s who Bucky was- that’s who he always was. Kind and caring and thoughtful. Even when you overstepped your bounds. Even when you overstayed your welcome. Even after you pulled the plug on your friendship. He was there for you. 

You couldn’t fight the smile that stretched across your lips. “Oh, thanks- thank you. Yeah, I’m alright, I don’t need anything,” you shrugged. “You’ve done enough. What time is it?”

Bucky checked his phone, “noon.”

“Jesus Christ,” you ran a hand down the side of your face. Two hours. You’d gotten only two hours of sleep. And as you took a quick inventory of your body, you realized your estimate was probably a little generous. A dull ache pounded inside your skull. A heaviness sat on your shoulders. And a dense fog coated your mind. Every fiber of your being needed more rest. But now was not the time.

You’d already ruined Bucky’s Saturday night and stolen his bed, now you’d eaten up half of his Sunday. A jolt of alarm force you into an upright position. The room spun a little as a result.

“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep so late,” you pushed Bucky’s bedspread from your body. “I didn’t actually fall asleep till about ten this morning, so I guess I was just-”

Bucky couldn’t stop the ache that pierced his chest. He knew all too well what it was like to spend the night tossing and turning. The need for sleep and the simultaneous fear of the nightmares that followed. The soul crushing exhaustion. He wished he would’ve known that you were struggling to sleep. And he kicked himself for not checking on you periodically throughout the night. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I wish you would’ve come and got me,” he sighed. “I could’ve kept you company. We could’ve watched movies or talked or-”

It was sweet. It really was. But even the thought of waking him made you feel guilty. 

“Nah, I didn’t wanna bother you. And I…” Your eyes took on a far away, hollow quality. “I had a lot to think about.”

A long silence followed. 

A hurricane of emotions tore through you, drowning you in their downpour. The pain, the loneliness, the devastation, the anger, the self-hatred, the feeling of worthlessness. The last year showed you just how toxic, how isolating a relationship could be. And you grieved the life you could’ve had. The time you’d never get back. The people-the person- you lost.

But a sharp pain sunk its fangs into your soul, filling you with venomous questions. How dare you mourn? How dare you pity yourself? How could you let Alex manipulate you? How could you go along with his ultimatum? And how could you abandon Bucky? Did you ever care about Bucky at all? What kind of person puts their boyfriend before their best friend? Why did you show up at Bucky’s door? And why did you let him take care of you? Are you really that selfish?

 Who do you think you are?

You gave your head a small shake, freeing yourself from the sharp, deadly thoughts. “Anyway, I’m gonna grab my clothes and get out of your hair.” A quiet groan escaped your lips and you pulled yourself from Bucky’s bed. “I don’t wanna take up your entire Sunday.”

Bucky held a hand up, stopping you. “Woah, what? But you only slept two hours.”

“I’m okay! Really,” you lied. “And I don’t want to impose any more than I already have.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. Oh, how you’d missed this look. It was the same look he used to give you every time you called yourself ‘an imposition.’ Every time you swore you’d worn out your welcome. Because he never, ever saw you that way. How anyone could see you as an imposition, as a bother, made no sense to him. But he knew of one person who thought of you like that. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Barnes,” you gave a breathy, tired laugh.

“I want you to stay for as long as you like. Honestly. I’m just happy to have you around,” he said. “So, if you wanna go back to sleep for a while, go for it. You’re more than welcome here.”

The words were too kind, the sentiment too genuine. And somewhere, deep down, something inside you broke. To know that there was, indeed, still kindness in the world shattered your remaining resolve. The entire time Alex had you locked away in his tower, you wondered if anyone else’s life had drained of all warmth and color, too. If there were still beautiful things. Or if it was only you who existed in a monochromatic hellscape.

And as Bucky wrapped an arm around you and helped you sit down on the bed, you got your answer. There were still beautiful things- and he was the most beautiful of all. 

The tears flowed freely over your newly destroyed emotional dam. And silent sobs robbed the oxygen from your chest. Hot tears dampened your cheeks, your neck, the collar of Bucky’s sweatshirt. Over the course of the year, you forbade yourself from crying like this. Every once and a while, you allowed a tear or two- but that was it. You knew that if you ever let these emotions free, forcing them back inside their cage would be impossible. But this was a true catharsis. True release. And Bucky helped you through the whole thing.

He rubbed your back, wiped your face, stroked your hair. He spoke soft, reassuring words. And he never tried to stop you. Not once did he tell you to calm down or to get yourself together. He simply let you feel what you needed to feel, what you prohibited yourself from feeling for the last twelve months. 

And when you finally cried yourself out, he wrapped your limp body in a blanket and helped you lay down. 

“Uh, I feel like you’re probably pretty dehydrated now,” he said as he got you situated. “So, I’m gonna go get you some water.” 

It pulled the smallest, most fragile laugh from you. He was right. You’d depleted your body completely, and you could already feel the dehydration headache blossoming between your eyes. But you didn’t care. Bucky took a step toward the door, only to feel your limp hand hook into his. He knew you well enough to know what it meant: you didn’t want him to leave. And he returned the feeling. Now that you finally found your way back into his life, he didn’t want to spend a second away from you. But the top priority was your well-being. 

“I’m gonna be right back, I promise,” Bucky knelt by the bed, meeting your eyeline. “It’ll only take a second.” He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, to your cheek, to your forehead, and then slipped out of the room. 

He was gone only a few minutes- five at the most. But for you, it was too long. After spending a year without so much as speaking to Bucky, you were desperate to make up for lost time. Hungry to spend every moment with him. And even a five-minute absence was enough to make your heart ache.

“Okay, okay. I’m back. Sorry,” Bucky swept through the bedroom door, an apologetic look on his face. “I figured you should probably eat something.” He offered you a plate of toast and placed two bottles of water on the nightstand. “Toast was the quickest option, but if you want something else, I can just-”

But the way you dove into the food was all the answer he needed. He sat on the edge of the bed, 

watching you wolf down the substitute breakfast, and wished he could’ve remade the omelet he prepared for you hours earlier. But you needed him. And he didn’t want you to wait. 

It hadn’t even occurred to you that you were hungry. You’d swallowed so much grief, so much pain- you didn’t notice your empty stomach. But Alex made you miss dinner. Your exhaustion made you skip breakfast. And your meager lunch from the previous day disintegrated long ago. 

But the smell of the toast brought your hunger into crisp focus. It gnawed on the inside of your abdomen and clawed up your throat. It echoed through the void. Sharp pains needled at your insides between waves of nausea. But the peanut butter toast quelled your discomfort. 

“Thank you,” you took a long swig of water. “I needed that.” 

“Anytime.”

“So, you… you don’t mind if I try to go back to sleep for a while?” Trepidation rendered your voice almost imperceptible. Had bucky not received the serum all those years ago, he wouldn’t have heard you at all. 

He encircled your hand with one of his, “I don’t mind at all.”

“Are you sure?” you said, louder this time. “Cause if you have plans or things you need to do, I totally get it. I can just-”

Bucky pulled your body into his, quieting your rambling. “This is all I’m doing today.” He held you there for a long moment. His hand smoothed up and down your back. His breath fanned the skin on your neck. And when your anxious heartrate returned to its normal pace, he released you.

“What plans do you think I had for today, sweetheart? Do you know who you’re talking to here?” Bucky laughed. “I’m not exactly Mr. Social Life.”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Maybe you were gonna to go a movie today. Or the farmer’s market, or something.”

“Nope. I don’t have any plans to speak of,” he said as he helped you get comfortable in his bed once again. “And I went to the farmer’s market last Sunday. So, I don’t need to go again.” He shot you a wink and brushed a kiss against your cheek. “You go back to sleep. I’ll be right outside if you need me. Okay?”

You nodded against the pillow that smelled like him and gave his hand one last squeeze. Everything in you screamed, begged, howled for him to stay. But you couldn’t ask. You couldn’t ask for another favor after all he’d done for you. Could you? No. It wasn’t right. He didn’t owe you shit. Everything he did to help you came simply from the endless well of goodness within him. And you were not about to ask for more. You couldn’t. 

But you did. 

“Buck?” 

He stopped in his tracks just as he reached the door. “Yeah?”

“Would you…” you rolled your eyes at yourself. Your neediness. Your greed. “Would you stay with me for a while?”

And just like that, he crawled into bed. No hesitation. No question. 

He sat next to you, his back resting against the headboard. “This alright?”

You nodded up at him. “Is it okay if I…” You lifted your head from his pillow and opted to rest it in his lap instead. And of course, he nodded in return.

Before things fell apart, before Alex’s ultimatum- this was a standard position for the two of you. When Bucky had a nightmare, or a panic attack, or a particularly bad flashback, he’d rest his head in your lap. When things got bad for him, it was the only way to remind him that he was real. That he was here. And that he wasn’t alone. Your fingers tangled gently in his hair. Your voice quietly called him away from the edge. And after a while, he’d return to himself. 

It felt almost blasphemous to co-opt his practice. To rest your head in his lap this way- especially after the way you abandoned him. There were, without a doubt, many instances over the last year when he’d needed this, when he’d needed you. And you weren’t there. Just thinking about it sent a lightning strike through your chest. What did he do in those moments? How had his soul broken through the haze and rejoined his body? Did he sit in this very apartment, all alone, waiting for the pain and terror to ebb on their own?

These thoughts tried to pull your head from Bucky’s lap. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair; not to you, not to him. You couldn’t commit sacrilege in this way. Couldn’t desecrate something that was once so sacred. But just as you attempted to move away, Bucky’s gentle hand rested on your shoulder.

“You okay? Comfortable?” He smiled down at you, awaiting your response. And you couldn’t find it in you to pull away from someone so beautiful and warm and kind. 

The rest of Sunday melted by without your participation. A dreamless sleep got its hooks in you and pulled you deeper, deeper, deeper. Bucky noticed you wake only a handful of times. And though he was sure you had to be hungry again when you woke in the evening, he didn’t push the issue. He let you sleep peacefully in his lap, with his hand smoothing gently over your hair. And when it was time for him to finally get some shut eye, he repositioned your head on his chest. 

That night, he slept better than he had in a year. 

In the morning, you woke to a cold, empty bed. And just as you wondered where Bucky could’ve gone, the smell of bacon answered your question. The aggressive hunger pangs poking at your stomach grew sharper as you took a deep inhale. Bacon, eggs, toast, coffee. Coffee.  You scrambled out of bed and found Bucky in the kitchen, leaning over the stove. 

“Morning!” He dragged his gaze away from the food to steal a look at you. Messy morning hair. Tired smile. Beautiful. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

But his words didn’t register right away. Your mind was too fixated on the stove full of food. And it dawned on you: this was the first time you’d ever seen him cook. Sure enough, a cutting board with the remnants of chopped tomatoes, green onions, and bell pepper sat next to the stove. And he was expertly presiding over bacon and two perfectly constructed omelets. 

“Um, what? Oh, no, you didn’t wake me,” you said. “Buck, you’re… cooking? You have groceries?”

He nodded. “I cook now,” he said with pride. “And yeah, I have groceries. I go shopping now, too.”

It was something so small, so normal to everyone else. But to Bucky- to you- it was a big deal. A huge deal. You crossed to the fridge and gave the door a pull, only to find it fully stocked. The back of your throat tightened a bit, a warm rush of tears blurred your vision. 

He’d always needed help with that kind of thing, with taking care of himself. When he was still trying to get acclimated to this world, to this time- he found himself in a hole. He’d fallen deep, deep down into a pit of depression and anxiety and existential dread. And menial tasks like grocery shopping were too daunting. Too overwhelming. So, you picked up the slack. You brought him groceries at least once a week, sometimes twice. You cooked for him a few days out of the week. And you did it with a smile. It wasn’t a hassle or a bother. It was something you did because you cared. Because you loved him. And if he needed help, you’d be the first to volunteer for the cause. 

He always swore he could handle it, swore that you didn’t need to stock his pantry. But without you, he would’ve gone hungry. Would’ve withered away to nothing. 

Over the course of the last year, you wondered how Bucky was getting his groceries. How he was getting his meals. If he was eating enough. Was he surviving on takeout? Or was he hungry? Picturing him alone in the apartment, his stomach and fridge empty, brought you to tears on more than one occasion. 

“This is…” You cleared your throat and forbade your voice from shaking. “This is great, Buck. I was worried that you’d been living off take out this whole time.”

“Well, I would’ve been,” he laughed. “But I didn’t have to. Remember that list you made me?” 

You wiped your eyes on the sleeve of Bucky’s sweatshirt and shut the fridge door. “What list?”

“A few weeks before Alex gave you his ultimatum, he got on you for being over here so much.” Bucky rolled his eyes at the memory. “Do you remember that?”

You grimaced and eventually nodded. 

“And you told me what he said. You told me you might not get to spend as much time here. And you wanted me to be prepared. So you made me a list- a grocery list- just in case.” He turned to face you and pointed at a drawer next to the fridge, “look in there.”

Sure enough, inside the drawer, you found a list. It was pristine, save for one slightly folded corner and a small water stain. Scrawled in your handwriting on a piece of notebook paper was everything Bucky would need from the store. It detailed everything- produce, dry goods, frozen ingredients. Everything you always used to buy for him. Everything he liked. 

“I still use it every time I go to shopping,” he said. “Even though I have it memorized by now.”

The list trembled like a leaf in your shaking hands. Maybe you hadn’t left Bucky completely destitute. Just knowing he’d had this life preserver to hold onto, knowing he’d been able to get himself groceries- to feed himself- because of you made your chest tighten. 

“In all honesty, I had kind of a hard time over the last year,” Bucky admitted. He spoke with his back to you, keeping his focus on the food. He didn’t want to look you in the eye. “I missed you. I hated not having you around. But that list was… I don’t know. It made me feel like even though we weren’t friends anymore, you still cared. You know?”

Words didn’t come. And even if they did, you wouldn’t have been able to speak. The sobs you tried so hard to corral sat trapped in your throat, struggling to break free. You tucked the list carefully back in the drawer and leaned against the counter. Bucky deserved better. He’d already been through so much in his life. And yet, you’d given him yet another hard year. A year of heartache and loneliness. A year of emptiness. Of silent dinners. A year of self-soothing.

Bucky peeked over his shoulder and found you with your head in your hands. Your shoulders shook ever so slightly. A riptide of guilt instantly pulled him under.

“Oh, sweetheart, no-” he made his way to your side and wrapped you in a hug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Your arms snaked up his chest and wrapped around his neck, pulling you closer to him. He had nothing to apologize for, nothing to feel guilty about. He’d simply told the truth: he had a hard year. And that was nothing to apologize for. Especially after what you’d done to him.

But there he was, apologizing. Consoling you when you didn’t deserve it. 

“You deserved better, Buck,” you whispered against his neck. “You deserved better from me.”

Urgently, you recoiled from his embrace and met his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I never ever wanted to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to you. I-”

“Hey,” he took your face in his hands. “It’s all water under the bridge. Okay?”

He slipped his hand into yours before you could protest and pulled you toward the stove. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”

The two of you got comfortable on the couch with your plates; Bucky watched as you devoured your breakfast of bacon, toast, and the beautiful omelet he crafted. And he couldn’t fight the smile that pulled at his lips. This was a total role reversal for the two of you. For once, he got to take care of you. He got to be your rock, your support system. He got to cook for you, feed you. And he meant what he said earlier. Everything that happened prior really was water under the bridge. He just wanted to be there for you. To make you feel comfortable and safe and cared for. To show you the love you deserved. 

“Oh, hey, I don’t know if you need this,” Bucky grabbed your phone off the arm of the couch and placed it next to you. “It’s been sitting out here since Saturday night.”

After a few taps to the black screen, you got the confirmation you needed. “It’s dead,” you said. 

“Okay, I have a charger in the kitchen. I can-”

“No, that’s okay. It’s probably for the best,” you shrugged. “I just know I’m gonna have like, four hundred texts and ninety mean voicemails from Alex.

Bucky grimaced. “Oh. Well, if you change your mind-”

“It’s probably a sign, right? Like, if I’m dreading turning on my phone because I don’t even want to see his messages…” You took a swig of your coffee, wishing it was something stronger. “It probably means that I shouldn’t be with him anymore. Right?”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say. You were absolutely right; it was a sign. A sign that you needed to evacuate your relationship. But he didn’t want to weigh in and push you to make a decision. This needed to be something you decided on your own. And so, he simply listened and let you work it out yourself. 

“I mean, just thinking about going back to the apartment makes me-” you gave strong shudder. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to live there.” The words came lightning fast, falling from your mouth before you could process or edit them. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to live with him- I don’t want to be around him. I don’t want to be with him. I don’t- I don’t want any of it.”

Bucky clocked the slight shaking in your hands, the tremor in your voice. He moved closer and enveloped you in his arms. “Okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do. Alright?” He pulled away only slightly, searching for your eyeline. “You don’t have to be with him. If you’re done, then you’re done. And that’s that. Alright?”

The weight of the world suddenly vanished from its longtime perch on your shoulders. The pressure sitting on your chest evaporated. And you breathed a deep sigh of relief. The logical side of you knew that you didn’t have to be with Alex anymore. That you could pull the rip cord and free yourself at any moment. But somehow, doing so felt impossible. This whole time, the relationship felt like a jail cell. Like you’d been trapped inside puzzle box from which you couldn’t escape. But the second Bucky said it out loud, the walls of your cell disintegrated. He solved the puzzle box and let you out.

“Yeah. Okay, yeah. Um…” The smile brought on by your newfound freedom lasted only a few seconds. “But I- I do have to go back. I have to go get my stuff. I mean, my clothes, my work stuff – it’s all there.”

“So I’ll go,” Bucky said. “I don’t mind. I’ll go over there right now and get everything.”

Of course, he would. Of course, he’d drop everything and go get your stuff. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed- he’d do it. No questions asked.

“Buck, that’s really- that’s so sweet. You’re really sweet,” You leaned into him once again, basking in his warmth. “But I- I need to be there, you know? You don’t know where everything is. And I need to make sure nothing gets left behind.” Dread filled your chest and crept up the back of your throat. If you never saw the inside of that apartment again, it would be too soon. 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t go with you,” Bucky shrugged. “Let me help. It’s gonna be way too much stuff for you to carry alone, anyway.” His expression darkened a few shades, his tone grew gravely serious. “And I don’t want you there by yourself, just in case Alex is home. I don’t think you should be alone with him.”

It was a morbid thought, but you knew Bucky was right. And no part of you wanted to be alone in the apartment. Not when the ghosts of your heartache freely roamed the halls. And if Alex was there, or if he came home early, you thought it best to have a friend. A witness. 

After changing into your now dry clothes, you plugged your phone into Bucky’s charger and abandoned it on the couch. Surely, it was about to blow up with a barrage of texts and missed calls from Alex. And you weren’t going to be there when it did.

Together, you and Bucky boarded the subway and headed in the direction of the apartment you shared with Alex. Anxiety sparked in your chest and set you alight from the inside. A pit opened in your stomach. There was no getting around this; it was a necessary evil. But with Bucky by your side, it wasn’t so bad. The looming darkness parted each time you looked at him, each time he gave your hand a squeeze. He was going to get you through this if it was the last thing he ever did. 

But heartrate jumped once you disembarked the train. And it skyrocketed as you and Bucky turned onto your street. Only a few blocks away sat your nightmare, your personal hell.

As the apartment building came into focus, your feet turned to cinderblocks. 

“It’ Monday, so he’s definitely at work by now,” Bucky reassured you. “You don’t have to worry about seeing him. Okay?”

You nodded. But your feet didn’t move.

“It won’t take long. We’re gonna grab your stuff and get out as quickly as we can. And then you never have to come back.” 

He was right. This was the last time you’d ever have to return to this godforsaken place- and Alex wasn’t even home. The unpleasant memories hanging in the air couldn’t hurt you. And you were more than entitled to retrieve your things. Alex took a lot from you, and you weren’t going to let him take any more.

The doorman greeted you with a friendly smile and a familiar “welcome home” as he opened the door for you and Bucky and waved you inside. The gilded lobby never brought you much comfort. It didn’t have a homey feel, it wasn’t warm or inviting. To you, it always seemed a little obnoxious. A little full of itself. It was fancier than you ever cared to be. Alex thought it gave him status. Stature. An air of importance. The whole thing made you gag.

“Jesus, I forgot how swanky this place is,” Bucky laughed as the two of you got into the elevator. “You sure you don’t wanna live here anymore?” He let out a dramatic huff as your shoulder gently nudged against his chest. 

 “I’m more than sure.”

Sweat beaded on your palms as you approached the front door of the apartment. All you had to do was go inside, grab your stuff, and get out. It wasn’t a large task. It wasn’t even going to be that difficult. But your stomach turned at the thought of passing through that door. And just as you teetered on the edge of a spiral, Bucky piped up, saving you.

He stood in front of your door and leaned against the frame. “So, how are we getting in, exactly? You don’t have your keys, and-” But he stopped when he saw you crouching near an air vent. “What are you doing?”

“I’m retrieving my back up plan.” 

He watched as you loosened the screws holding the vent shut and reached your arm inside. 

“A couple months ago, Alex and I got into a big fight. I know, shocking,” you rolled your eyes. “I came out here to cool off and have a moment to myself, and he locked me out for… hours. So, after that, ” You removed your arm from the vent and brandished a key in Bucky’s direction. “I taped this on the inside of the vent, just in case. I never had to use it until now.”

Bucky gave you quiet round of applause, “Brilliant.” 

But it wasn’t brilliant. Because when you tried to slide the key into the lock, it refused to budge. You tried once, twice, three times. Nothing. 

“He had the locks changed…” you muttered.

“What? Already? There’s no way…” Bucky tried the key- just to be sure- and met the same end. 

The plan came crashing down around you. And your dream of never seeing Alex again shattered into tiny pieces. 

“I’m gonna have to…” You ran a hand down the side of your face. Your breaths grew sharp and shallow. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. “I’m gonna have to text him. I’m gonna have to ask him to let me in. And he’s gonna have to be here. And he’s gonna-”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky took your face in his hands, calming the panic rising in your chest. “Did you forget that I’m a supersoldier?’

“No. Buck, You can’t-”

“And why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to get in trouble,” You pulled him away from the door, worried he could break it down at any moment. “Because of your pardon. I don’t want you to risk it.”

Bucky scoffed. “It’s my pardon, doll, so, I’ll decide who I risk it for.” 

He resumed his position in front of the door and wrapped his metal hand around the knob. With one last glance over his shoulder, he ensured the hallway was empty. And when he found the coast clear, he gave the handle a sharp twist and forced his weight against the door with his metal shoulder. The wood gave a loud groan, and the new lock gave out a sharp metallic whine. But it worked. 

“Alright, let’s get inside, someone will have heard that.” Bucky ushered you inside and gave a cursory look down the hall- but found no one.

A sharp shiver crept up your spine. Goosebumps rose over your skin. The air inside seemed colder, more sinister than you remembered. But the clock was ticking, and you wanted to spend the shortest possible amount of time here. With a deep breath, you righted your mind and forced yourself to focus. When all was said and done and you successfully escaped with your things, you could fall apart. But not yet. Not now. 

“Okay, I’m gonna go grab my work stuff first. Can you…” You took Bucky by the hand and lead him into the kitchen. Under the sink, you found a box of trash bags. You freed them from the cabinet and thrust them into Bucky’s hands. “Can you go into the bedroom and just start putting my clothes in these bags? My closet and dresser are on the far side of the room.”

Bucky nodded and headed off for his mission- only to stop in his tracks. He’d only been here once, and it was far too long ago for him to remember his way around. “Um, sweetheart?” he called. 

“Down the hall, fourth door on your left!”

“God, this place is huge…” he said. His voice echoed down the hall and found you in the kitchen.

And he was right. As far as apartments go, Alex’s was massive. High ceilings, several spare rooms, a gigantic kitchen- it wasn’t anything like the shoebox apartments you’d lived in over the years. Alex insisted that you move into his cavernous home, and you obliged. But this space never felt like home to you. It was more like a museum- cold, quiet. And you always got in trouble for touching things.

In the living room, you searched for your work laptop. It always sat on the end table next to your side of the couch, but you didn’t find it there. It was unlike you to leave it anywhere else, but still, you weren’t perfect. Maybe you left it in the study, or the bedroom. Maybe it was-

Just then, something caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the shiny silver surface of your laptop. It lay haphazardly next the armchair, still half open. A pit formed in your stomach. And though you knew in that moment that this was Alex’s doing, what you found still knocked the wind from your chest.

Several keys were missing. The screen was cracked beyond repair. And pressing the power button brought no life. The charger sat next to your computer, having been severed right in the middle. Alex was never the destructive type- or so you thought. He never punched walls or broke things out of anger. No, he expressed his wrath through biting words that pierced your skin and made you bleed. This was a new low for him. 

Just as you’d begun to wrap your mind around the destruction, Bucky’s voice echoed from down the hall.

“Hey, doll. I think… um, you should come here.” The trepidation in his voice activated alarms inside your mind.

And though you did your best to steel yourself against what you might find in the bedroom, the reality was worse than you imagined. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Bucky draped an arm across your shoulders and pulled you into his side. “You don’t deserve this.”

Before you lay a sea of your belongings, scattered and strewn across the floor. Pages were torn from books and crumpled into balls. Large rips and tears frayed the fabric of your clothes. Feathers leaked from a hole in your pillow. Every single page of your journal had been shredded into the tiniest possible pieces. An overwhelming sense of grief punched you in the stomach. The small stuffed cat you’re your childhood had its head severed. The jewelry box your grandmother gave you in high school lay in pieces. It was all so disturbing, so demented. So purposefully and pointedly cruel.

You didn’t think it could possibly get any worse- until you decided to pop your head into the bathroom. All of your make up sat piled in the garbage. Broken bottles. Shattered compacts. Destroyed brushes. The rest of your beauty products- your skincare, your haircare, your perfume- rested on top of your make up. Every bottle had been opened and dumped out, creating a sticky, disgusting mess. There was no salvaging any of it, no saving even one item. And sprinkled on top of the entire muddied disaster was your anxiety medication- the medication you sought because of Alex’s reign of terror. He always mocked you for needing medicine, for struggling with your anxiety. Ironically, his torments made you up your dosage.

A sense of weakness crept up the back of your legs, and your knees began to buckle. If Bucky hadn’t reached you in time, you would’ve collapsed against the cold tile floor. But he saved you- again. He held you against his body as endless waves of pain washed over you. He told you time and time again that everything was replaceable, that these things were just things- and your safety was more important than any earthly possession. But his heart broke for you. These were still your belongings. They still mattered to you. And even though your life was more important, he recognized just how violating this was. How dehumanizing. 

A special kind of rage smoldered in his chest. Alex didn’t deserve you- he never did. And you didn’t deserve to be treated with such callousness. 

“We’re gonna get this taken care of. I promise,” Bucky whispered against your hair. “It’s all replaceable. And we can-”

A sudden bolt of concern hit you like a ton of bricks. You yanked your head from Bucky’s chest and met his eyes with your panic-blown pupils. And then you were gone. 

Bucky watched as you sprinted toward your nightstand, tripping over your destroyed belongings in the process. You knelt in front of your nightstand and pulled it from the wall, searching desperately for something- but Bucky wasn’t sure what. 

Relief flooded your face as you pulled a small manila envelope from behind your nightstand and held it to your chest. The two pieces of duct tape that had held it in place got stuck to your skin for just a moment, but you didn’t seem to care. Just to be sure, you opened the envelope and looked inside, breathing a deep sigh of relief upon learning that Alex didn’t touch whatever it was that you held so precious.

After that, the destruction didn’t seem to bother you as much.

The two of you stuffed all your belongings into trash bags, opting to go through them later at Bucky’s place. Surely, there was something to be saved. Something worth keeping. But determining that could take time, and you didn’t want to spend an extra second in this hellhole. 

Ripped clothes, broken shoes, and cracked picture frames- among other things- filled three large bags. And when you cleared the room, a sense of peace wrapped you in a hug. 

“Okay, what else?” Bucky asked expectantly. “Is there anything of yours in the kitchen, or the living room, or anything?”

You shook your head. “Nope, this is…” You eyed the trash bags. “This is it. This is all my stuff.”

Bucky cocked his head to the side and thought about the prized possessions from your old apartment. “Really? What about your stand mixer? Or your grandma’s quilt?”

Again, you shook your head. “All that kind of stuff is at my parents’ house. When I moved in here, Alex didn’t want me to bring any of my décor or my kitchen supplies- my stuff wasn’t fancy enough for him.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Alex seemed to be the personification of a red flag. How someone could treat another human being so poorly baffled him. And how anyone could treat you this way was beyond his comprehension.

“Okay, well, at least we know that stuff is okay,” Bucky offered. 

And he was right. When Alex first told you he didn’t want your “tacky” décor and “outdated” kitchen appliances in his home, it hurt. It made you feel small, less than. And from that day on you always felt that you needed to prove yourself to him, to show him that you were, in fact, good enough. But being good enough for him meant never curling up with the quilt your grandmother made you. Never making cookies using your mom’s hand-me-down mixer. Never feeling a sense of home.

Bucky double-checked the ties of the last trash bag, ensuring they were nice and tight. “Hey, what was all that about?” Bucky pointed to the manila envelope tucked under your arm. “Or is it a secret?’

“Technically, it’s not a secret, I guess- well, it’s not a secret from you. But it was a secret from Alex.” You freed the envelope from under your arm, “It’s not juicy or scandalous or anything, but it’s important to me. And-”

The sound of footsteps in the kitchen halted your words. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. A cold sweat appeared across the surface of your skin. And you feared the beautiful breakfast Bucky worked so hard to make you would make a reappearance.

“Hello? Hey, sweetheart…” Bucky waved a hand in front of your face. He’d been trying to get your attention for a few moments now to no avail. You were still as stone, completely frozen with fear. He placed his hands on your shoulders and gave you a soft shake. “Doll.”

“Buck…” Only your eyes moved. Finally, you met his gaze with your massive, terror-dilated pupils. “He’s here. I can’t- I can’t do this. I’m not-”

“Hey, hey- it’s okay.” His palms rested on your cheeks, “You’re fine. You’re okay. You don’t have to talk to him – you don’t even have to make eye contact with the guy, okay?” He waited, allowing your panic-struck brain to process his words. And finally, you granted him a small nod.

He swept his thumbs over your cheeks one final time before pulling his hands from your face. He lifted a garbage bag from the floor and handed it to you. 

“Here, you take this. And I’ll-” He picked up the other bags and tucked one under each arm, “I’ll take these. And we’re out of here. Okay? We’re just gonna walk right out.”

With another nod, you agreed to his plan.

But walking past Alex without speaking, without making eye contact seemed easier said than done. After being with him for so long, you knew he wasn’t going to just let you breeze past him. He wasn’t going to let you go without a fight- not because he loved you, but because his pride wouldn’t allow it. 

The anxiety made your head swim and left you weak in the knees. Your vision blurred; your chest tightened. You knew Alex was waiting for you, smug and impatient. You knew he was going to tear into you the second he laid eyes on you. But there was only one way out of the apartment. And if you could just make it out the door, you’d be free. And so, with Bucky gently encouraging you, the two of you headed for the exit. 

Bucky went first, hoping to take the brunt of the verbal assault. Putting himself between you and Alex and providing you with a shield seemed like the best possible plan to Bucky. He wasn’t going to allow you to go first, not when Alex could so easily lunge at you or throw something in your direction. And after witnessing Alex’s destruction of your personal belongings, Bucky knew there was a chance that Alex would try something. That he might be violent. 

Finally, the two of you made it to the kitchen. Bucky locked eyes with Alex first, eliciting a loud guffaw from your soon-to-be-ex’s lips. 

“Wow. How’d I know you’d be with him?” Alex let out a sharp laugh as you entered the kitchen. “How’d I know?” 

But you didn’t answer. You kept your eyes down, just as Bucky instructed, and allowed the sound of your best friend’s quiet reassurances guide you forward. Shuffling through the kitchen with a garbage bag full of your broken belongings, avoiding your tormentor’s eye contact- it all felt so pathetic. You’d never felt so low, so small.

“You look so surprised to see me, baby!” Alex teased. Your skin crawled. “Guess you didn’t realize that the neighbors like me better than you. And that they’d call me when the saw you break the lock.”

You refused to take the bait. Refused to let him get a reaction out of you. All he wanted was the satisfaction of upsetting you. The gratification of hurting you and twisting he knife. And you weren’t going to give it to him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Alex took only one step in your direction, but it was enough to stop you in your tracks. “You’re not gonna- Hey! You look at me when I’m talking to you!” He dropped his teasing, taunting tone and adopted the sharp, volatile way of speaking he often used around you. 

Instantly, your gaze snapped in Alex’s direction. Muscle memory did its best to protect you, to remind you that obeying was always yielded better results than the alternative. He locked eyes with you, fury burning behind his stare. He took another step toward you, prompting Bucky to block your body with his.

“You’re not gonna break into my house, steal a bunch of shit, and get off scot-free,” Alex scolded. 

Bucky stepped closer to Alex, allowing you to make a path toward the front door. Seeing Bucky stand up to the man who’d made your life a living hell brought the smallest of smiles to your face. He really cared about you. Wanted to defend you. It was a new experience for you. On one occasion, a handsy, shitfaced man at a bar downtown felt you up as you waited for a drink. You looked to Alex for help, for defense, for something- but he didn’t care. He bought the offender a drink and apologized for your antics.

But anyone who hurt you hurt Bucky, too.

A debate sparked inside of you at the site of Bucky taking such a confrontational stance toward Alex. Half of you wanted Bucky to back off, to stay away from Alex, to protect his pardon. But the other half wanted nothing more than to watch Bucky tear Alex to shreds. To see Alex’s blood stain the brilliant marble floors. 

Once you’d gotten out of Alex’s reach, Bucky turned his back on the man and headed in your direction. Freedom was so close- you could almost taste it. But just as you reached for the door, Alex said something that stopped you dead in your tracks.

“Okay, sure! Have fun with the psychotic murderer!” 

Something inside you snapped.

Slowly, deliberately, you turned in his direction. The trash bag tucked under your arm fell to the floor, and all fear Alex previously elicited within you vanished. That anxiety, that panic vacated its spot, making room for a white-hot rage. 

Bucky’s hand encircled your wrist, “Sweetheart, don’t. He’s not worth it.”

But it was too late. No one- especially not Alex- was allowed to speak about Bucky that way. No one was allowed to disparage the kindest person you’d ever met. Over the course of your painful relationship with Alex, you stood up for yourself once. Maybe twice. It never seemed like it was worth the effort or the fight, but Alex speaking about Bucky with such blind hatred ignited a fire within you. Bucky was worth the fight. 

“First of all,” you said, “You don’t get to talk about him. You don’t know him- you’re not good enough to know him. He’s a better person that you could ever dream of being. Because Bucky actually has a soul. He actually knows how to care for people.”

Adrenaline rushed to your head. Speaking to Alex this way felt good- amazing, even. And without fear of consequences or retaliation, you let loose.

“And second, I didn’t break into your house if this is my house too- and you changed the locks!” You spat at him. His eyes widened a bit as your unexpected ferocity boiled over. “And this stuff-” you pointed to the garbage bags, “is mine! It’s my stuff that you broke because you had a fucking tantrum! I’m not stealing anything from you… you stole from me! You stole over a year of my life that I will never get back.”

You took a few more steps in Alex’s direction, much to Bucky’s dismay.

“You did everything you could to tear me down and fucking destroy my self-worth. You pulled me away from my family and my friends- and for what? Just so you could feel special? So, you could feel superior? Are you that insecure? Is your manhood that fragile?”

Alex’s bravado faltered every so slightly. His smug grin faded. His jaw tensed. But he did his best to recover. To seem aloof, bored. He rolled his eyes, “Well, I-”

“I’m speaking,” you hissed. 

Alex quieted. Fear flickered in his eyes.

“You controlled every fucking aspect of my life!” you yelled. “You made me believe I wasn’t good enough- that you were the only one who would ever love me. And you gave me a goddamn ultimatum that almost ruined my friendship the person who loves me most- with the person I love most.”

Bucky couldn’t help the blush that warmed his cheeks.

“Most of the things you did to me can be fixed. I’ll rebuild my self-worth. I can fix my relationships with my friends. But the one thing I will never get back is the time that I could’ve spent with Bucky,” your voice wavered ever so slightly, but the wrath burning inside you immediately fortified it again. “And for that, I wish you nothing but pain and suffering.” 

Satisfied, you turned on your heel and headed for the door. But Alex wasn’t done.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy cause I didn’t want you spending all your time with another man?” Alex scoffed. ”You were always sleeping over at his house- in his fucking bed. When you weren’t talking to him, you were talking about him. You always put him first- you’re IN LOVE with the guy!”

Neither you nor Bucky spoke. And you didn’t dare look at him. An intense warmth rushed into your cheeks. Your heart raced. And though you wanted to throw a rebuttal in Alex’s face, no words came. You hated to admit it, but he was right. 

You were, of course, in love with Bucky. You always had been- it wasn’t even a question. How anyone met him and didn’t fall in love with him was a mystery to you. He was so sweet, so thoughtful, so endlessly and overwhelmingly kind. He made you laugh harder than anyone you’d ever known. Loving him came instantly. Naturally. 

Bucky’s mouth ran dry at Alex’s accusation. And his heart stopped when you didn’t refute it. Never before had he ever rooted for Alex, of all people, to be right. But there’s a first time for everything.

“But, yeah,” Alex continued, “I’m the bad guy cause I didn’t want my girlfriend whoring herself out to some other guy…”

A past version of you would’ve teared up at a comment like that. Alex’s words would’ve broken your heart and left you bleeding all over the place. But this new you- the version that Bucky helped coax into the world- didn’t care. Alex didn’t have power of you, not anymore.

With a chuckle, you turned your back on Alex and strutted toward the door. He hollered insults at you- calling you a slut, a whore, a good-for-nothing bitch. But the words rolled off of you like water off a duck’s back.

“Good luck with her, man!” Alex called after Bucky, “You can have her! Please, take her off my hands! She’s all yours.” 

Bucky followed you into the hallway, beaming with pride. He’d wanted to speak up, to tell Alex off, to tear him apart for speaking badly of you. But this was your fight, not his. And he knew you didn’t need anyone defending your honor. Didn’t need him stealing your moment. After everything Alex did to you, you deserved to scream at him. To get everything off your chest. To give Alex a small taste of his own medicine. Bucky was only there for moral support. For protection. 

He placed your things gently on the floor and wrapped you in a bear hug. This was the version of you he’d known so well all those months ago. Before Alex stripped you of your confidence and whittled you down to nothing. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered against your neck. “That’s my girl.”

“Thank you…” You breathed a long, deep sigh of relief. Finally, it was over. But it still felt too early to celebrate, to revel in the victory. You were still in the hallway outside the apartment. Still in the building. Still, technically, in Alex’s clutches. “Let’s get out of here.”

“One sec. I forgot something.” Bucky turned for the door, but you caught his arm.

“Don’t,” you pled. “Just don’t. I know what you’re thinking, and he’s not worth it.” You just knew Alex would take such unbridled joy in Bucky physically attacking him. Knew he’d love nothing more than to have Bucky arrested and charged with assault. The thought made you nauseous. “He’s not worth your pardon.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna hurt nim,” he promised. “I just wanna talk to the guy.”

For a long moment, you searched his face for any sign that he was lying. The twitch of a brow. The hint of a smile. But you came up empty. And so, you released him. 

“Wait for me downstairs, okay?” He brushed a kiss against your cheek and disappeared inside the apartment once again.

Bucky found Alex leaning against the counter, whiskey in hand. He barely looked up at the sound of Bucky’s boots, but Bucky clocked the eye roll Alex threw his way. 

“Let me guess, you’re back to teach me a lesson?” Alex mocked. “Oh, I’m so scared of the depressed, PTSD- riddled, lame-ass version of the Winter Soldier.” He feigned a fearful expression and made himself laugh before taking a swig of his drink. “What are you gonna do, therapize me to death?”

But Bucky maintained a calm aura- almost too calm. His hands didn’t shake with fury. His heartrate didn’t spike. He kept his breathing even. He approached Alex with a thin, tense smile, and even maintained the expression as his metal hand wound around the man’s throat. Before Alex knew what hit him, his body was pressed against the nearest wall. His feet dangled a few inches above the floor as he fought for his freedom, but it was useless. 

Bucky’s tone was composed, measured, even. It sent a chill down Alex’s spine.

“You know how much pain you inflicted on her,” Bucky said. “But you didn’t actually experience it yourself. You didn’t feelit. And as much as I would love to give you a first-hand recreation…” His grip tightened ever so slightly. “I promised her I wouldn’t hurt you. So, I’m just gonna tell you what will happen if you ever bother her again. You listening?”

Alex struggled to nod. A breathy “yes” was all he could manage.

“Good.”

Bucky’s voice grew lower, sharper, vicious. “I’ll break every single one of your ribs. One at a time. I’ll crush your chest so painfully slowly that you will feel the shards of your bones pierce your heart and lungs. And I’ll watch with a smile as you drown in your own blood,” Bucky said. “You will never speak to her or about her ever again- you won’t even think about her. And if you so much as mention her name- if you say anything less than gracious about her in your little douchey finance bro group text, I will make your life a living hell.” He paused a moment, relishing in Alex’s terrified expression. “You keeping up so far?”

Again, Alex struggled to speak. The lack of air and sudden influx of fear left him almost unable to think. But he managed a quiet “yes.”

“Excellent,” Bucky smiled. “You won’t call her. You won’t text her. You won’t harass her. You won’t stalk her social media or drunkenly call her at two in the morning. You’re going to leave her alone- forever. And if you ever- ever- contact her again, I’ll know. And I’ll be here. I’ve broken that door down once, I’ll be happy to do it again.”

With that, he released his grip on Alex’s neck and sent him crashing to the floor. Watching the man who hurt you sputter and struggle for breath filled Bucky with a sick, twisted kind of joy. Finally, it was Alex who was scared. Alex who was uncomfortable. Alex who felt pain. 

“The only contact you’re going to have with her,” Bucky continued, “is the Venmo payment you’re gonna send her for all of the things of hers you destroyed. Her clothes, her make up, her jewelry- all of it. And it’s going to be a very generousamount to make up for all of the sentimental stuff you destroyed, since you know damn well that she won’t be able to replace any of it.” He knelt next to Alex, getting extra close to the terrified man shaking on the floor. “And I know you’ve got the money. So, if it’s not enough, I’ll be back.”

He flashed a winning smile Alex’s way, “Have a nice day.”

Finally, he stood and stalked for the door, a satisfied smile stretching across his face.

The minutes dragged by without Bucky. You sat perched on one of the sofas in the apartment lobby, waiting for him to meet you. Every time the elevator doors opened, you hoped to see his tall frame and your other two bags of stuff. And every time, you were disappointed. It was nice of him to put his pardon on the line for you, to risk his freedom in order to get you the justice you deserved. But it was the last thing you wanted. After spending so much time away from him, your greatest desire was to simply be with him. To spend every minute with him. And you couldn’t do that if he landed himself in prison on assault charges. 

When he finally made his way to the lobby, you scanned him for any signs of a struggle. But his clothes weren’t out of place. And you didn’t find blood crusted over his knuckles. Nothing was amiss. He had the two remaining bags of your belongings tucked under his arms, and a calm, cool demeanor. But even though he didn’t seem riled up, you eyed him with suspicion. Surely, he hadn’t spent all that time upstairs just talking to Alex. 

“Hey, I’m gonna call us an Uber,” Bucky said as he met you at the couch. “That way we don’t have to bring all of your stuff of the train. Are you-”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “What did you do?”

Bucky shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. I just wanted to talk to him-”

“Buck…”

“What?” He shot you a mischievous grin. “I just wanted to give him a piece of my mind. He’s still alive, still breathing, and all of his blood is inside of his body where it belongs.” A sudden seriousness eclipsed his expression. He dropped the playful attitude, placed your things on the couch, and pulled out his phone. “Anyway,” he tapped away at his phone, calling the two of you a ride. “Let’s get you the hell out of here. Sound good?”

He got his answer in the form of a long, nearly asphyxiating hug. The sheer force of your body launching into his knocked the wind from his lungs and sent him reeling backward. A deep laugh bellowed from his chest as he righted his footing and wrapped his arms around you. 

“Thank you so much…” you whispered against his neck. “For everything.”

Bucky’s lighthearted laughter vanished. “Of course, sweetheart.” He doubled down on the hug, pulling you tighter. “You know I always have your back.”

He refused to break the hug. Instead, he allowed you to rest there in his arms, with your face buried in the crook of his neck. Passersby threw strange looks your way, but Bucky paid them no mind. Only when his phone chimed, signaling the arrival of your car, did you finally force yourself to withdraw from his embrace. 

The ride back to Bucky’s was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of your garbage bags. And though you didn’t say a word over the course of the drive, you didn’t dare let go of Bucky’s hand. Your fingers remained so tightly intertwined with his that your knuckles ached- but you held firm. You knew better than to release your grip on a life preserver. 

“Alright, um, is there someplace you want me to set all this stuff?” you asked once you’d returned to Bucky’s. You eyed your overstuffed trash bags sitting in the middle of the living room floor. “I don’t want them to be in the way.”

Bucky just shrugged; he really didn’t seem to mind that your belongings completely encroached on his space. “I’m not worried about it, doll,” he shot you a reassuring smile, “You put ‘em wherever you like.”

But you couldn’t let your things take up the entirety of Bucky’s living room. After everything he’d done for you, you refused to be a less than perfect houseguest. With the toe of your shoe, you pushed the bags into a corner to keep them out of Bucky’s way. You sunk your weight into the large, overstuffed bags, hoping to make them as small as you possibly could. It was the very least you could do. 

“Alright, I’m-” You grabbed your phone off the charger and cleared Alex’s old notifications from the screen with a roll of your eyes. “I’m gonna go call my boss and let her know that a petulant man-child destroyed my work laptop.”

Bucky loved hearing you talk this way. Only a few hours ago, speaking about Alex made you shudder. It turned into a shaking, fragile shell of yourself that Bucky almost didn’t recognize. But you’d stood up to him. You finally fought back. And now, you were casually shit-talking him in Bucky’s living room. 

“And then I’m gonna start looking for a new place to live so I can get out of your hair as soon as possible,” you said as you scrolled through your contacts in search of your boss’s number. “I’m gonna borrow your room for a minute so I can talk with my boss. I’ll be right back.”

The stress of your current situation poked at the back of your mind. You did your best to shut it out and keep moving forward, but pangs of anxiety shocked you every few moments. Yes, you’d freed yourself from Alex’s shackles. And yes, you finally had Bucky back. But your work computer was a goner. You’d missed two meetings today already. And you were now without a place to live. 

Bucky listened to your footsteps growing further and further down the hall as your words buzzed inside his brain. You were going to look for a new place to live. You were going to leave. He didn’t mean to blurt it out, didn’t mean to make his offer in such a strange fashion- but he couldn’t help it.

“You could always live here,” he called after you. And it was too late to force the words back into his mouth. 

Once again, you joined him in the kitchen, a look of bewilderment on your face. “What?”

A nervous smile stretched across Bucky’s face. “I just mean, you’re more than welcome to live here. With me,” he shrugged. “I know this place isn’t nearly as nice as Alex’s, and it’s only a one bedroom- but if you wanted to live here, we could make it work. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

The absurdity of Bucky’s words made you shake your head. “Buck, I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch in your own home-”

“It’s really okay,” he insisted. “We both know I don’t sleep much, anyway. And if you moved in here, I’d want you to take the bedroom.”

His kindness gave you whiplash. After being with someone so callous, so cruel for so long, Bucky’s warmth was shocking. Unexpected. And though you wanted nothing more than to make a home with him, you couldn’t accept his offer. 

“I can’t do that to you…”

“Yes, you can. I want you to.” Bucky was resolute in his words. His voice didn’t waver, he didn’t break eye contact. He meant what he said.

A long silence filled the room. Of course, you wanted to say yes. You wanted to move in with him and start the next chapter of your life with your best friend by your side. But just as your ‘yes’ tried to slip out of your mouth, you stopped it. You couldn’t accept his offer. At least, not with the proposed conditions. 

“Counteroffer,” you said. “I move in here, and we share the bedroom.”

Your proposal threw Bucky for a loop- but he’d do anything you wanted. All you had to do was ask. 

“Okay, yeah,” he conceded. “The room’s kinda small but we could fit two small beds in there. It might be a little cramped, but-”

“That’s not what I meant,” you laughed. “We would share the bed. I mean, we’ve slept in that bed together more times than I could count. This wouldn’t be any different.”

Bucky’s heart soared. Not only did he have his best friend back- but you wanted to share a bed like the old days. The good days. It was all he could’ve hoped for. 

“And, that way, I’ll be right there in case you have a nightmare or a panic attack,” you said, satisfied. “I can wake you up and make sure you’re alright.” The smile on your face was warm, genuine. You looked forward to helping Bucky, to comforting him. “It’s a win-win in my book.”

It made Bucky melt. He extended a hand in your direction, “Works for me, doll. Deal?”

You extended your hand and almost met his- but an anxious thought made you recoil.

“And you’re sure that you’re okay with me being here all the time? You’re not gonna get tired of me?”

Alex always made you feel like a bother. He’d asked- practically begged- you to move into his apartment. But once you finally fulfilled his request, he looked at your presence with contempt. He made it known that he was frustrated, that he felt like you were always around. And regardless of your newfound freedom, that wound hadn’t healed.

“Cause I work from home, you know. So, I’m gonna be here a lot,” you told him. “I mean, pretty much all day, every day. And if that’s too much, I-”

“I want you to be here- all the time,” Bucky promised. 

And he meant it. 

Finally, your hand found his and delivered a firm shake. “Deal.”

With your housing arrangements taken care of, you once again headed down the hall to call your boss. Everything felt lighter, easier, less overwhelming. Only moments ago, you didn’t know where you’d be sleeping a few days from now. But Bucky swept in- again- and saved the day. He offered you the homelife you’d dreamt of every night since meeting him. He made your dream a reality. 

Bucky remained in the kitchen, silently processing what just happened. Did he really ask you to move in? And did you actually say yes? His heart pounded in his chest. This was the best possible outcome. The fantasy he’d envisioned for years. To have you so close by, to see you every day, to live under the same roof as you- it was all he’d ever wanted. His eyes drifted to the garbage bags that you shoved into a corner of his living room. When he said that he didn’t mind you putting them there, he meant it. He was just happy- elated, really- to have your things in his home. To know that this was their permanent residence. To know that this was your permanent residence. 

And though everything in those bags was mostly destroyed, you were okay. You were safe and comfortable. You were home now. 

When you finally finished your call, you found Bucky in the kitchen. He stood over a swath of sandwich ingredients, assembling a much-needed meal for the two of you.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said. “You in the mood for lunch?”

“I’m starving,” you told him. Truthfully, you hadn’t even realized you were hungry. The stress of the day muted your body’s hunger signals completely. But somehow, Bucky knew. He always knew what you needed.

The two of you sat on the living room floor, going through your possessions and eating your sandwiches. Bucky helped you comb through each bag of stuff as you determined what, if anything, could be salvaged. His heart broke as the ‘trash’ pile grew, and grew, and grew. It severely outweighed the ‘save’ pile- and you’d only been through one bag. Alex reduced your belongings by at least seventy percent. But you didn’t seem to mind much.

As you were made well aware, there were worse things in life than torn clothes and destroyed make-up. A volatile, loveless relationship, a partner who hated you, a year without the person you loved most; your broken laptop paled in comparison. 

Only one possession really mattered to you- and it survived the rampage. But as you glanced over at the kitchen counter in search of your manila envelope, your heart stopped. Every function within your body came to a screeching halt. It was nowhere to be seen.

Did you drop it in the apartment lobby? Forget it in the Uber? Was your most beloved personal item sitting on the sidewalk outside Alex’s building?

Bucky clocked the anxiety in your expression, the way your eyes searched every inch of the kitchen. He could always sense even the smallest of changes in your demeanor- sometimes before you sensed them yourself. 

“Hey, is everything alright?”

“I’m just looking for my-” A sigh of relief left your chest as your gaze landed on your envelope. It was tucked under a worn cookbook, with only one of its manila corners poking out. “Never mind, I found it.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder and scanned the kitchen until he realized what had you so panicked. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t want to get anything on it while I was making us lunch,” Bucky said. “So, I just put it under my cookbook to be safe. Is that okay?”

With a breathless nod, you assured him it was just fine. But your heart still boomed inside your chest, and the sweat on your palms still left your skin slick. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the deal with that envelope?” Bucky asked, testing the waters. “If it’s none of my business, I completely understand. But I could’ve sworn you were about to tell me back at the apartment.”

“And someone just had to interrupt us,” you said, your voice dripping with disdain. “It’s not too personal, I just had to hide it from Alex. I want you to see, though.”

Bucky was right about one thing. You’d tried to show him the contents of the envelope back at Alex’s. But he had the rest wrong; it was his business just as much as it was yours. He just had no idea how personal the contents of that envelope were to him.

You ditched the pile of damaged clothes sitting in your lap and stood, offering your hand to Bucky. “Come on, let me show you.”

Bucky gladly accepted your hand and laced his fingers with yours on the walk to the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what to expect from your special, secret envelope. But he didn’t care. Whether it was a child’s messy crayon drawing or the nuclear codes- it didn’t matter. All that mattered to him was that the contents of this envelope were important to you. And if they were important to you, they were important to him.

“Okay, so, a little backstory…” You slid the envelope out from underneath the book and held it to your chest. “After Alex told me to stop spending so much time with you but before he issued the ultimatum, we got into this big fight,” you rolled your eyes, “I know that comes as a surprise to no one.”

Bucky chuckled at your joke, but the words made his chest ache. To him, your time with Alex sounded more like active combat than love. More like a battlefield than a relationship. 

“And during that fight,” you continued, “he told me I had way too many pictures of me and you on my phone. He thought that at least three-quarters of my phone’s storage was just pictures of us, and he said it was disrespectful to my relationship with him.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “of course, he did.”

“So, he told me I needed to go through my camera roll and delete every picture of you and me. He said it needed to be done by the time he got home from work the next day, and they actually had to be gone for real. Not saved to the cloud. Not hidden in a private album. Deleted forever.”

Bucky grimaced, “That’s fucking vile.” 

It made Bucky sick to his stomach. He cherished his photos of the two of you. Over the course of the last year, he found himself scrolling through those pictures every day. Several times a day. It was a coping mechanism, a respite from the void you left behind. When his chest ached with the pain of missing you, he’d dive headfirst into the hundreds of photos of the two of you. The selfies from the zoo. The pictures from Sam’s wedding. The blurry snapshot of you braiding his long hair. And for a while, he felt like himself again. The pain would ebb, the soul-crushing grief would let up. It was his saving grace.

If he suddenly had to rid his phone of those images, he’d never know peace again.  

“I know. I thought so, too,” a disgusted look pulled at your features. “But I didn’t wanna cause any more problems between he and I, you know? I didn’t want to give him more reasons to be pissed at me…”

Bucky nodded.

“But there was no way I was ever going to delete our pictures,” you swore. “So, when he was at work the next day, I transferred every photo and video of you and me onto an external hard drive and took it to my sister’s place for safekeeping.”

Bucky’s heart swelled. You didn’t delete the pictures- you couldn’t. They were just as important to you as they were to him. He, of course, never doubted that you valued his friendship. But knowing that you couldn’t bear to part with the pictures of the two of you made him blush. He almost wished you hadn’t risked Alex’s wrath just to save those pictures. Hadn’t put yourself in such a dangerous position. But you did. And it filled him with an all-encompassing warmth. 

“There was one picture- my favorite picture in the world- that didn’t have a digital copy, though. It only exists as an actual, physical print. So, I couldn’t just put it on the hard drive and call it a day. And I didn’t have it in me to hand it over to my sister. I just- I love it too much.” It was a little embarrassing to admit just how much you needed this polaroid picture. But Bucky didn’t make a judgmental comment or laugh at you. He simply listened, happily awaiting the next part of your story.

“So, I put it in this envelope and taped it to the back of my nightstand so Alex would never find it. And when things with him were really awful- which was all the time- and I just needed an escape… I’d go into our room, lock the door, and just stare at this picture for a while.” You blinked away the tears forming along your lash line and swallowed the lump in your throat. 

Carefully, you opened the envelope and freed the polaroid from its hiding place. Revealing it to another person almost felt like stripping naked. This picture was your everything, your most prized possession. Sharing it felt like exposing the deepest, most secretive part of your soul. 

“It might sound kinda stupid, but this thing saved my life during the last year.”

And finally, you presented Bucky with the photo. He took in a small gasp at the sight of this relic of your friendship. Cautiously, he accepted the polaroid and held it with the utmost care. He hadn’t seen this photo in ages; part of him assumed it was long-lost by now. But you’d had it this whole time, cherishing it every single day. 

“Oh, I love this one…” He carefully drank in each detail of the photo, examining it one piece at a time.

It was a snapshot of a perfect moment, frozen in time. Confetti littered the floor, empty solo cups laid abandoned on the coffee table. And there you stood next to Bucky, with one of his arms wrapped lovingly around your shoulders. You were laughing at something; Bucky couldn’t remember what. But he remembered the feeling it gave him- the feeling of warmth. The feeling of home. His lips were pulled into a wide smile as he beamed down at you, drowning in adoration. Sure, it was slightly out of focus and tad bit blurry. But it perfectly illustrated the way you and Bucky felt about each other. The way you cared for each other. Cherished each other. 

Bucky traced the corners of the photo with his fingers, “I never knew where this thing ended up. I’m so glad you kept it.”

“Yeah…” A hurricane of memories hit you all at once, reminding you of all the times you sought solace in that photo. It gave you the comfort Alex withheld. The strength to carry on. The hope that, one day, you’d see Bucky again. “Me too. I just hate that I had to hide it, you know?”

“Hey, how about we do this…” Bucky took your hand in his and walked you over to the fridge. He freed his hand for a moment, only long enough secure the photo to his fridge with a magnet. His hand found yours once again, and the two of you admired your polaroid’s new home.

“I can go get you a frame for it tomorrow, that way you can display it properly. And you can see it every day. But I thought this would be good for now,” he said. “You don’t have to hide it anymore.”

And for a long while, the two of you just stood there in front of the fridge. No one spoke- no one needed to. Bucky freed his hand from yours and opted instead to wrap his arm around your shoulders, just as he’d done in the photo. 

The weight of this moment would’ve shocked a stranger. To anyone else, a blurry photo on a fridge wouldn’t require this much admiration. This much reverence. But to you, this was everything. Six months ago- even a week ago- you never would’ve thought this was possible. You never would’ve thought you’d be here, in Bucky’s apartment, with your favorite photo proudly displayed for all to see. A familiar stinging sensation warned you of the oncoming tears, but you didn’t make an effort to stop them. 

If a genie offered you one wish, you’d wish to go back in time. You’d want to warn your past-self of the slippery slope of Alex’s manipulation. Of the pain and suffering and heartache he caused. Of the way you lost out on a year with your most cherished friend. But with no genie in sight, you opted to simply live better. Love better. And be honest with people- with Bucky.

“Hey, by the way,” you broke the silence. “I wanted to talk to you about something Alex said to me earlier…” It was a miracle the words even came; you were too nervous to even breath. “I just think I should set the record straight and-”

Bucky held up a hand, silencing you. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to say anything,” Bucky assured you. “I know he’s just an insecure guy who was feeling threatened, or whatever. I’m not gonna hold you to anything he said.”

You took a step back, freeing yourself from Bucky’s embrace. You needed the space, the distance. If you were going to be honest with him, you needed a clear head. And being so close to him was enough to make you drunk.

“That’s not what I was gonna say.” You paced back and forth a little before almost shouting, “I was gonna say that he was right- I am in love with you. And I have been for a long time.”

A loaded silence sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. No one spoke, no one even moved.

Bucky felt his skin burst into flames. He feared his heart might explode. For so long, the only feeling he’d known was sorrow. Grief. Missing you became his constant state of being. But now, here you were. And you were saying things- things he’d always wanted to hear. Part of him wondered if this was some kind of very long, very detailed dream. But no, this was real. You were right there in from of him, baring your soul and confessing your love. 

“That’s…” he took a deep breath, “that’s not at all what I expected you to say.”

The seconds crept by until they became a minute. Two minutes. Three. But Bucky didn’t say anything else. He let his simple response hang in the air without elaboration. And just like that, your hope imploded. Four minutes of quiet past. And just when the fifth grew close, Bucky finally spoke.

“I bet you don’t know the backstory of that picture.”

A quizzical look pulled at your features. Frustrated hardened your voice. “Buck, I just told you that I’m in love with you, this is not the time to talk about backstory.”

Bucky just shook his head, “come on, humor me, doll.” He shrugged, waiting for you to tell him the story.

“Okay, I mean, I was literally there, so I do know the back story,” you huffed. “It was after Sam’s birthday party. Everyone else had left except for us, Sam, and Nat. We were all goofing around at like, three in the morning or something. And Nat took the picture.” You gave him an expectant look, “there you go. Backstory.”

Bucky made a dissatisfied sound but couldn’t fight the shit-eating grin creeping through his serious exterior. “Hmm, not Quite.”

“What? That is the story, what are you-”

“Technically, yes, that is the story,” the conceded. “But it’s not the full story.”

An irritated sigh left your chest, “okay, fine. What’s the ‘full story’?” You’d never been this frustrated with Bucky before. Never felt this much annoyance toward him; you didn’t like it. He was being difficult on purpose, and clearly enjoying it.

“Well, it was after Sam’s birthday party. And it was only the four of us there, like you said. But…” he began, “After Nat took the picture, she dragged you into the kitchen so you two could take shots. And once you were out of earshot, Sam kinda shoved my shoulder.”

“Okay…”

“And he said I just needed to marry you already.”

Your heart stopped.  “I told him- I swore we were just friends,” Bucky laughed at the preposterous lie. “I told him things with us were strictly platonic. And Sam laughed in my face. He said- and this is a direct quote- ‘platonic my ass. You’re in love with her. If you two aren’t together one year from now, I’ll give you five hundred bucks.’”

He paused, trapping you in suspense. 

“And he was right,” Bucky said. “I was in love you- I am in love with you. I always have been.”

Thousands of thoughts crowded your already overwhelmed mind. Words refuse to string themselves together properly. Thoughts collided with each other and turned into messy, jumbled piles. Somewhere within you, a sense of urgency erupted. Something told you to act- act right now. Don’t give Bucky the time to take it back. Don’t give him the opportunity to say, “never mind”. 

But what were you supposed to say to that? It wasn’t what you’d expected- you hadn’t even let yourself hope for something like this. And now that your ideal scenario was playing out of front of you, you were completely and utterly unprepared.

A few clunky sounds fell out of your mouth; they didn’t even resemble an actual word. You thought it was maybe a combination of “wow” and “cool”- mixed with a healthy dose of unintelligible mumbling. It wasn’t like the smooth, well-crafted delivery that Bucky displayed. Your cheeks burned with humiliation as Bucky stared at you, awaiting your response. 

Everything in you wished you were cooler. Smoother. Less embarrassing. On rare occasions, you let yourself imagine what this moment might be like. And in your head, you always handled it with poise. With grace. In your daydreams, there wasn’t any awkward mumbling or charged silence. Instead, you and Bucky would fall together seamlessly after confessing your love in perfect, poetic sonnets.

This was not that. 

But this was better. Because it was real. Because the Bucky Barnes was standing in front of you, telling you that he loved you. 

Finally, you found your words. 

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear.” 

Bucky’s chest deflated with a deep sigh of relief. Because even though you’d professed your love for him only moments ago, your long silence forced his anxiety into overdrive. What if you were just making a weird joke? What if he’d taken it too seriously? 

But the way you wrapped your body around his confirmed that, yes, you did mean it. You did love him. 

“And hey,” Bucky wriggled free of your arms and took your face in his hands. He needed to make direct eye contact, needed you to know he was serious. “I know what you- I know some of what you went through over the last year. I know you have a lot to process. So, there’s no rush.”

And while it was sweet and thoughtful and kind of Bucky to say such a thing, you weren’t sure if it was true. Because there was a rush, wasn’t there? There was a time limit. A ticking clock. You couldn’t make him table his feelings for you even longer. Couldn’t make him wait. And if you did tell him to press pause, weren’t his feelings going to expire? Weren’t they going to run out? You needed to capitalize on his affections for you now before it was too late. 

But before you could lie through your teeth and tell Bucky you didn’t need to wait, he spoke.

“If you ever want to pursue things with me, I’ll be here,” he promised. “My feelings for you aren’t going anywhere. I’ve waited years for this, I can wait as long as you need.”

But that was just it. He’d waited years- making him wait any longer would be cruel, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it be unfair, especially now that he’d rescued you from your volatile relationship? 

It wasn’t that you wanted to delay a romantic relationship with Bucky. No, you wanted it now. The only issue was the heavy toll your ex took on you. You were littered with emotional wounds that were barely beginning to heal. Your anxiety was at an all-time high. And your trust issues reared their ugly heads. This wasn’t the version of you that Bucky deserved. He didn’t deserve the broken-down, mentally unwell shell of a woman that stood before him. And you owed it to yourself to rebuild.

The long silence brought on by your introspection set Bucky on edge. Maybe he really did misread the situation. Maybe you loved him but didn’t want to actually be with him. Maybe he overstepped. 

“And if you never want to pursue anything romantic with me, I’ll understand,” he said. “There won’t be any hard feelings. I’ll always be here for you, whether it’s as a friend or-”

“Shut up.”

Your lips melted against his. Your fingers weaved into his hair and pulled him close. His hands gripped you at the waist and pulled you flush against his body. Everything quieted. the noise from the city, your residual anxiety- it all faded. All that remained was Bucky. His hands, his lips, his stubble scratching against your skin. 

It was odd, getting everything you’d ever wanted. Never did you think this was possible- you didn’t even consider it. You resigned yourself to a life of unhappiness and heartache and longing. You assumed you’d die without ever truly knowing what true love felt like. But you felt it now; it felt like Bucky. 

No part of you wanted to pull away, but you had to. You had to set the record straight. Suddenly, your lips vanished from Bucky’s. He instantly frowned. 

“You didn’t seriously think that I was gonna tell you I’m in love with you and then not pursue a relationship with you, did you?” You threw a dramatic scoff his way, “Are you crazy?” 

“Hey, I don’t know!” Bucky laughed. “I guess what I meant is… I understand. And I just wanted you to know that there’s no pressure. I don’t ever want you to be uncomfortable.”

Once again, your lips found Bucky’s. This was his preferred way of existing now. Any moment spent without your lips on his seemed like a waste.

“I just need some time,” you said, breaking the kiss again. “I promise it won’t be long- I swear. I want to be with you more than anything. I just have some stuff to work through first.”

Bucky ran a hand over your hair. Your shoulder. Your forearm. Finally, he laced his fingers with yours like he had a million times before. But it felt different now. More permanent.

“Of course, sweetheart. You take as long as you need. I’m not worried about the time.”

An exaggerated grimace pulled at your features, and a joking air spilled into your speech. “Oh, good. Cause if I’m remembering correctly, Sam’s birthday party was September twenty-fourth of last year. And today is September twenty-ninth. So, I made you miss the one-year mark by five days, which means he’s not gonna pay up.”

Bucky’s laugh boomed through the small apartment. It bounced off every all, surrounding you with your favorite sound. 

“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Bucky finally said when he caught his breath. “But I’m not worried about it.” His bright smile and joking tone fell away, stripping his words bare. He grew gravely serious. “I’m just glad you’re here,” he said. The authenticity almost scared you. “I’m so happy to have you back where you belong.”

He enveloped you in a long, deep kiss that stole your breath. Only two days ago, you were a rain-soaked, broken-hearted mess. The world was bleak. Cold. Empty. You swore you didn’t see the sun the entire time you were with Alex. But now, the warmth of Bucky’s kindness and warmth perfused everything with bright, vibrant colors. The storm clouds finally parted, revealing the most beautiful, golden daylight. 

And after everything, Bucky was finally yours. 

But he always was. 

Everything you’d been through, all the pain and suffering and misery, brought you to this moment. And you couldn’t think of anything that could ever pull your attention from the way Bucky’s lips felt against hers. 

But something stole your focus.

A strange sound came from your phone- you swore it sound like a ‘cha-ching’. The two of you parted for a moment, allowing you to investigate. 

“Was that- I think that was a Venmo notification…” you said. “But I didn’t-” You pulled your phone from your back pocket and glanced at your screen, only to find the one name you never wanted to see again. Alongside that name, though, was a number- a large number.

“Alex just sent me three thousand dollars.” You narrowed your eyes at Bucky, “Did you do this?”

Bucky’s head fell back in a devious, almost maniacal laugh. “Baby, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

-------------------------------------------

@beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @onewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl @purpleshallot @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @seitmai @itvy5601 @dailyreverie @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine @evangeliamerryll @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky @hereforbuckyandsteve @barnesselo @juvellian @samanthacookieone @frombkjar @blackbirdsinatrenchcoat

(I don't know what the fuck is going on with my tags, they dont work apparently)

[moonlight-alexia]

just keep swimming | k.m./c.f.

katie mccabe x caitlin foord x child!reader | 2.3k | you meet your little sister for the first time + you give your little sister her nickname

ˏˋ°•*⁀ i hope you all like it! and i hope you like the nickname and i didn't overhype it or anything! starfish has her sister now <3

any and all feedback, comments, reblogs etc are very appreciated and welcome <3

‘Do you want to meet your baby sister?’ Your mammy knelt down in front of the seat you were sitting in. A big, soft smile that hadn’t left Katie’s face since the arrival of your little sister.

Steph and Beth had brought you to the hospital, after Katie told them everything had gone well and that it would be a good time to bring you to meet your new baby sister. Your little sister decided she wanted to make her entrance a bit earlier than expected, not too early but enough that it was still a surprise for your mums. The last 48 hours had felt like a blur to everyone involved.

For Katie, trying to make sure Caitlin was well looked after, while trying to stay composed and calm herself even though she was panicking on the inside. It had been organised well in advance that Steph and Beth would be on call to look after you so they would have one less thing to worry about while at the actual hospital. 

But for Steph and Beth, that 3am call, the rush to throw clothes together and seem put together enough to come get you, the two of them were also running on the pure adrenaline of the situation.

And for you, one moment you were deep asleep and the next your mammy was waking you, as gently as she could and you were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes while Beth held you and you watched your mums drive away. Your mums had prepared you for this moment that would be happening soon, but it was still a shock and being half asleep you were slightly confused at what was happening, until the next day when you were more awake.

On paper everything was planned perfectly, but in the moment it was hard for everyone to not rush around and panic slightly. But everything went well, there were no complications with your little sister and your mums were both relieved that everything went as smoothly as it could. 

Your little sister, the youngest and newest member of your little family, was finally earthside and you couldn’t wait to meet her. In this moment, everything felt still, a big contrast to how the last 24 hours played out like a whirlwind, and a contrast to how everything was about to be while your mums, and you, adjusted to this new addition. 

You put aside the crayon you had in your hand, drawing another picture for your baby sister, even if mammy told you she wouldn’t be old enough to understand, one day she would be and you’d have drawn, or tried to draw, all the important moments before she was here. There was one of Peach that had made Caitlin tear up a bit, you really didn’t miss a thing. 

Steph took your drawing and safely put it in your bag, not before looking at it and smiling, you’d drawn everyone around your little sister, bunch of rainbows, starfish and anything else that made you happy. A way to tell that in this moment you were really happy and excited about the arrival of your little sister. 

You nodded slowly to your mammy’s question. You didn’t really talk but it was to be expected, there had been a lot going on in such a short amount of time and you saw the way your mammy’s eyes were tired, the way her voice was a lot softer, you chose to be quieter.

Grabbing onto your mammy’s hand she slowly helped you from your seat, she said a little thank you to Steph and Beth who’d looked after you and stayed in the waiting room til Katie came and got you. Caitlin and Katie were lucky to have the people in their lives that they did, they’ve never felt the ‘it takes a village’ as much as they have until right now.

Caitlin was focused on the tiny baby that was bundled in her arms but the moment the door to the room creaked open her eyes flicked up towards you. Your mummy’s eyes lit up at the sight of you, with that same soft, but tired, smile your mammy had earlier. You were half hiding behind your mammy, walking a little slower, you were a little nervous. Nervous, because now it was real, in your mummy’s arms was your little sister. 

She was just, ‘in your mummy’s belly’, something you’d have to use your imagination and the ultrasound pictures to ‘see’ her. You couldn’t see her yet but just the bundle your mum was clearly holding, she was here, right in front of you.

‘Starfish,’ Your mum’s voice was soft, but enough for the quietness of the room, ‘Come here,’ There was a small you size space on the bed next to your mum. Katie helped you gently get up and sit next to Caitlin, ‘This is your baby sister,’

Gently holding onto the top of Caitlin’s arm, you leaned up a little to peer over. Your mum gently peeled the blanket back, showing a bit more of your new little sister. Saying she was so small felt like an understatement. You didn’t know what to expect, you’d met the other babies when they were a few weeks to months older, you didn’t know new babies were so tiny. 

Granted your little sister was on the smaller side, quite small for a newborn that the doctors and nurses had to double check your mum wasn’t having her too early. Everything was above board, Katie even made a comment when it was just her and Caitlin that you weren’t ever this small. 

Her nose was like a little button, you wanted to poke it a little to see if it felt like pushing a button since that’s how it looked, but you held yourself back. You’d heard enough about how fragile babies can be. If you were quiet enough and really listened you could hear her small, tiny breaths. She was real, she was here right in front of you. You just leaned against your mum, a little smile on your lips while you watched your baby sister.

Katie sat in the chair next to the bed, watching your interaction closely. Sure you’d been really receptive to the idea of a little sister, but when you actually saw her you might’ve thought differently. Though, watching you now, Katie knew she had nothing to be worried about. The way your eyes shined so bright towards the little baby, it reminded Katie of how it felt when she was little, like you, meeting her younger siblings for the first time. 

‘She’s so cute,’ You let out a small laugh when your little sister let out a tiny sneeze, scrunching up her whole face. Almost instantly, as if it was the sound of your voice being familiar from all the times you spent talking to her when she was in your mum’s stomach, your little sister wriggled an arm free and lifted it a little as if she was searching for something. As if she was searching for you.

‘She remembers you. You’re already a favourite,’ Your mum whispered to you, making you beam even more.

‘I’m gonna be her favourite forever,’ A promise you’d make sure of, you already love your little sister and that would never waiver.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Katie and Caitlin had been told multiple times, they were very aware, that adjusting to life having two kids to look after would be difficult. Everyone was right. It was hard, but they were so glad to have you and your little sister. It was, a baby needs so much attention and time and there were moments they almost forgot to make sure they were taking care of your needs and wants too.

You were such a good and easy kid, so observant and emotionally intelligent for your age, that in a way it was easy for you to get lost in the background. Your mammy’s loudness that you inherited made sure that was never the case though. Your mums weren’t perfect, but they made sure you were never, mentally or emotionally lost in the background. 

Your mums made sure you were really involved in everything you could be when it came to your little sister. They let you feed her bottles, you were so careful in holding her so you got to have lots of cuddles. They made sure to have the time, one on one with them as well, even if it was just sitting on their bed while they’d fold laundry and you’d tell them any new fact you’d learnt recently.

In short, they made sure you had enough and more. They made sure you didn’t feel any kind of neglect. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t always perfect, but after what felt like a very long six months to your mums, the bumps had started to smooth and your little family was functioning as perfectly as could be expected.

Even your mums teammates never let you feel left out. They’d come over to meet the baby, but they’d still also do something with you. Kyra came over and convinced your mums to let the two of you, alone, go get some ice cream. Alessia bought you a new football and kicked around with you in the backyard, helping Katie and Caitlin out by getting you to burn energy, but you managed to nutmeg Alessia and that made your day and was the topic at the next training you’d gone to with Steph when you said you had missed going to training.

Grace sat down with you and coloured when she visited. Your mums let you stay up really late when Mackenzie and Alanna came so you could have a movie night, just the three of you, though they had to promise to look after you when you were tired and grumpy the next day. Everyone let you know that you were just as important as a new baby. No one lets you feel forgotten or left out.

Even though things are easier now, you are still kind of struggling to grasp the concept that your sister was still too small for some things. Katie wasn’t far from where you and your sister were, she could still see you both while she took the time to do some of the things both her and Caitlin had been neglecting around the house. Your sister was settling on the verge of taking a nap, and you were playing close by. You never really strayed far from your sister, you liked the company. You’d often talk to her, so much that she’d started to make sounds that were slowly resembling some of the words you were saying.

Lately you’d started taking more of an interest in actually playing football. Going to some mini sessions for kids your age. You were learning so much and you just wanted to be able to teach your sister. You had some mini footballs laying around and the next time Katie looked over towards the two of you, your sister suddenly had three footballs surrounding her.

She slowly made her way over, ‘Mammy she won’t play,’ you huffed and frowned. Katie smiled small, crouching down next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

‘She’s a bit too small to play football sweetheart,’ You didn’t like that answer, suddenly wanting to fast forward time until she could play football with you, ‘But there are lots of things you can still do together,’ Now you were sitting in your mammy’s lap while she brushed some of your stray baby hairs out of your face, ‘How about a movie?’

You nodded your head enthusiastically at your mammy’s suggestion. She helped set the two of you up. Your mammy made a little spot for your sister out of blankets rolled so your sister was supported even on the couch. You were next to her, wrapped up in your own blankets and your mammy had given you a little fruit platter.

‘Finding nemo mammy!’ Ever since Caitlin showed you the movie you’d been obsessed. Katie didn’t know how much longer she could listen to this movie, but anything for you. Neither of your mums were prepared for the future of having to hear you and your sister fight over what movie you were going to watch.

‘Who’s your favourite?’ Your mammy slipped in beside you mid way through the movie, pulling you onto her lap, stealing some of your fruit while she was at it.

‘Hmm,’ Deep in thought because how could you ever choose a favourite from a movie full of sea creatures? ‘I think Nemo,’ 

You leaned back against your mammy, keeping an eye on your sister and fully discarding your snacks, ‘What do you like about Nemo?’ 

‘Nemo’s small, looks a bit squishy and — and tough,’ Katie laughed a little when you put up your arm, flexing a little when you said tough. 

‘That kind of reminds me of someone we know,’ Your eyebrows scrunched together a little and you looked up at your mammy. Her eyes flickered over towards your little sister, your eyes lit up.

You moved from your mammy’s lap, over towards your sister. Your little hand reached out and rested against the side of her face, ‘Nemo, tiny but tough,’ You said it softly, like it was only meant for the space between you and your sister and no one else, ‘I’m your big sister, I’ll help you keep swimming while you grow,’ Katie smiled, you were going to be the best big sister without a doubt.

Your little sister babbled happily when you spoke to her, her little fingers wrapping around yours that were against her face, it felt like there was an understanding between you both, ‘I love you, Nemo,’

[floralblur]

𝔇𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰 ★

you call jinx at 3am and she picks up, so you give her some . . . stress relief.

nsfw 🩶 wc 2.1k

It was a boring late night for you, and it seemed to be part of your daily routine to keep ruining your sleep schedule. Your body knew that when it struck three in the morning with nothing to do, you could drink cold water or stare at the ceiling trying to materialise something to at least make the time worthwhile. There’s no way you could fall asleep right now. Tonight, you come up with something new that’ll make your time awake worthwhile, clicking open your phone and scrolling through the contacts, until you land on one. “Jinx. ♡”

Your eyes lock into place on her name, twiddling your thumbs and biting your lip in bed, battling whether to call at such an hour. ”Would she even be awake? What if I’m waking her up?” You were hesitant, but the utter boredom and loneliness compelled you to at least try. So you click her number and call, almost wincing at your confidence, but you shouldn’t really trust any of your actions at three in the morning. It’s a known fact. You hold the phone up to your ear, hearing one ring, two and then a third. Right before the fourth ring, you hear a click on the other end of the line and a quick “Hello? You there?”

She sounds tired, clearly from working late (no matter how many times you plead with her to rest) and a raspy voice like a Marlboro Red pack was a few cigarettes down. You indulged the sound of it though, taking in every breath and word her mic could pick up. In the background, you can hear the spam clicking of a computer mouse, and a clatter from her glasses probably falling off her head again. You laugh at her clumsiness and finally respond after a few seconds of auditory observation, if that’s what you could call it. “Yeah, I’m here. But you sound busy, what’re you working on so late?” She coughs a few times, quite suspiciously, but maybe the lack of rest is making you question her actions unnecessarily. “I mean… I can show you if you want? But we’ll have to switch to video.” Unashamedly, you grin like a new holiday has been founded, just at the chance to see her face in front of you on your little screen. “Okay… let’s do that.” Your attempt at nonchalance is futile, because your finger already sped to the button, awaiting to see her.

And it’s so worth the wait. There’s a little movement as she props her phone up against the mirror at her desk, all cluttered with wires and metal, riddling the space around her like a shell. Her hair is more of a mullet/shag style now, with streaks of pink through the blue poking out from underneath, tucked behind her ears with a few strands falling to the front just right. You were astute in pointing out her fatigue, as her wide pink eyes blink slower, dark circles forming under them, running her hands through her hair. She starts showing you the projects she’s been working on, but all you’re focused on are her fingers, thinking about what they felt like inside you, in your mouth, pulling your hair. You still listen lovingly and attentively, trying to ask questions about things you don’t understand (the entire project to be honest). Sometimes you wonder if she’s just too good for you. As she leans her head on the back of the chair, you can tell that she’s man-spreading trom her posture, and your mind is only fuelling with more ideas.

If you were any closer to her place, you’d teleport to her at that very moment, giving her the stress relief she clearly needs, straddling her lap while you kiss her with your hands roaming her body. “Glad you’re happy to see me,” Jinx says, as she leans close to the screen to look at you through the lens, catching you in the act while you subtly adjust yourself. You can’t stop yourself from smiling just by looking at her face, her small pouts and the way she shuffles her glasses around her face when she clearly needs another pair. “I’m always happy to see you,” you respond quietly, even though you’re not embarrassed. You prop your phone up on another pillow as you lean on your side above the covers to give her a better view of you. She doesn’t try to hide the way she’s drinking up the view of your body, stopping at the parts she likes. “You’re such a perv, you know that right?” you tease. You’re also a hypocrite. Don’t we all have faults?

She laughs in response and mockingly raises her hands next to her head whispering “Guilty.” She rubs her lips with a finger, her eyes darting around the room above her phone, but you’re just too selfish and crave her attention. What you didn’t know was that she was scanning pictures that riddled the walls of her hideout, pictures of you, all in clusters at the corners of her mirror. Pictures from when you’d be together in person, her favourites being polaroids of you with little to no clothes on, her hands sneaking under your shirt, your skirt, any part of your skin she could get her hands on right before she clicked the shutter. All her treasures of you were kept incredibly safe, with the ones on display cherry-picked by her to look at. That’s if you want to believe all she’d do is look at them.

She’d collected a few more for her personal collection, getting some pictures while you’d be out, in those sundresses she loves on you—but off as well. Almost always lingering just around the corner to make sure you’re safe, like an angry bodyguard, because she’d do anything to protect the one she loves. And now, at three in the morning, her eyes practically light up remembering some of the thoughts she’d had while looking at them, grinding herself to oblivion just thinking about them, whispering your name over and over. All you could see was her looking around and back at you with a growing smile, with a trace of lust. But again, maybe you were imagining things for your own sick benefit.

She leaned back into her seat again, tentatively asking “Whatcha wearin’?” now with the nail of her middle finger in her mouth. You blush at the realisation you weren’t overthinking the feelings in the air, bringing the phone closer to your body for her to get a close look. “So fuckin’ hot…” you hear her mutter under her breath, stirring you on to draw her out as long as you could. Starting at the top with a plain vest, you push the phone along to your torso, with your other hand moving down over one of your breasts. Jinx inhales sharply, biting her lower lip with more force. “You wanna see more?” you tease, met with frantic blinks and nods to see you. Your hand trails on down to your waist, fingers dipping in and out of the waistband of your underwear, lifting them and releasing to make a ‘snap’ on your skin, moaning just loud enough she could hear you. You could tell Jinx was enjoying the spectacle, looking wide awake now, staring as if she’d get x-ray vision or undress you through the screen, her breath stilted as if she hadn’t been fed in a while, or as if she’d been running. Of course, the reality was her rubbing her thighs together, trying to feel herself through her clothes, the thought of you getting her off already. But she desperately didn’t want to be the only one to suffer. “Fuck, you look so good,” she breathes out, as you readjust your camera to show your face, blushing profusely.

“Did you… miss me?” Jinx asks, with a little more sensitivity in her voice, although her heart rate was still picking up pace, and a growing throb to attend to. You turn to lie on your front while avoiding looking at her, “I missed you so much, it was kinda embarrassing…” giggling at how much you thought of her all day, every day. “Can you… show me?” At this, your head quickly turns back to look at her, she’s practically reinvigorated with energy, one hand in her hair grabbing it in a fistful, and the other down under. You knew what she meant, but also you didn’t, and wanted her to clarify. Just to hear her say it and beg you for it. “Show you what honey?” You grin to yourself as she whimpers in frustration like a lost puppy, trying to figure out the words to say. “Cmon, you can use your words with me.” You can see every piece of reassurance pushing her over the edge, her eyes blinking shut and her whines becoming a little louder. ”Fuck… you know what I want,” but you don’t give in and simply shake your head as if puzzled.

“Show me how bad you… missed me. I know you wanna…” Jinx’s sentence trails off into unintelligible moans and inhales, whispering your name and practically begging to hear your noises now. “Please baby, I wanna hear you so bad, p-please,” And for what feels like an eternity of holding back, you give in. With a condition though. “Only if you watch me the whole time. No touching yourself.” She pouts and releases a few breaths before acquiescing to your request, as she only got wetter. “Good girl, I know it was hard to use your words~” She only groaned in retaliation and kept her eyes laser focused on you.

You turn to sit on your back, drawing your fingers in and out or your mouth, making the sucking loud enough she can hear, watching her shake and breathe slowly to resist herself from grinding herself against anything. “God you sound so dirty,” Once done, you push your bottoms off in a quick motion, moving the camera closer to your underwear, so Jinx can see every detail. “I wish you were here right now to touch me,” you stroke up your thigh, and Jinx almost bites her finger off just looking at you. You move the middle part of your pants off to stroke it delicately with your slick fingers, shuddering and moaning at the feeling. Showing off your wetness to Jinx, you go “I wish you could taste me right now,” lowering your fingers and pressing two inside of you. It’s a slow, deep thrust, and Jinx practically salivates all over herself just staring, and as you draw your fingers out you can hear the squelch and it’s driving you insane. “This is all for you Jinx, all for you,” pushing your pants down so she can see you naked where she wants to. She breathes loudly, her hand wandering her body trying so hard to avoid giving in, as she moans mindlessly. You resume thrusting your fingers in and out of your pussy, getting louder and louder with each cry for Jinx, how you wished she could feel how wet you are, how much a slut you’re being.

Your heart feels like it’ll explode out of your chest, bringing yourself to the edge of an orgasm. “You’ve been so good at listening to me, so you can touch yourself now, okay?” Jinx was so excited at the lack of self restraint she didn’t hesitate to give herself the pleasure she’d been waiting for. “Baby you’re so… fuck you’re so hot when you do that,” hearing her whine your name and how badly she wants to touch you. You pick up where you left off, thrusting yourself with no remorse, your other hand digging into your skin, twisting your own nipples for the pain, eyes watering as you keep dropping in cum. You hear Jinx’s voice, “You’re so close, I know you are, just keep goin’ for me honey— fuck.. those noises, I love your moans,” as you cry and beg to cum after being on the edge for so fucking long. Jinx starts to get more high-pitched, already close to finishing, while you’re starting to get frustrated. You start moving around into different positions while fingering yourself, gasping and moaning for breath out of impatience until you start to feel the wave crashing into you. “J-jinx, holy fuck I’m gonna—” This time, there’s no time to finish speaking before a tidal wave orgasm crashes into you, parts of your body stinging from the twisting and pinching, feeling the cum dripping out of of your body, laying slack on the bed with the smell in the air. At the same time, you hear Jinx moaning loudly into her hands, biting onto it as a gag to keep her more quiet, but it’s safe to say you both got exactly what you needed.

“You were so… good,” Jinx pants from tired breath, her hair more of a mess but still beautiful anyway, as you sigh and blow a kiss back to her, mouthing “I love you” to her, both enjoying each other’s company—even if it’s not in person.

⋆˚࿔

idk how i feel about this one but thanks for all the love on “morning fun” it was so unexpected !! i wanna try more angsty things but i thought i’d throw this one together for the weekend. 🩶 i am gonna find a way to fix that header though…. Trust