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the-winter-spider · 3 months ago

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Lucky | Bucky Barnes

Bucky x Movie star!Reader

Part:2/2

Word Count: 17k

Warnings: Angst, ect

A/N: Found this in my google docs when i was looking for my layout of Yours, Always, it was supposed to be a long one shot but Tumblr wont let me post a 35k fic lol so its broken up in two parts, Its not proofreading it or edited.

First Part

Masterpost

---

Bucky leads you deeper into the party. Past tall glass windows that overlook the skyline. Past agents in sleek suits, Avengers in tailored jackets, CEOs trying too hard to blend in.

You clock it all without flinching.

But Bucky can feel the faint tension in your hand, the way your fingers flex slightly in his every few steps. Like you’re trying to stay rooted. Like this, even this, is still unfamiliar ground.

“There,” he says quietly, nodding toward a corner cluster of couches.

Steve is leaning back with a drink in his hand, laughing at something Sam just said. Sam is mid-story, animated as ever, gesturing with both hands like the fate of the world hangs in his delivery and next to them, half-listening and half-smirking, is Natasha, dressed in black, her heels kicked off and tucked under the couch, one eyebrow lifted in mild amusement.

They haven’t noticed you yet, until they do. Sam spots you first and his eyes go wide. “No,” he mouths. “No way.”

Steve follows his gaze. His expression shifts slowly, surprise, then curiosity, then something warmer. Something almost like… pride?

Natasha, she doesn’t flinch. Just leans forward, tilts her head, and narrows her eyes like she’s reading a file only she’s allowed to see.

Bucky clears his throat.

“Guys,” he says, like this is any other day. “This is Y/N.”

Sam’s already halfway on his feet. “THE Y/N?” he asks, pointing. “Like… you?” You smile politely, but something about the way he says it makes you laugh, an actual, soft laugh, slipping out before you can stop it.

“Depends which one you mean,” you say.

Sam grins. “I mean the one who ruined my life in that indie film where you died at the end.”

“Ah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I had to lie to my therapist about how much I cried.”

You laugh again. “I cried shooting it.”

Sam turns to Bucky. “Man, you didn’t say she was cool.”

Steve stands and extends a hand. “Captain Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You take it. “The pleasure’s mine. Big fan of your whole ‘punching Nazis’ arc.”

Steve chuckles. “Thanks, still working on the sequel.”

You’re all still standing in that gentle, easy circle when Natasha finally speaks.

“You’re prettier in person,” she says simply.

You blink, caught off guard. “Thank you?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Natasha replies, and smiles.

You smile back. “I like you already.”

There’s a pause and everyone laughs. Even Bucky, especially Bucky. The moment settles like it was always meant to be this way.

You’re curled into the couch now, drink in hand, laughing into the rim of your glass as Sam launches into a dramatic retelling of the time he got caught watching one of your movies on a quinjet, mid-mission.

“I swear to God, the mission brief was boring,” Sam says. “So I’m scrolling through the in-flight stuff, and boom, there you are. Staring out a rain-covered window. It was over after that.”

You grin, chin resting on your hand. “Which ones have you seen?”

“Oh, uh….The Last Goodbye,” he says, then adds immediately, “But also Glass Garden, Something in Autumn, The Moth Room, that space one, the one with the piano, what was that called?”

“Reverie,” Steve offers helpfully.

“Right! Reverie!” Sam snaps his fingers. “And Kingdom Come….And, oh, Marrow. That was dark.”

You blink. “You’ve seen all of them?”

Sam puts a hand on his chest. “Ma’am, I am emotionally invested.”

You’re still laughing when Sam says, “We actually just watched one a couple weeks ago. Me, Steve, and Buck, In The Quiet After.”

Your eyes slide to Bucky instantly, the laugh dying in your throat. “You watched it?”

Bucky clears his throat, nods. “Yeah.”

Your smile softens, eyes searching his. “What did you think?”

Bucky glances down for a second, then looks back up at you. “That you’re amazing.”

Your heart stutters behind your ribs. That word, amazing carries more weight than it should. But from him? It sounds like he means it.

Before you can say anything, Natasha leans in from the other couch, studying your lips. “What shade of red is that?” she asks casually.

You blink, caught off guard again. “Oh. Um, Monroe by Verre.”

Natasha nods, satisfied. “Figures. I use Vesper. Yours is more of a ‘kiss-me-in-the-dark-alley’ red. I like it.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Thanks.”

Steve claps his hands once, standing. “Alright, let’s get the ladies another drink.”

Bucky looks over at you, brow raised like he’s checking in, asking without words if you’re okay to be left for a minute.

Before you can answer, Natasha waves a dismissive hand. “Relax, Barnes. I’m not gonna bite her.” She leans back. “She’s safe with me. Now go, we’re thirsty.”

You nod, smiling at him, he hesitates slightly then follows Steve toward the bar.

Sam rises too, stretching. “I’m gonna go see if I can steal one of those mini food trays. The one with the prosciutto thingies. Don’t leave me out here without carbs.”

Now you’re alone with Natasha, she doesn’t say anything at first. Just sips what's left of her drink, eyes scanning the room, lashes heavy. Without looking at you she says, “You have sad eyes.”

You blink. That catches you clean in the chest. No warning, no preparation. Just the truth, dropped like a pin in the middle of a marble floor.

You turn to her, unsure what to say. But she’s already leaning in slightly, hand gentle as it lands on your knee, warm and grounding.

“I’ve worn that look,” she says. “It’s heavy. The world thinks it’s mystery. Men think it’s glamour. But really? It’s just loneliness. The kind that lingers even when you’re smiling.”

You swallow, no words come.

Natasha doesn’t press. She just sits with you in that silence like she’s been there before. Like she knows exactly how far down it goes. She says, quieter this time, “Sometimes people need to see through you to actually see you. It’s not a weakness.”

You don’t answer. But your fingers curl slightly into the hem of your dress, and for once, the tears that prick at your lashes aren’t from exhaustion. They’re from relief, someone saw you and didn’t look away.

Steve leaned against the counter, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye as the bartender slid two drinks their way.

“You like her,” he said, not accusing, more like just stating.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed across the room, on you, the way your head tilted back when you laughed at something Sam said, your hand still loosely curled around your drink.

“I care for her,” he said, voice quiet and rough. “A lot.”

Steve nodded once, like he already knew. He didn’t push.

Bucky kept watching you from where he stood, the soft curl of your smile, the way you were actually relaxed for once. The version of you no one else ever got to see. His chest ached with it, with the weight of wanting to protect something so fragile, so hidden.

Steve shifted, reaching into his blazer. “About her stalker, I know they have him but—”

Bucky turned slightly. Steve pulled out a slim folder, not thick but heavy in implication. “I’ve got the file, from when you asked before. You can take it after the party.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

Natasha approached, still barefooted and drinkless. She snatched the glass from Steve’s hand with a small smirk. “Mine,” she said, raising it toward him. Steve let it go without argument.

“I’m going to mingle,” Natasha said, glancing toward the dance floor. “Maybe scare a few billionaires.”

She turned to Bucky. “Be careful with her.”

That pulled his eyes up. “What?”

Natasha just stared. “I’m serious,” she said. “She’s about one sharp word away from crumbling.”

He bristled. “She’s stronger than you think.”

“I know she is,” Natasha replied evenly. “That’s the problem, people like her… they don’t fall apart when they should. They wait, they stack the weight until it’s too late.”

Bucky clenched his jaw.

Natasha leaned in slightly. “She’s been in survival mode so long she doesn’t know how to stop pretending. You’re the only thing I’ve seen her reach for that wasn’t scripted.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

“Relax, Barnes,” she added with a little smirk, “I’m not questioning you. I’m warning you.”

She turned, drink in hand, and disappeared into the crowd with all the quiet confidence of someone who’s seen too much. Bucky stayed there for a second. Two drinks in hand. Just… staring.

You were across the room, sitting alone now, Sam had run off for food or a drink or who knows what. Your posture was graceful, elegant even, but now that Natasha had said it, he saw it.

The quiet twitch in your fingers. The way you kept fixing the hem of your dress, then your bracelet, then the ring on your finger, all muscle memory. Nervous energy dressed up as poise.

Sam reappeared, triumphant, holding an entire tray of tiny hors d’oeuvres like he’d just won a war. Your face lit up, really lit up. Like a kid, like a person, like someone who has been told “no” for a long time and forgot what “yes” felt like.

You laughed when he offered you one with an exaggerated bow. Then you actually ate it, it was the first real bite of food you’d had in days, you reached for another and Bucky just stood there. Watching you come alive in real time.

Steve slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, nodding toward the couches. “Before you stare a hole through her.”

Steve was halfway through a story about how Bucky once punched a guy twice his size for stealing a kid’s lunch money, and Bucky, deadpan, fired back with a story about Steve getting his ass handed to him by a twelve-year-old with a skipping rope.

You’d laughed so hard you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. You were still laughing when it hit you, hard, the realization of it all.

It happened so quickly, most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Bucky did, he watched your smile falter just slightly. Your eyes didn’t crinkle the same way.

You glanced around the couches, at Steve and Sam, then the whole room. The warmth between them all, the way they moved like puzzle pieces that had already figured out where they belonged.

Family and friendship. Years of love and memory and stupid inside jokes and unspoken glances.

You had none of that. No one who remembered your birthday without a calendar invite. No one who knew what your laugh sounded like when you weren’t acting. No one who would talk about the time you stayed up all night building a pillow fort or snuck out to see a concert. You didn’t have stories like that because you hadn’t had a life like that,

Your whole face dropped. Not dramatically, quietly. Like the light inside you dimmed just enough for Bucky to feel it like a punch to the ribs. He swallowed. Something twisted behind his breastbone.

He didn’t want to see your face fall ever again, not like that. Not when you’d only just started to smile for real. He cleared his throat. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood, turned to you and did something he hadn’t done since the 1940s, since before.

“Dance with me.”

Steve’s glass paused halfway to his mouth, slowly, a grin stretched across his face, wide and warm, like he’d just watched a ghost come back to life.

“Really?” You blinked. "You wanna dance with….me?”

Bucky nodded, his voice was softer this time, low so only you could hear it. “You’re the only one I wanna dance with.””

Your expression broke into something unguarded, pure surprise wrapped in soft disbelief. You took his hand, his fingers curled around yours with so much care it made your chest ache.

He led you gently toward the open space near the center of the room, a place where the music swelled just loud enough to pull you both into something quieter.

You moved close, almost chest to chest. Muscle memory took over, he spun you once, your laugh trailing behind like stardust and pulled you back in with a grace he didn’t know he still had.

Bucky, he was smiling. Not the crooked half-lift he usually gave when he was amused or tolerating someone.

Sam stood there watching, eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that.”

Steve’s voice was soft. “In all the years I’ve known him… I’ve never seen that smile.”

The song changed, slower now more tender. But neither of you stepped away. You stayed in his arms, swaying like the world didn’t exist.

Your voice came barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”

His eyes glanced down at you. “It doesn’t have to, y’know.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

Bucky’s hands slid gently around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Then stay in it, with me.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. It was all in the way you looked at him like maybe you were starting to believe happiness wasn’t something made up for movies.

The night blurred at the edges, dulled by warm drinks, real laughter, and a little too much Asgardian liquor. Your hand was in his, fingers laced, and you stumbled a little in your heels when you reached the hallway. Bucky caught you without thinking, steady hands at your waist like it was instinct.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice low, thick with mischief.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? About what?”

“Your lips.”

That threw him. “My… lips?”

You nodded, smiling, drunk on wine and happiness. “I’m gonna kiss them.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, just stood there, caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation.

Your hands slid up to the back of his neck, soft and sure, and then you leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his, warm and slow and a little clumsy but real. His hands rose instinctively to your face, palms bracketing your jaw like you might disappear. He kissed you back like he was afraid to break whatever spell this was.

When you pulled away, your smile was quiet, a little dazed.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” you whispered, voice light. “Before I do something really embarrassing.”

He didn’t tease. Just opened the door to his room and nodded toward the bed. “Get some rest.”

You nodded too, suddenly shy, and padded inside, kicking off your heels. You curled onto his bed like you’d been there a hundred times, back to him, arm tucked under your cheek. You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t have to.

He didn’t watch you sleep.

He sat on the couch instead, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for the file waiting on the coffee table. The moment was still in his mouth, soft and slow and lingering, but the words on the page stole the warmth from his chest.

Elias Corrin.

He turned the page.

A series of disturbing notes, scrawled handwriting. Photos, too close, too focused. Mailroom logs. Security reports. Mental health history flagged. Prior arrests. Declared unstable. Released on condition of monitored care, care that clearly didn’t happen. A restraining order ignored. GPS trackers found on two former assistants. One note, timestamped just last week: If I can’t have her, no one will.

Bucky exhaled, slow through his nose. They said they caught him, they swore he was in custody.

But something about it didn’t sit right. Not with that last message. Not with how your shoulders still tensed when you thought no one was looking. He closed the file, thumb brushing the corner of the last page.

He looked over at you, asleep in his bed, curled into yourself like a secret and felt something quiet and sharp settle behind his ribs.

If he’d let himself believe in promises, he would’ve made one right then. Instead, he just stayed awake and kept watch.

You woke up disoriented. For a second, you thought you were home. The sheets were warm, soft. The light filtering in was gentle, not sharp like it usually was.

Your eyes caught the unfamiliar ceiling. The heavier weight of the comforter. The sound of someone breathing, slow, steady.

You sat up, blinking. There he was.

Bucky, slouched on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm tossed over the back. His metal hand was relaxed for once, not clenched like it usually was. His face was soft. Peaceful in a way you didn’t think he knew how to be, just like that, it all came rushing back, the party, the dancing, the kiss, the way you laughed like you weren’t scared of anything.

You reached for your purse and fished out your phone. It was a warzone. Dozens of missed calls, texts, emails. All from your team.

Some angry, some cruel.

Where the fuck are you.

Do you have any idea what you’ve done.

We protect you and this is how you repay us?

You think being seen with him is going to help your image?

God, you're such a dumb bitch.

Your chest tightened, not wanting to read the rest. You locked the screen and put the phone down like it might catch fire. Your fingers itched, and before you could stop yourself, you opened your browser. Typed your name.

Nothing.

No headlines, no photos, no video clips or shaky footage from partygoers. The Tower was clean, you knew it would be, but you still had a little part of you that didn’t trust it. You exhaled, the breath caught halfway up your throat.

You slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom. The makeup was still there. Smudged eyeliner, faded lipstick, glitter, clinging to your cheekbones. You leaned over the sink and turned the faucet on, cupping water in your hands and scrubbing everything away.

When you looked up at your reflection, there you were. No filters, no lashes, no red carpet armor. You left the bathroom and opened one of Bucky’s drawers. Took a pair of sweatpants that looked like they could fit two of you and a soft, worn t-shirt that smelled like him. You rolled the waistband twice and tied the drawstring tight, brushed your hair back with your fingers, and walked barefoot into the living room.

He stirred on the couch, blinking slowly.

When he looked up and saw you, no makeup, messy hair, standing in his clothes like it wasn’t the most vulnerable thing you could’ve done.

You held his gaze. “I gotta go home,” you said softly. “I’m in trouble.”

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You wanna eat first?”

You hesitated, nodded. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, Steve was flipping pancakes. Sam was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee straight from the mug. They looked up when you walked in.

You in Bucky’s shirt, sleeves past your hands. His sweatpants dragging a little at your ankles.

They both paused, didn’t say anything. Bucky followed close behind and shot them a look, sharp, silent, don’t start.

Steve smiled anyway, all soft and casual. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You slid onto a stool at the island, tucking your legs underneath you. “I don’t remember the last time I had breakfast that smelled this good,” you said quietly. You didn’t say it for sympathy. It was just true.

Steve plated pancakes, eggs, bacon. Sam pushed a glass of orange juice your way. No one made a big deal about anything. They just… let it be normal. It felt strange and kind of perfect.

After a while, after the food and the small talk and the brief moment where you forgot what waited outside, you stood, napkin in hand.

“Thank you,” you said to Steve, sincere. “For the food and….just everything.”

Steve just nodded. “Anytime.”

Bucky grabbed his keys. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you home.”

When you got back to your house, they were already inside. Not waiting, just there like always, like they never left. The moment the door clicked shut, the noise started.

“You disappeared.”

“You embarrassed us.”

“You know how hard we work to protect your image? And that's how you treat us?! Like garbage?”

“I’ll tell you who's garbage!”

Bucky stood just inside the entryway, jaw tight, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word.

“You don’t answer your phone for one night and we have to put out ten fires.”

“You think people won’t talk?”

“Stupid girl.”

Gina steps forward, “Enough,” she said, voice sharp. “We’ll talk about this later. In private.”

They backed off immediately, like soldiers hearing a command. Not because they respected her. But because who else was in the room with them, Bucky.

Brett handed you a clipboard, like a weapon. “New schedule.”

You glanced at it, top to bottom, packed. Your eyes hit one line. Bold.

Nude Scene — 3 Weeks.

Clipped to the back: a single sheet.

Diet Breakdown. Daily Intake. Weight Targets.

You didn’t blink. Just nodded and held the papers at your side like they didn’t burn your skin.

“Phone,” Gina said.

You pulled it from your pocket, handing it over.

Just like that they were gone, moved to the kitchen, already fighting about something else. The second the door shut behind them, Bucky looked at you.

“Why do you let them treat you like that?”

You didn’t answer right away. “It’s easier,” you said finally. “If I push back, it just gets louder.”

He stepped a little closer. “You said you didn’t want to do that scene.”

“I say a lot of things,” you muttered, eyes still on the floor. “Doesn’t mean it matters.”

He frowned. “You don’t get to say no?”

Your laugh was soft and dry, “There are a lot of things I don’t want to do,” you said. “That doesn’t mean I get a choice.”

You didn’t tell him what you gave up to be at the Tower last night. That one night of normal, dancing, pancakes, his hands on your waist, it had a cost. You made peace with it already.

“Might as well suck it up,” you added. “Right? Give the people something they apparently can’t live without, my body.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he didn’t know whether to hug you or break a wall.

The door creaked open again. Leah stuck her head in. “Barnes. You can go, we don’t need you anymore today.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded, offered him a small smile the kind of nod you give when there’s no fight left in you.

“I’ll text you,” you said.

He nodded too, he hated that he did, he hated leaving you here. He turned for the door. Leah, behind him, smirked just a little. “No, she won’t.” and then she shut the door in his face.

---

The next day, you were on set, sort of.

It wasn’t a full shoot, just screen testing. Wardrobe, lighting, a camera rigged to capture how you looked under three different kinds of studio sun.

You sat in a folding chair in the corner, hair pinned up, silk robe over a vintage slip dress, drinking lukewarm coffee while a production assistant ran cables behind you. You looked tired, but not fake-tired. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

Bucky stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching the swirl of controlled chaos.

“What’s this one about?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bustle of the set.

You didn’t look up. Just took another sip of the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

“Some sad Hollywood star,” you said, flat.

He looked over at you.

You gave a small, half-laugh the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “Fitting, right?”

Bucky didn’t laugh, didn’t joke. He just watched you, the way your shoulders stayed tense even when you were sitting, the way your eyes flicked across the room like you were searching for something that wasn’t there.

“She’s famous,” you added, voice quieter now. “Everyone knows her face. But no one actually knows her.”

You paused, then gave a faint shrug. “It’s called Lucky.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, finally under his breath: “Doesn’t sound like luck.”

Later on that week, maybe two days, maybe three, Bucky knocked on your door. Not for work, not because he had to, they gave him the day off today.

You opened it in socks and a crewneck, eyebrows raised like you weren’t expecting him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward as hell, deciding after hyping himself up all day that he was just going to say it. “I was thinking,” he said, “maybe I could take you to dinner.”

You blinked. “Like…”

“Not as security,” he cut in, fast. “Just, me. Taking you out, like normal people do.” He looked nervous. “Like a date, I wanna take you on a date, it’s fine—”

He felt stupid like you might laugh, you didn’t. You smiled, that small, real one he was getting addicted to and said, “Yes.” So fast he didn’t even finish his sentence.

The place wasn’t fancy, it was barely even modern. A little hole-in-the-wall diner tucked down a side street in Brooklyn, the kind with cracked vinyl booths, fries that came in paper baskets, and a jukebox that only played songs recorded before 1975.

You wore jeans and a hoodie. Hair pulled back, no makeup and he couldn’t stop looking at you. Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what anyone else would’ve noticed. But because this was the first time he’d seen you like this, out and about. You looked… happy. Like you were in on a secret no one else knew.

You ordered pancakes for dinner and stole fries off his plate. You told him a story about a role you almost got when you were nineteen and how you sabotaged the audition on purpose because you didn’t want to play “a girl who dies from a broken heart.”

“Ironic now,” you’d said, biting into a fry.

He didn’t argue. But he reached across the table and nudged your hand with his and when your eyes met his, something soft passed between you. Just two people trying to figure out how to breathe again.

You didn’t rush through dinner, you lingered.

The two of you talked like there wasn’t a clock in the world, about music, movies, what Coney Island used to look like before it got cleaned up. You told him about your favorite director (he hadn’t heard of them), and he told you about the first movie he ever saw in theaters before the war.

“It was a double feature,” he said. “One reel broke halfway through, so the whole audience just sat there waiting like someone died.”

You laughed. “That’s very on-brand for you.”

When the check came, he tried to pay, stubborn about it, you told him you considered this your first official fight but you let him, just this once.

The sky was already dark when you stepped outside, the street was quiet. Empty enough to feel like it belonged to you then it started to rain.

Not a downpour, just that light, misty kind of rain that clings to your lashes and makes the streetlights look like halos.

You looked up at the sky, then back at him. “Of course,” you said, smiling. “Feels fitting.”

Bucky pulled off his jacket without a word and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat, and too big, and perfect.

He walked beside you in a black t-shirt, not caring about the cold or the rain. His hand brushed yours once, twice, until finally, he just reached over and held it.

Not tightly, not like a claim. Just enough to say I’m here and you didn’t let go, you never wanted to again.

You walked like that the whole way back. No security, noentourage. Just the city, the rain, and the two of you.

At your door, he hesitated. You stood there in his jacket, fingers curled at the sleeves, and said, “That was the best night I’ve had in… maybe ever.”

He smiled.You looked up at him, nervous suddenly, and said, “Wanna come by tomorrow?”

He blinked. “You mean, like—”

“Just come over,” you said, softer now. “I don’t have anything scheduled. No press, no meetings. I figured maybe we could… I don’t know. Be normal.”

Bucky nodded. “What time?”

“Ten,” you said. “Bring coffee.”

He smirked. “Anything but craft services?”

You grinned, stepping back toward the door. “Exactly.”

You started to turn toward the door, then paused. Looked back. “Hey, Bucky?”

He turned his head, eyes on you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

The name hit low in your stomach. You smiled, cheeks flushing, but didn’t look away.

“I’ve been in so many movies,” you said. “Played every kind of love story… but I’ve never had a kiss in the rain before.”

He paused, just a breath then his smile deepened. It wasn’t teasing, It was soft, slow, like something old and familiar settling into place.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands found your waist, yours lifted to his chest and then he kissed you, like something out of a movie.

Not like before. This time it was deeper, wetter, with the rain clinging to your skin and your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your heart.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, noses brushing, rain dripping from his lashes.

“Glad I could be your first, ” he murmured.

You smiled, barely breathing. “Hopefully my only.”

He let that linger between you. Didn’t say anything, just smiled, that quiet, just-for-you kind of smile that you were already getting addicted to.

You stepped back, still wearing his jacket, fingers trailing down his arm as you turned toward the door.

“See you tomorrow, Sarge.”

Bucky stood there after you shut the door, soaked to the bone, smiling like a man who finally had something worth getting caught in the rain for.

---

He showed up at ten on the dot. Coffee in hand. Hoodie slung on. That soft, unsure look in his eyes like he wasn’t totally convinced you hadn’t changed your mind.

You opened the door in his jacket, the same one from the last night and a messy bun that was maybe more sleep than style. Your eyes lit up at the sight of him.

“Good. You’re punctual. I like that in a man,” you teased, taking the coffee from him with both hands. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Bucky said, stepping inside. “Especially when it comes with threats about craft services.”

You smiled into the lid of your coffee. “You hungry?”

He shrugged. “I could eat.”

You’d already made eggs. Just because. Toasted two slices of bread, burnt the edges on one, blamed the toaster, he didn’t care he’d eat anything you made.

He sat across from you at the kitchen island while you finished scrambling the last bit of eggs in the pan. The light streaming through the windows caught the edges of your hair. He watched it for a little too long.

After breakfast, you disappeared for a minute. When you came back, you were holding a shopping bag. A mischievous smile spread across your face.

“Wig day,” you announced.

Bucky blinked, choking on air. “Wig what?”

You reached in and pulled out a bright hot pink bob for you and a ridiculously curly blonde one for him.

He stared at it like it might bite him. “I am not wearing that.”

“Oh, you are,” you said, already pulling yours on. “We’re going incognito.”

“I already have a disguise,” he argued, gesturing to himself.

“Buck,” you said seriously, walking up to him and holding the wig just over his head. “Please, for me.”

You hit him with the full force of a pout. The kind of expression that could level buildings.

He sighed. “If you ever tell anyone—”

“Swear on my Oscar,” you said solemnly.

He gave in and twenty minutes later, the two of you were walking hand-in-hand through the Saturday morning farmers market, you in oversized sunglasses and hot pink hair, Bucky in a blonde monstrosity and didn’t even try to blend in.

You were laughing before you even made it to the first vendor.

“God, this is so freeing,” you said, grabbing two honey sticks from a basket and handing him one. “This is the most fun I’ve had in public since I was seventeen.”

“Do people even recognize you?” Bucky asked, chewing on his stick.

“Not unless they’re really looking.” You popped yours into your mouth. “You’d be surprised what a wig can do. That and not smiling for cameras.”

He smiled a little at that.

You made him buy sunflowers, a whole bunch of them and when he rolled his eyes, you shoved them into his arms and said, “For the compound, It needs color.”

“Its gray.”

“Exactly.”

You made him try a slice of fresh peach from one of the stands. He groaned, visibly impressed. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You nodded, smug. “I have excellent taste, in fruit and men.”

He coughed, caught off guard, and you just kept walking like you hadn’t said anything at all.

A little boy walked by holding his mom’s hand, eyes wide. He looked up at Bucky’s wig and said, very seriously, “I like your funny hair.”

Without missing a beat, Bucky deadpanned, “Thanks, it’s natural.”

You lost it, laughed so hard you had to stop walking, one hand on your stomach, the other on Bucky’s arm for support.

“God,” you wheezed. “I think I pulled something.”

He smiled, not a small smile but the kind that showed just how old he was, wrinkles and all. He couldn't stop watching you, all teeth, all light.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

“You love it.”

“Maybe I do.” He whispered

You looked up at him then and for a second, it felt like a normal life. Like this wasn’t temporary. Like this was the part people forget to write about, the joy that lives in quiet places. In stupid wigs and sticky fruit fingers and hand-holding.

You walked a little closer after that and when the sun dipped behind a cloud, Bucky looked over and thought: Yeah, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

You got back to your house with sunflowers in one hand, a bag of peaches in the other, and your wigs still barely hanging on.

Bucky tugged his off the second the door shut. You kept yours on just to make him laugh one last time before finally giving in and tossing it onto the entryway bench.

“God,” you groaned, kicking your shoes off. “We looked like walking satire.”

“You bought them,” he pointed out.

“Exactly,” you grinned, “I have no one to blame but myself.”

He set the peaches on the counter and opened the fridge, standing there like he lived here, like this wasn’t weird and it wasn’t. Not with him.

You poured two glasses of water, handed him one, and nodded toward the back patio.

“Come on,” you said.

Your backyard was ridiculous.

Big enough for events. Empty enough to echo. Most days it just sat there, silent and underused, like a stage no one had written a scene for.

But tonight you made it yours. You laid a thick blanket right in the middle of the lawn, a bottle of water and two peaches between you.

Just you two and the stars, you dropped down first, looking up, arms folded under your head.

He hesitated briefly before lowering himself beside you. The sky above was endless, crisp and clear. You sighed. “So… that one’s called ‘The Sad Actress Who Bought Too Many Wigs.’”

He turned his head. “Is it?”

You nodded solemnly. “Legend says she cried on cue and never learned to cook.”

Bucky snorted. “Sounds tragic.”

“Deeply.”

He pointed upward. “That one’s Cassiopeia. Queen of vanity, everyone thought she was prettier than the gods.”

You squinted. “Is that a compliment?”

He smirked. “No comment.”

You laughed and rolled closer to him, propping your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into your side. He didn’t pull away. You kept pointing, making up fake names, dumb stories about the sky.

He chimed in with the real ones. Orion, Lyra, Andromeda. He told you about them softly, like they were old friends he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Eventually, you went quiet. Your cheek was against his shoulder now. His hand rested lightly on your waist, not holding you there just being there. You could feel his heartbeat where your arm brushed his chest.

You tilted your head, voice small, tired in a different kind of way. “Do you ever think we were meant to make it here?”

He was quiet for a second. “Not until now.”

--------

They were setting up for the next shot, bright lights overhead, crew darting around like bees and Bucky had been pulled aside by one of the stunt coordinators. Something about camera angles and needing a second set of eyes.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to keep you in his line of sight. You were across the stage with Leah, Brett close behind, flipping through notes and talking too fast. You were nodding along, too much, too quickl like a wind-up doll that forgot how to stop.

Then something changed. Your smile, the one you wore like armor slipped. Not all at once. Just… a flicker. A soft stutter in your face like something cracked. You said nothing, but Bucky saw it. He saw you and then you turned, walking off set. Not storming, just… gone.

Bucky’s head snapped to follow you, heart picking up. He moved to go after you, but Brett stepped in, gesturing toward a mark on the floor. “She’ll be back, don’t worry about her trust me, she’s not worth it. Just being a diva again. This always happens when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Leah added without looking up from her phone, “Let her wear herself out. She’ll come back ready to work, it's nothing."

Something in Bucky’s chest clenched. “She’s everything.” He spoke, giving them the coldest look he could, they rushed away.

He barely finished what he was doing, his heart racing, barely listening then ducked out. The set was a maze, allways of prop rooms, makeup trailers, walls plastered with posters from old releases and peeling tape marks from years of taped call sheets.

It took him longer than he liked. But eventually, he found your dressing room. The door was cracked, he didn’t knock but didn’t barge in either. He just stood there, quiet in the hallway, watching through the sliver.

You were sitting at the vanity, that wide, glowing mirror with the bulbs lining every edge. The kind they use in every movie to say this is what fame looks like. But you didn’t look like the girl they all talked about. You looked empty.

Eyes glassy, staring at your reflection like you didn’t recognize yourself. Your back was straight, shoulders set, trained posture. The kind they drilled into you, but your hands were shaking in your lap and then the tears started.

No noise, no breakdown. Just quiet streams falling over your cheeks like they’d been waiting all day for permission. Then your breath hitched. Once. Twice and suddenly it wasn’t quiet anymore.

You were sobbing. Body curled forward, heels digging into the rung of the stool, hand coming up to cover your mouth like you were afraid someone might hear. As if feeling was the real shame.

That’s when Bucky moved. He stepped inside, gently, not saying anything. You didn’t see him at first. Not until the door clicked shut behind him, he locked it too.

You flinched, turned, eyes red, cheeks blotchy, makeup streaked down like melted glass.

“Sorry,” you breathed, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want anyone to—” You stopped, shook your head but it was just all too much and it was Bucky. So you let it out, finally. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Bucky froze, heart pinched in his chest.

You looked down at your hands like they weren’t yours. “I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m disappearing. Like they hollowed me out and left this thing behind and everyone keeps clapping for her but I don’t even know her, I don’t wanna be her.”

You were trembling now, but still trying to hold it in.

“They don’t care if I’m tired, or scared, or if I don’t wanna be touched. I just smile. I go where I’m told. I let them touch my hair, my face, my body and they say it’s mine, but it’s not. None of it is.” You looked up at him then.

“I don’t wanna be lucky,” you whispered. “I just wanna be okay.”

Bucky crossed the room in two steps. He didn’t grab you, he didn’t rush. He just knelt down in front of you and reached for your hands, carefully, like he was afraid to scare you off and wrapped both of his around yours.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Not like this, not for them.”

You looked at him, eyes swimming. “What choice do I have?”

“You have me,” he said. No hesitation.

You blinked.

He gave your hands the gentlest squeeze. “You have me.”

You stared at him, throat tight, hands trembling inside his. You wanted to say something, anything. But nothing came. Just silence and the hum of the dressing room lights above. His thumb brushed over your knuckles lightly, grounding.

“I didn’t think I would ever deserve to feel this way, ” he said quietly. “Didn’t know if I could, not after everything.”

You looked up slowly, surprised.

“I thought what I have was it, just Steve and Sam, I thought… maybe that was all I got, that this was it for me.”

“I didn’t think I deserve anything good,” he added, his voice rougher now. “Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve been.”

Your lip quivered. Not because of what he said. But because it was you he was saying it to.

“But then I met you,” he continued. “And I didn’t see it at first. Not the real you. Just the version they sell, all glam and armor. You were like… smoke. I couldn’t hold on to anything.”

You let out a soft laugh through your tears, the kind that hiccups on its way out.

He smiled gently. “But this? Right now. This you? The you that’s sitting here trying to breathe? That’s the one I want.”

You swallowed hard.

“I want this you forever or however long you’ll have me.”

You didn’t speak, couldn’t. Not with your heart beating like that, instead you took your hands out of his and tossed them around his neck and his went around your waist and you just held each other.

The doorknob jiggled, fast and impatient. Then came the banging. “Why is the door locked?”

You froze. Your body instinctively straightened. That trained tension snapping back into your spine.

Bucky pulled away, holding your face in his hands, and looked at you.“We can figure this out,” he said. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. You don’t owe them anything, you’re not a brand. You’re not a puppet, you’re a person.”

More banging.

“If you wanna stop, we stop.”

“Give me a second!” you shouted, voice cracking.

“We don’t have a second!” Leah’s voice, sharp and slicing through the wood like a blade.

You closed your eyes, inhaled. Wiped your face. “I have to finish today,” you whispered.

He hated it. God, he hated that sentence. Hated how defeated it sounded. But he understood it. He’d been there. He knew what it meant to survive one more day just to make it through the night.

So he nodded and you nodded back, he placed a kiss to the top of your head before standing up.

You turned back to the mirror, and stared at yourself like a stranger. You smoothed your hair. Blotted under your eyes, swallowed everything.

Three breaths.

You put your mask back on. Not the glamorous one, the functional one the one that let you live.

You turned to him. “Okay.”

He hesitated, then walked to the door, unlocked it. It burst open like a war zone.

“Oh my God, your makeup,” Leah groaned. “What the hell happened?”

She waved the makeup artist over like a soldier summoning backup.

Bucky didn’t say a word. He stepped back into the corner, jaw locked, watching them descend on you with powder and brushes like you were a problem to be fixed.

But you weren’t, he knew that now. You were someone trying to survive and he wasn’t going anywhere.

The sun was just starting to set when the last shot wrapped.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, exhausted but wired the kind of tired that lives in your bones. You kept looking at the car they’d sent for you, engine humming down the block, driver waiting, door open.

But you didn’t move. Bucky walked up behind you, silent as always.

You didn’t turn, just asked, “You heading home?”

He didn’t answer, just asked. “Why?”

Youlooked at him. “I don’t really wanna go back to the house,” you admitted, voice low.

He didn’t ask why. He just nodded once, then said, “It’s movie night at the Tower.”

You blinked. “Is that code for something?”

“No, just pizza and Sam forcing everyone to watch The Mummy again.”

You stared at him.

“Do you wanna go?” he asked, more careful now. “I never go. They’ll be shocked.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “Would that be… okay?”

Bucky tilted his head, like he couldn’t believe you were actually asking. “Would that be okay?” he echoed. “Sam probably won’t even watch the movie. He’ll just stare at you the whole time.”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing. “Okay.”

He smiled, small and soft. “Okay.”

You glanced once more at the waiting car, then pulled your phone from your bag and shot off a quick text to Leah: Don’t need a ride. Going home with a friend.

Then you turned the phone off, it was the most rebellious thing you’d done in years.

Outside the studio, you followed Bucky across the parking lot. The sky now streaked with blue and gold, the city soft around the edges.

Then you saw it, the bike, his bike. You stopped walking. “You’re kidding.”

Bucky turned, confused. “What?”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

“I mean, yeah. You thought I drove a Prius?”

You laughed and it echoed in the open air.

“If you don’t want to take it I can get one of the guys to come get us,” he offered. “We can Uber—”

“No.” You were already walking toward the bike. “I’ve always wanted to go on one.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

You nodded, already tugging his helmet from the handlebars.

“You’re gonna want to hold on tight,” he warned.

“Was planning on it.”

He handed you the helmet, watched you adjust the strap like you’d done it a thousand times, then swung his leg over the seat.

You climbed on behind him. Your arms slid around his middle like you were built to fit there.

He revved the engine, and the bike took off, smooth, fast, cutting through the night with wind in your hair and something wild in your chest.

You didn’t want the ride to end.

But it did with the Tower glowing against the skyline, warm and gold like a beacon. Bucky parked just outside and helped you off, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary at your waist.

You walked in together still laughing at something dumb he’d said when you passed a billboard with your face on it.

The elevator dinged open, you stepped inside and the second the doors opened to the communal floor, voices carried through the hall.

“I’m not watching The Mummy again, Sam!”

“Then get your own movie night!”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Every week,” he muttered.

You were still smiling when you stepped into the room both of you and it took about three seconds for all conversation to stop.

Sam’s mouth dropped open. Steve nearly choked on his drink. Natasha raised one eyebrow, very slowly.

Tony blinked. “Well, look who’s got himself a plus one.”

You stepped in carefully, wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big, still Bucky’s the one you stole the first night you were on lock down, the night he got to see a glimpse of you. You looked real, you looked like you.

“Hey,” you said, shy but calm.

Sam stood up like he forgot how legs worked. “I…you…again? Is this real life?”

“She’s not a unicorn, Wilson,” Bucky muttered.

Tony clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Proud of you, Barnes. First soul you’ve shown in seventy years.”

You smirked, cheeks flushed, and followed Bucky to the couch. Someone handed you a slice of pizza. Natasha tossed you a blanket without saying a word. You thanked her softly, when the movie started, you barely watched it.

Halfway through the second one, your legs were draped over Bucky’s lap, your head resting against his chest. His arm was around your shoulders. He wasn’t even watching or paying attention to the movie. At one point, he glanced down and found your eyes half closed.

“You can sleep,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the movie.

“I don’t sleep in front of people,” you mumbled, already drifting.

“’S’ just us.”

You didn’t answer because you felt safe enough to close your eyes and sleep.

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours. The sheets were soft. The room was quiet. Familiar, now. Too quiet for a Tower full of Avengers.

You blinked against the light seeping through the windows, sitting up slowly. Bucky’s hoodie was still wrapped around you and you definitely weren’t on the couch anymore.

You smiled to yourself, just a little, realizing he must’ve carried you in. A second later, you heard the bathroom door open, steam rolling out into the room and then he stepped out in just a towel, wrapped low. Water still dripped from his hair, sliding down his chest, his arms, every inch of him sculpted like a man made of war and time.

Your mouth dried instantly. You tried, god, you tried not to stare. But then he caught your eye and he smirked. His cheeks flushed just slightly. “Steve’s cooking,” he said, casually like he wasn’t standing there a walking Greek statue. “Do you wanna eat?”

You swallowed. “Uh…no. I mean…yes. I just…” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll eat.”

He nodded, turning back into the bathroom. “Just give me a second.”

You sat there in the quiet, heart still thudding in your chest like a traitor. When he came out, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt now, hair still damp but combed back, you stood and followed him down the hall.

The kitchen was already alive with the smell of something warm and buttery and Steve muttering to himself about how “Sam never remembers to buy enough eggs.”

You stepped in behind Bucky, barefoot, eyes still adjusting and they started clapping, Sam whistled.

You blinked. “What’s… happening?”

“You haven’t heard yet?” Natasha asked from the stool, sipping coffee with one brow raised.

You shook your head slowly. “I haven’t turned my phone back on.”

Steve gave a tight smile. “Friday?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” the AI chirped.

“TV on.”

The screen lit up above the counter and there you were.

Big and bold on a news segment, not a paparazzi shot, but a full-blown entertainment headline.

“—confirmed just this morning that Y/N L/N will be receiving the lifetime achievement award at this year’s Global Arts Guild ceremony…”

Clips started playing, you on red carpets, you in films. Montages of you crying, dancing, bleeding on screen every performance they could scrape together for the sake of a narrative.

Bucky looked over at you, you were still. Still watching, barely breathing. The music cut, then the anchor changed.

“But not everyone is celebrating…”

Images now of you on set arguing, looking exhausted, distraught, one clip of you snapping at someone off-screen, another where you were just… sitting, crying, not acting. They spoke over it all.

Critics questioning your mental state. Saying it was “ungrateful” to be sad when you “had everything.” Comparing you to people “with real problems.”

“Friday, turn it off,” Bucky said sharply.

The screen went black, silence rang in the room. No one said a word. You stood there, chest tight, face unreadable. Then you turned toward the stove, putting on one of your best performances. “It smells delicious.”

Steve’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together, regret softening his mouth. “I didn’t know they’d play that stuff,” he said quietly. “I just thought you’d wanna know about the award.”

You nodded once, calm and composed. “It's okay.”

He slid a plate toward you, warm and full. “It tastes even better.”

You smiled. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Steve’s hand brushed your wrist as you reached for the plate. “Of course.”

Across the kitchen, Bucky watched the way you sat down slowly at the island, fork in hand, holding yourself together like a paper bird in the rain.

He drove you home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, knuckles flexing like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

The ride was quiet. Not awkward, just heavy. Everything that had aired that morning was still hanging between you like fog.

When he pulled up to the gate, he didn’t cut the engine right away. He looked at you. You were already unbuckling, eyes on the road ahead.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked softly.

You gave a small, practiced smile. “Of course. I’m receiving the biggest award I possibly could. I’m living the dream, remember?”

He didn’t smile. He tilted his head just a little, brows drawn together. “You can tell me.”

You blinked and then a single tear slid down your cheek.

You wiped it away quickly with your sleeve. “I just think I need to be alone for a few days. Please don’t take it personally.”

He shook his head. “No, I get it.”

You turned to open the door, but he caught your wrist gently.

“Call me if you need anything, alright?” he said. “I’ll be here in a second.”

You nodded. He pulled you in, wrapped his arms around you, not too tight, just enough. His lips pressed against your forehead, soft and grounding. He stepped back and let you go. You walked up the steps and opened the front door, turning once to look at him.

He was still there. You gave him the smallest smile, and then disappeared inside.

The moment the door shut, your knees buckled. You didn’t cry right away, you didn’t scream, you just sank.

Right there in the front entryway, curled on the cold marble floor, eyes staring at the ceiling like it might answer all the questions in your chest. You didn’t know how long you laid there.

But eventually, the silence cracked open inside you and the tears came hard and fast, your palms pressed over your face as your shoulders shook.

When it stopped, you got up slowly and went to the piano. Your fingers hovered above the keys. Then pressed down, soft at first something mournful, aching. But it shifted, the sound built, heavier, angrier, not chaotic, but alive. In the middle of it, you realized something: You didn’t want to do this anymore, not like this. You weren’t going to.

You threw on one of those stupid wigs from the market, the blonde curly one this time and sunglasses. Hoodie up, disguise solid in your opinion. You went into a cell phone store, calm as ever. “I need a new phone, new number.”

The guy barely looked up. “You switching carriers?”

“No, just my life.” You paid in cash. That night, you sat on your couch in the dark, lit by the glow of your new screen and started making calls..

You slept 6 hours that night and Saturday morning rolled around and you called a realtor first thing.

“Yes, of course we can keep it private,” she said. “Off-market, no press, no walkthroughs.”

“How soon can we list it?” you asked.

She paused. “Depends how quickly you want to move.”

“Immediately, I want it gone.”

“And where are you looking to move to?”

You smiled faintly. “Something smaller, quiet. With a porch and a real kitchen.”

Saturday afternoon, you called the director of Lucky. You hadn’t signed anything thankfully, just did the screen tests.

“I’m not taking the role,” you said, calm.

There was a beat of stunned silence. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Just… give it to the next girl. I hope she kills it.” You hung up before they could ask why.

Saturday night, the old phone, the one you were supposed to use wouldn’t stop ringing.

Brett. Leah. Your team. Unread texts stacked like bricks:

What are you doing.

You can’t disappear.

You are under contract. You don’t get to do this.

Call us now or else.

Responses now or we’ll walk, you need us!!

So you called them. “You don’t have to walk. I’m parting ways.”

They reminded you of your contract fees, the legal hit, the money it was always about the money.

You didn’t flinch. “Who do I send the check to?”

Sunday morning became one of your favourite days. You already felt freer, and you couldn't wait to tell Bucky. You’d heard nothing from him not because he wasn’t trying, but because he was respecting you and your space.

But Bucky was freaking out on the inside, Steve told him not to worry.

“She’s fine, Buck, she’s a tough girl.” he said, calm, sipping coffee.

But Bucky was pacing, he hadn’t slept. That’s when his phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Can you come over?

He froze, then another message: It’s me. I got a new phone. My own phone.

His chest loosened, he turned to Steve. “She texted me. She wants me to come over.”

Steve smiled behind his mug. “Then what are you still doing here?”

He got there fast, you were already waiting by the door. Your hair was cut. Still long, but no longer the red-carpet glamour length. Just to your shoulders. You were barefoot. Wearing jeans and a plain tee.

You smiled, small but sure. “Come in, Sarge.”

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him slowly.

You were already in the middle of the room, arms crossed, bare feet tucked beneath you on the rug. You looked nervous, but there was something else in your eyes, something lighter.

He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but you spun around first, your voice lifting the silence:

“So… you’re fired.”

He froze. “What?”

You were smiling but he still looked stunned. He tried to say something again, but nothing came out, just confusion.

Before he could spiral, you stepped forward, both hands reaching out to grab his. “And before you start panicking, because I can see it written all over your face,” you said, gently, “let me explain.”

You gave his hands a small squeeze and guided him toward the living room. You both sat down on the couch, and for a second, you just sat there, facing forward, fidgeting with your fingers.

Your heart was thudding, saying it made it real, saying it to him made it real, but you were ready. “I turned down the movie.”

He blinked.

You kept going. “I broke my contract with Brett, Leah and Gina, the whole team. I have a new phone, a new number, only you have it.”

He stared at you, barely breathing.

“This house is getting sold,” you continued, voice shaking slightly now. “And at the awards… I’m announcing my retirement.”

You couldn’t look at him. You stared down at your hands, picking at a loose edge of skin by your nail, trying to stay steady.

“I’m done, Bucky. I’m really done.”

There was a long pause, his voice came in low and careful. “This is what you want?”

You finally looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, your voice didn’t shake. “This is what I want.”

His eyes softened, shoulders dropping like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You smiled, smaller now, but it reached your eyes. “There’s just one more thing I want.”

He tilted his head. “What’s that?”

You smiled wider, heartbeat climbing. “You.”

Your smile grew, his did too. Without thinking, he pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You giggled, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, foreheads nearly touching.

“You, Bucky Barnes,” you whispered, voice thick with love, “are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Something in him broke, not in a bad way, never in a bad way, not with you, but like a dam that had been waiting to fall, he didn’t speak but just one tear slid down his cheek.

You reached up and brushed it away.

He closed his eyes, leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

“I’ve never…” he started, but had to stop. Reminding himself to swallow and breathe. “I’ve never had anyone say that. Not to me, not like that.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then again pressing your forehead to his. “You deserved to hear it, every word.”

His arms tightened around you, like he was afraid to let go. Like he’d finally been handed something he thought he’d never get and he wasn’t about to lose it.

And you? You finally felt safe, you felt free, you felt like you.

-----

Monday morning the house was still the kind of still that only came after a long week of too much noise.

Bucky woke up in the guest room. He laid there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of something distant the fridge, maybe or the house itself breathing.

It was always like this here. Quiet, not in a peaceful way, but in a way that felt… empty. The ceilings were too high. The air too clean. No signs of life except for the woman asleep down the hall.

He sat up, bare feet hitting the hardwood. It was early. Light hadn’t fully made its way through the blinds yet, but he could see the faint glow of it creeping up over the hills through the tall windows in the hallway.

Your door was cracked open.

He padded down the hallway, moving like he had a hundred times before in a hundred different safehouses, alert, careful. But this wasn’t a mission. It was just you.

You were curled up in the middle of your massive bed, half-buried in the covers. One leg kicked out from under the sheets, hair a soft mess across the pillow. Face turned slightly toward the window.

You looked like someone who belonged to the morning. Not the cameras, not the lights, not for anyone else but him.

Just here….just you.

He didn’t come in. Just leaned against the doorway and watched for a minute, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Then you stirred.

A soft stretch, a furrow in your brow, a breath pulled in through your nose, slowly, your eyes opened. You blinked once, then again and then you smiled, slow and sleepy.

“Good morning, Sarge,” you said, voice gravelly from sleep.

It made something in his chest twist.

“Morning,” he said softly.

You yawned and rolled onto your back, your arm flopping out dramatically. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

“Too early?”

He smirked. “Little bit.”

You turned your head toward him fully now. “You watching me sleep, Barnes?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled again and tucked your hands beneath your head.

“Don’t make it weird,” you added, teasing.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, and finally stepped into the room.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying cat.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, already turning back toward the kitchen.

You sat up slowly, hair wild, sheets pooled in your lap.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called after him.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

Your voice was soft. “Thanks for being here.”

His jaw tightened, just a little and he nodded once. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanna be here and I’m not going anywhere.”

---

On Tuesday the sun was starting to fall, soft and gold, casting long shadows across the back patio. The heat of the day had slipped into something gentler, warm enough to still sting your skin, but lazy enough to feel like summer was finally exhaling.

You padded barefoot onto the tile, hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on your head. Bucky followed behind you slowly, his t-shirt loose, sweats hanging low on his hips. He hadn’t quite figured out how to be in a house like this, so clean, so open but with you in it, it didn’t feel so empty.

“Pool’s too quiet,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s depressing.”

You walked to the edge and dropped your towel, standing there in a black bikini that wasn’t even trying to be dramatic, just simple, flattering. You didn’t pose.

You just stood there in the sun like you belonged to it. He tried not to stare.

Tried.

You caught him anyway.

“Like what you see?” you asked, not coy, just curious, a small smirk pulling at your lips.

He didn’t look away, he didn't pretend, “Yeah,” he said simply.

You smiled wider. “Good.”

You dove in and disappeared under the water. Bucky watched the ripples spread, standing there for another beat before finally tugging off his shirt.

He didn’t say anything as he jumped in, just hit the water with a clean splash and surfaced to see you laughing.

He hadn’t heard that sound from you enough.

“You’re slow,” you called, floating on your back now.

“You cheated.”

You swam laps, you raced, you lost on purpose. You climbed up onto the edge just to cannonball in again. You teased him, splashed him, laughed when he tried to dunk you and failed.

In the deep end, you drifted toward him. The water was cool now, the sky streaked in purples and pinks. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, let your fingers slide down his neck.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He looked at you, then you kissed him.

It wasn’t heated, you weren’t there, not yet. It was soft. Wet lips and wet skin. Your hands resting against his jaw like you were scared he might disappear.

When you pulled back, he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

After dinner and fresh clothes, you sat at the piano with a towel still around your shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends. The living room was dim, the night coming in soft through the glass doors.

Bucky sat on the couch behind you, arms stretched across the back, fingers tapping lightly in rhythm as you played.

No lyrics, just music.

Something low and steady, with dips in all the right places. Sad, but not broken. Hopeful he liked to think or at least almost.

He closed his eyes.

When you finished, the final note hanging in the air like something unsaid, his voice came low. “Play it again.”

You didn’t hesitate, you just started from the top, you realized you would do anything for Bucky Barnes.

He sat there, still as stone, listening like he was hearing you for the first time all over again.

Wednesday morning was quiet until it wasn’t. You made the mistake of opening your laptop.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But your fingers had a mind of their own, typing your name into the search bar like you were bracing for a punch.

And there it was, headline after headline, stacked like a wall you couldn’t climb over:

“Y/N L/N FIRES ENTIRE TEAM: PR STUNT OR BREAKDOWN?”

“Former Publicist Speaks Out: ‘We Couldn’t Help Her Anymore’”

“Too Much Too Fast — A Cautionary Tale.”

“Not even The Avengers can save her!”

They didn’t care about facts, they cared about drama.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred. Your throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself. You didn’t even notice Bucky at first, not until the soft sound of ceramic on wood made you flinch.

He was standing there in the doorway with two mugs. One for him, one for you. He didn’t ask what you were reading. He didn’t need to, he could see it all over your face. He just walked over, set your coffee down without a word, and disappeared again into the other room.

You sat frozen, eyes still on the screen. Still seeing all the words: unstable, ungrateful, too much.

Then the sound of music pulled you out of the haze, the soft scratch of vinyl spinning up. Not your playlist, his.

Low, slow jazz. Ella Fitzgerald humming through the speakers like the world wasn’t trying to tear you apart.

He came back into the room and held out a hand. “Come here.”

You didn’t speak. Certainly didn’t argue, didn’t hesitate. You walked right into him like your body already knew what to do. Like this had always been the escape route you never knew you had.

His arm slid around your waist, his fingers laced with yours, and he began to sway barely moving, just shifting with the music. You let your cheek press against his chest.

The headlines were still on the screen across the room. But they felt a million miles away.

“You really know how to shut up a spiral,” you mumbled into his shirt.

“I’ve had practice,” he said.

He kissed your temple gently, like a period at the end of a sentence. “Steve told me to never type my name into any search bar.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, you hummed. “He’s smart, why he's the Captain.”

Bucky just held you tighter as the music crackled and the world faded. The silence inside your own head wasn’t heavy anymore, it was just filled with him.

---

The house smelled like citrus and sunscreen on Thursday, with hints of something sweet baking in the oven that you absolutely did not make yourself. Bucky was lighting the citronella candles out back. You were fluffing pillows on the deck furniture like it mattered. You wouldn't admit it but you were nervous, you never had anyone in your home before that wasn’t paid to be here, beside Bucky now. But even before he was paid to be here. So having Sam and Steve willingly wanting to come hang out with you, your nerves were out of control.

“They’re gonna love you,” Bucky said when he caught you anxiously smoothing out the same throw blanket for the third time. “It’s gonna be fine.”

You didn’t look at him. “They already know me.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, brushing your hand away so he could take over. “But I can hear your heartbeat sweetheart,”

You swallowed, remembering he was enhanced, you nodded. “Okay, yeah, right.”

You were still nervous. They showed up at 4:37pm, three minutes early, which somehow felt very Steve.

Sam walked in first, sunglasses still on, stopping in the foyer like he forgot how to speak.

“Holy shit,” he said slowly. “This place is insane.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Told you.”

Steve came in behind him, eyes roaming across the clean lines and open space, the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the backyard. “Didn’t expect this.”

You leaned against the banister, arms crossed. “What were you expecting?”

Sam shrugged, still glancing around. “I don’t know. More… velvet? Dramatic drapes? Maybe a spiral staircase.”

You snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no,” Sam said. “This is classy. It’s like if Restoration Hardware had a baby with a Bond villain’s hideout.”

Steve grinned, patting Sam on the shoulder. “Ignore him. It’s beautiful…It’s—”

“It's not me.” You cut him off, “They uh made me buy it, I’m selling, gonna find something more….me.”

Sam smiled, “You gotta have velvet at that place, screams you.”

By sundown, you were all out back Bucky’s arm slung comfortably around your waist, Sam mixing some kind of weirdly decent cocktails from the little bar cart you never used, Steve manning the fire pit like he’d trained for it.

“Alright,” Sam said, clapping his hands together after his first drink. “Somebody better tell me how this happened.”

“What?” you asked, smiling into your glass.

He gestured between you and Bucky. “This, you two. The world’s grumpiest man and Hollywood’s most untouchable starlet?”

You looked at Bucky. “We’re a romcom waiting to happen.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think we’re a romcom?”

“I think you’re the broody lead who doesn’t realize he’s in love until like… minute seventy-five,” you teased, glancing up at Bucky with a grin.

Steve let out a deep, genuine laugh. “That sounds about right.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his drink. “So, you excited for Saturday? Google told me you’re the youngest person to ever receive the award.”

You fidgeted with your glass, not quite meeting anyone’s eye. “I mean… I’m honored, of course. It’s huge. But I can’t wait for it to be over.”

Sam raised a brow. “Over?”

You exhaled slowly. “No more movies. No more red carpets. No more flashing lights, or interviews, or pretending to be something I’m not every day.”

There was a small pause. Sam blinked. “Wait, hold up. I think I missed a scene. What are you talking about?”

You glanced between them. “I’m retiring. I’m announcing it during the speech.”

Steve sat up straighter, eyes cutting to Bucky, then back to you. “That’s… huge.”

You nodded once. “Yeah, it is. But I’m ready. I never really wanted all of this…not in the way people think I did. I just want to breathe again.”

Sam looked honestly bummed. “Damn, you’re my favorite actress.”

You swallowed, guilt brushing the edge of your chest. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He waved it off, even if his face still read like he’d just been told his favorite show got canceled. “Nah, it’s cool. Whatever makes you happy. But I’m gonna need you to sign every single one of my DVDs. Make ‘em collector’s items.”

You laughed, “Of course, anything for you.” Bucky squeezed your knee gently, and when you looked over, he was already looking at you.

“Anyway,” you said, holding up the bag, “who wants to roast marshmallows?”

“Hell yeah,” Sam grinned, already reaching for a stick.

You burned yours on purpose just to make Bucky eat them, because you found out two days ago that he hates them crispy.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, chewing the blackened sugar like it might kill him.

“Character building,” you said sweetly, sliding another one onto your stick.

Steve was telling a story about the first time he ever saw Bucky try to flirt, something involving a newspaper stand, a broken heel, and a pie and Sam was howling.

The fire crackled and night got softer. Your head eventually found its way to Bucky’s shoulder, your legs tucked up under you.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The fire started to die down and Steve and Sam had claimed their guest rooms, you stood on the back deck with Bucky, looking out over your massive, mostly unused backyard. The air smelled like wood smoke and jasmine. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and he came up behind you, wrapping his around you too.

“This has been…” you started, then shook your head. “I don’t have the words for it, actually…”

He didn’t push. You turned in his arms, looking up at him, eyes searching his face in the low light, you swallowed heavily.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” you said quietly. It was the first time the words left your mouth. The first time you didn’t choke on them.

Bucky didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look surprised. He just smiled, “Well,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I’ll catch you.”

Your heart stopped.

“Because I’m already there, sweetheart.”

He kissed you like he meant it this time, not rushed, not hungry, just slow and deeply. Like he wanted to memorize it, like he didn’t care about anything except the way you tasted or the way your breath caught in your throat when his hand slid up your spine.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of patience that said he wasn’t going anywhere. That you weren’t just a moment he’d lose when the lights came up.

Later, you fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms, your limbs wrapped around him like you were afraid to let go. The sheets were kicked down to your ankles, skin warm from the heat you shared. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back until your breathing slowed, evened out.

You fit into him like the part of a story he didn’t realize was missing and now that he had you, he couldn’t imagine the ending without you in it.

-----

Friday started quiet. You were making breakfast in one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, one he claimed you stole but never actually asked for back. The sleeves hit your elbows, and the hem barely grazed your thighs. You kept dancing around the kitchen barefoot, humming along to a playlist you threw on without thinking.

Bucky was pretending to read the paper, but his eyes weren’t on the headlines, they were on you.

“Stop staring,” you teased, flipping a pancake, “it’s creepy.”

“You’re in my shirt,” he said, not bothering to look away.

You rolled your eyes. “You left it here.”

“You stole it.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“You know that doesn’t apply to my clothes, right?”

You turned around slowly, one brow lifted. “Are you gonna take it back?”

He just leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Not a chance.”

You spent most of the day in the pool. You dunked him once, and he swore vengeance for at least an hour after. You swore he cheated when you raced. He said you were just a sore loser. It was the kind of day that made the rest of the world feel like background noise.

At some point in the late afternoon, you collapsed into a pile of towels on a lounge chair, your hair still damp, cheeks warm from the sun.

“Everything’s gonna change tomorrow,” you murmured.

Bucky leaned over from the chair beside you. “Why do you say that?”

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Because once I say it out loud, I can’t un-say it. Y’know the retirement, the house, leaving it all behind.”

He was quiet for a second. “You’re not leaving everything.”

You swallowed. “It feels like I am.”

His hand reached over, found yours. “You’ve got me, that part isn't going anywhere.”

It was almost midnight when it shifted.

You were curled into him on the couch, both of you still wearing barely anything, skin warm from the day. You made a dumb joke about his middle name again, and he made a worse one about your acting in that one drama you hated. You pushed him, he pulled you back.

The laughter faded slower this time. Not awkward, just… softer. Like you were waiting for something.

You were already facing him, his palm against your bare thigh, thumb moving in slow, thoughtless circles. You traced a finger down his chest, eyes on the line of his jaw.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You did. Of course you did.

You kissed him first, slow and easy, mouths finding a rhythm you’d been circling for days. Weeks. Months. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t rushed, it felt more like relief.

When he lifted you into his lap, you wrapped your legs around his waist like you’d always belonged there. His hands slid beneath the shirt you were still wearing, his shirt, his fingers grazing skin like he was memorizing it. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye, your forehead resting against his.

“I love you,” he said.

You froze.

It wasn’t a whisper, itt wasn’t an accident. He said it like he meant it. Like he’d been holding it in for days, maybe longer.

You smiled, eyes glassy but steady. “Say it again.”

His hand cupped your cheek. “I love you.”

You kissed him again, harder this time and everything that followed was slow. Worshipful. Hands and mouths and sighs, skin against skin, all of it quiet and deliberate. He touched you like you were something precious. You held him like he was something you’d waited a lifetime for.

There were moments when neither of you said a word, just breathing into each other’s mouths and there were others when you couldn’t stop, when you told him how safe he made you feel, how real this felt, how badly you wanted him to stay. He didn’t promise anything he couldn’t give. He just stayed.

After, you lay on your side, head on his chest, your fingers tracing slow circles over the scar near his collarbone. His hand moved lazily along your spine, down to your hip, back up again. Your legs tangled beneath the sheets.

“I could stay here forever,” you whispered, not even meaning to say it out loud.

“You could,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I’d never stop you.”

You smiled into his skin. “I love you too, you know.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You deserve the world Bucky.”

---

The Saturday morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. You stir, the familiar scent of coffee and something delicious wafting in from the kitchen. Stretching, you realize the bed beside you is empty, the sheets slightly cool where Bucky had been. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you sit up, the oversized shirt you borrowed from him slipping off one shoulder.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you find Bucky at the stove, his back to you. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still tousled from sleep. The sight of him, so at ease in your space, sends a flutter through your chest.

He turns as he hears you approach, a spatula in one hand and a tender smile spreading across his face.

“Morning beautiful,” he greets, his voice still husky. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. “You really didn’t have to cook,” you tease, though the affection in your tone is unmistakable.

He sets the spatula down and crosses the room to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Yes, I do,” he murmurs against your skin. “Today’s a big day.”

Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness. Together, you sit down to a breakfast of perfectly cooked eggs, golden toast, fresh strawberries, and steaming coffee. The conversation is light, filled with shared smiles and the occasional brush of hands. Despite the significance of the day ahead, there’s a comforting normalcy in this moment, a grounding calm before the impending storm of the awards ceremony.

After breakfast, you retreat to your bedroom to get ready. The absence of a glam team, stylists, and handlers is both liberating and daunting. Standing before the mirror, you take a deep breath, embracing the solitude and the authenticity it brings.

You curl your lashes, apply a subtle touch of makeup, just enough to feel like yourself, not someone they’ve painted on you. No red lipstick tonight, just soft pink. Something gentle, something you.

Then you step into the satin cream dress you chose yourself. Your favorite, because of its quiet elegance… and because it has pockets. You slip your hands into them automatically, fingers brushing over the small carved bird Bucky made for you. It’s warm from sitting on the dresser, shaped perfectly to your palm. You slide it into your pocket and let it stay there, a piece of him with you, grounding you.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, checking yourself once in the mirror. You look like… you. Not just some actress, not a product but…you.

Your phone buzzes.

You cross the room in bare feet and check it: a message from Sam, full of emojis, clapping hands, a star, a winking face, a rocket, a slice of pizza. You laugh under your breath.

Before you can respond, another message comes through. A selfie of Sam and Steve on the couch, grinning like idiots. Behind them, the awards show is already playing on the TV. There’s popcorn in Steve’s lap. Sam’s doing peace signs with both hands.

You cover your mouth with one hand, not to hide your smile but to keep from crying. You’re not used to this. The support, the friendship. Love that isn’t transactional. For so long, you thought this kind of thing didn’t exist. Now you know better.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts, it opens and Bucky’s standing there. Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Tie just slightly undone and he’s holding something, a little velvet box in one hand, something he’s not drawing attention to. His eyes lock on you and he just stops.

He stares. Takes a slow breath like he needs to restart his heart.

“You…”

His voice is rough, low, and a little stunned.

“You look beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks warm. Your pulse skips.

“I mean it,” he says, stepping into the room. “You don’t even look real. You look like… like every dream I ever had before the war.”

Your eyes flicker down, shy and soft. “You clean up alright yourself.”

He walks toward you, slow. With one hand, he lifts the box and opens it.

Inside, is a delicate gold bracelet. Simple, elegant, with a single little charm, a star. He doesn’t explain it, you just know.

“For luck,” he says.

Your fingers tremble just a little as you hold out your wrist. When he fastens it, his thumb brushes over the inside of your skin, and you feel it down to your ribs.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He meets your eyes again. “Thank you,” he says back.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod.

“Let’s go get your goodbye.”

Opting to forgo the chaos of the red carpet, you and Bucky slip into the venue through a side entrance. The auditorium is a sea of elegantly dressed attendees, the air thick with anticipation. Cameras flash, capturing moments that will soon flood the media. Despite the grandeur, Bucky’s hand remains a steady presence on your lower back, grounding you amidst the whirlwind.

The ceremony progresses, awards presented, speeches delivered. Each moment brings you closer to your segment. Your heart pounds, a mix of excitement and apprehension. Then, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the crowd.

The screen illuminates with your name in bold, golden letters, accompanied by a swell of orchestral music. The montage begins, a journey through your career, meticulously curated to encapsulate years of dedication and artistry.

It opens with a clip from your breakout role, a younger version of yourself delivering a line that, at the time, felt like just another script but now resonates with profound significance. The scene transitions to a red carpet moment, flashes of cameras capturing your wide-eyed wonder as you navigate the newfound fame.

Next, a montage of roles showcasing your versatility, an intense courtroom drama where your impassioned monologue left audiences spellbound; a lighthearted romantic comedy, your laughter infectious; a gritty independent film, raw and unfiltered, revealing depths of emotion you hadn’t known you possessed.

Interspersed are behind-the-scenes snippets, laughing with castmates, moments of vulnerability during rehearsals, candid interviews where your passion for the craft shines through.

The montage crescendos with a recent scene, one that garnered critical acclaim. Your character stands alone, gazing out over a vast landscape, a single tear rolling down her cheek. The camera lingers, capturing the depth of emotion in your eyes, a testament to your growth as an artist.

As the screen fades to black, the audience erupts into applause, the sound thunderous and heartfelt. You sit frozen, emotions swirling, pride, nostalgia, a tinge of sadness. Bucky’s hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring.

Leaning close, he whispers, “That’s you. All of it and it’s incredible, you’re incredible.”

The applause echoes through the theater like a wave, rising and rising, refusing to settle. You sit still, breath caught somewhere in your chest, your fingers laced tight with Bucky’s. His palm is warm, grounding. You glance at him for just a second, long enough to see it in his eyes, that he means every word he just whispered.

You blink forward again, lashes damp, as the lights shift on stage. The host steps back into the spotlight.

He smiles, holding a small stack of note cards that he doesn’t even glance at.

“There are careers,” he begins, “and then there are lives and every once in a while, someone comes along who blurs that line so seamlessly that you can’t tell where the performance ends and the person begins.”

The crowd quiets again. No rustling, no coughing. Just breaths, held.

“We watched her grow up on screen. We’ve seen her fall in love, lose it, rage against it. We’ve seen her die a dozen different deaths and survive all of them in the hearts of her audience. She gave us everything. Every tear, every laugh, every look that didn’t need words.”

You feel Bucky’s thumb trace a slow circle over your knuckles.

“She made it look effortless. But it wasn’t, we know that now and still, she gave, and gave, and gave. For over two decades, she has captivated the world… and tonight, we honour her for it.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“She taught us that beauty isn’t perfection. It’s honesty. It’s vulnerability and she did it all while carrying the weight of fame with the grace of someone born to do it and the soul of someone who never wanted it.”

He pauses, lets the words sink in. You swear your heart stops.

“Please join me in celebrating a once-in-a-generation talent. An artist. A survivor. A woman who changed the face of cinema… simply by being real.”

He turns toward the front row.

“Y/N L/N, recipient of this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award.”

The room erupts. Bucky stands first.

The sound swells, applause, cheers, a few people whistling. Some are already on their feet before you even move.

But Bucky doesn’t rush you. He stays right beside you as you rise, his hand slipping from yours only when you’re steady on your feet. He whispers again, just before you go: “Go take what’s yours.”

With the carved wooden bird in your pocket and his love wrapped around your shoulders like a second skin you walk toward the stage.

The stage is gold-drenched.

Warm light spills across the floor, catching the satin folds of your cream dress, the one with the hidden pockets and just enough weight to feel like armor. You stand steady, heels grounded, the carved wooden bird nestled in your hand.

The glass award gleams beside you. The room is silent now, waiting. Holding its breath.

You inhale slowly. Feel the rise and fall of your ribs. The steadying ache of what it took to get here.

“I don’t think I ever believed I’d stand here. Not because I didn’t want to but because for a long time, I didn’t believe I’d survive long enough to see it.”

A pause. Soft laughter from the crowd, unsure, uncomfortable.

You smile faintly. But it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’ve spent more of my life playing other people than I have playing myself and that’s the thing no one tells you about this industry if you do it long enough, you forget where the role ends and where you begin.”

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

“I was good at pretending. I won awards for pretending. I got paid to smile, to be beautiful, to be likable. But I wasn’t any of those things. I was just… tired.”

You glance down at the bird in your hand. Curl your fingers around it.

“For a long time, I thought love wasn’t meant for people like me. Not the real kind, anyway. The kind that sees you, I mean really sees you and doesn’t run.”

Bucky’s chest tightens.

“I thought quiet meant failure. That if the cameras weren’t flashing, if the crowd wasn’t clapping, I was nothing. But then I learned something.”

You lift your head. “The quiet? It’s where everything real lives.”

“So… I’m stepping away. Tonight, I’m saying goodbye to all of it. I’m retiring. Not because I’m not grateful but because I’m ready to start living.”

Gasps and murmurs fill the arena, flashes from cameras and phones go wild.

You don’t flinch. “I’m done playing someone else’s idea of me. From here on out, I’m just gonna be me.”

The audience rises. Applause fills the room, crashing over you like thunder and you smile.

You reach for the award, fingers closing around the smooth glass.

POP.

A sound that doesn’t belong. It’s sharp and violent. The applause doesn’t stop, not at first. But your smile falters. The glass in your hand shatters and so does the world.

Your body jerks, like something pulled you backward. You stumble, a gasp ripping from your throat. Your eyes wide, disoriented.

You look down, the silk of your dress turns red, blooming like a rose from the center of your stomach. The warmth spreads fast, too fast.

The award fully slips from your hands and crashes to the stage in shards. The room turns into chaos, you barely register the screams. You only see him, Bucky. He’s already moving, another shot rings out, not at you this time, from Bucky raising his gun with no hesitation.

When he turns he sees him, Elias. He’s not in custody, he bets he never was. He’s in the back of the theater. A face twisted in obsession, mouth open in something like a smile, but it’s gone in a blink. Bucky makes sure of that, one shot. Clean. Between the eyes, Elias drops.

Bucky’s already on stage about to grab you when your knees buckle. He catches you mid-collapse, lowering you to the stage with shaking hands, already slick with blood.

“Hey. Hey. No—no, stay with me.”

He presses his hands to the wound, hard. There’s too much blood.

“Don’t do this, baby. Please. Please don’t—”

His voice cracks.

You blink up at him, eyes glassy. Your lashes tremble.

“I’m glad,” you whisper, voice a ghost. “That I got to feel something.”

Your hand reaches for his cheek, leaving a smear of blood.

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him.

“And I’m glad I got to feel it… for you.”

“No,” he chokes. “No, no, you’re okay. You’re okay—help is coming—just stay with me—please.”

Your breath hitches.

Once.

Twice.

Your eyes don’t close dramatically. They just… soften, drift.

Your hand slips from his cheek and Bucky, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you like something sacred. People are screaming, running. But no one helps and on a stage built to honour you, surrounded by flowers and flashing lights and the echoes of everything you gave all Bucky can do is whisper your name like a prayer he knows won’t be answered.

Everything goes quiet.

The carved wooden bird falls from your pocket, landing softly in the blood.

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honeyhaeya · 2 months ago

Text

(1/2)🖇 ༘ ⋆"Moved On Not "

' ╰┈ 'you wore his hoodie home. it still smelled like him. and god, you swore you could still feel his hands on your waist'

' .☘︎ ݁˖' '연준 x f!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Diet Pepsi (Addison Rae)

♫⋆₊˚ ﾟ. 'ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre / tags: fluff, smut, emotional tension, friends to lovers, teasing & possessive!yeonjun, intense makeouts, lap-sitting, domestic moments, long build-up, jealousy, banter, soft aftercare, sunrise sex ੈ✩‧₊˚ warnings: NSFW WARNINGS UNDER THE CUT ! explicit language, emotionally vulnerable scenes, mention of alcohol (responsibly), jealousy themes, minor angst (resolved), tension from miscommunication, reader is bold, story contains mature themes ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗ nsfw warnings: porn with little plot (AT LEAST) - oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up irl), praise kink, hair pulling, neck kissing/biting, dirty talk, soft dom!yeonjun, riding, creampie implied, overstimulation, light marking (hickeys), possessiveness (you’re mine energy), emotionally charged sex, aftercare (wiping, cuddling, forehead kisses), clingy!yeonjun post-sex, reader takes control at times ✩‧₊˚ wc: 5558ੈ ੈ♡ a/n: my laptop just recently broke which is why i didn't get to update here on tumblr :// editing here on my phone is so damn hard, i almost didn't post this. lately, I've been in love with yeonjun cause he's so so so much prettier in person. 1/2 chapters ! chapter 2 is posted

This wasn’t what you had in mind at all.

You thought the class reunion dinner would be a predictable, boring affair—filled with awkward small talk, forced laughter, and empty reminiscing. But then he walked in.

The one person who had unknowingly held your heart hostage all throughout high school. The one you swore you'd moved on from.

One year had passed since graduation, and not once had you crossed paths with him again. You thought the feelings were long gone—buried with teenage dreams and unspoken confessions. But the moment his eyes met yours across the restaurant, the moment he strolled in with that damned smirk—the very same one that made your heart skip back in first year—it all came rushing back like a punch to the gut.

"Hey," Karina said, patting your head and tugging you out of your trance, her hand messing up the perfectly styled strands she helped you curl earlier. Her eyes narrowed at you knowingly, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Stop drooling. He hasn’t even taken his jacket off yet.”

You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks. She knew. Of course she knew. She was the first person you ever told about your ridiculous crush on him, and probably the last. You knew she’d set something up later if you didn’t make a move tonight—and that alone had you shaking your head in silent panic.

But it was already too late.

Out of all the empty seats in the restaurant, Yeonjun made his way to the one right beside you and sat down, casually greeting the table. Your breath hitched. The air around you thickened, your awareness of his presence suddenly heightened.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth, familiar in a way that made your chest ache. “Still stunning as always.”

His gaze lingered on the dress you wore, the one Karina and Winter picked out with hushed squeals and knowing looks earlier that evening. You looked good. You felt good. But under Yeonjun’s gaze, you suddenly felt exposed—like he could read everything you tried to bury behind your quiet smile.

“You clean up well yourself,” you replied softly, your lips curving in a polite smile. Your eyes flickered to his, just for a second, before darting elsewhere—almost as if dismissing the conversation before it could even begin.

It was a habit. One you never quite broke.

And Yeonjun noticed. Always noticed. That was his biggest frustration with you back then. No matter how many times he tried to get close, it always felt like you were slipping away. Like you were building walls the moment he tried to peer in.

Did he make you uncomfortable? The thought had haunted him more than he cared to admit.

But tonight, he wasn’t going to miss his chance again.

“I’ve been doing alright these past few years,” he said, steadying himself. You looked too beautiful tonight to ignore. “It’s really nice seeing you again, you know. You’re… refreshing to look at.”

You smiled, nodding politely. “I can say the same for you,” you murmured, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He blinked. You said it so casually—but the words clung to him like hope. Still, unsure of your tone, he turned his attention back to the group, not wanting to push too hard.

The night wore on, laughter echoing around the table, glasses clinking, and the heady scent of food and alcohol mixing in the air. You were smiling, laughing quietly when the jokes got a little too funny—but always from the edge of the circle, never the center.

Yeonjun watched you more than he watched anyone else.

He noticed the way you covered your mouth when you giggled. The way your eyes sparkled at jokes, especially his. It made him want to say the worst ones just to earn that small laugh again.

Under the table, Winter nudged you with her foot. You turned to her, brows lifting in question. She didn’t speak—just got up, waiting for you to follow. Curious, you did.

She led you to the hallway, away from the buzz of the reunion. The moment you stepped out, she turned to you with wide, excited eyes. “Okay, don’t freak out,” she said, practically vibrating with energy. “Beomgyu just asked if he could take you out to dinner sometime!”

You blinked. “…Beomgyu?”

Winter beamed, looking more thrilled than you felt. Karina trailed behind her, arms crossed with a sigh.

“You mean the same Beomgyu who’s made it his life mission to bully me since freshman year?” you deadpanned, one brow raised.

Winter rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s not bullying you. He’s teasing you. There’s a difference. Besides, he’s into you. Always has been.”

You and Karina exchanged a look—hers unreadable, yours full of disbelief—before silently turning back toward the party.

And still… Yeonjun’s lingering glance at you, the soft tilt of his head, the way your heart jumped at his laugh… that stayed with you longer than you expected.

You returned to the table, trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t racing. You slid back into your seat, offering a half-smile to whoever noticed your absence. Yeonjun’s arm was now resting casually behind your chair, not touching, but close enough that the warmth of his presence made your skin tingle.

You didn't even have to look—you knew he was watching you.

Karina leaned in slightly, murmuring under her breath, “So? What was that about?”

You rolled your eyes. “Winter’s matchmaking again.”

“Ah,” Karina said knowingly, following your gaze to where Beomgyu was laughing with some of your old classmates across the room. “The human embodiment of chaos.”

“He asked if he could take me out,” you muttered, picking up your glass again, lips barely touching the rim. “Winter looked like she was gonna explode with excitement.”

Karina hummed. “And how do you feel about it?”

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to your left—Yeonjun was laughing at something Soobin said, his dimples deep, the corners of his eyes creased in that boyish, devastating way.

“I don’t know,” you said truthfully. “I thought I’d be over him by now.”

Karina gave you a soft look, one that said she knew exactly who him was.

“You can’t just switch off a three-year crush like a light, Y/N.”

You were about to respond when Yeonjun turned to you, voice smooth, confident again, like it hadn’t cracked once back there when he first saw you.

“Hey,” he said, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “You disappeared for a second.”

You swallowed. “Winter needed to talk to me.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a brief moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the table blurred in the background. There was something unspoken passing between you—an almost—but not quite.

You weren’t sure what possessed you in that moment, maybe it was the buzz of the beer, or the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing worth looking at, but you leaned in, just enough, and said, “Did you miss me?”

It was playful. Teasing.

But it landed.

Yeonjun blinked, taken aback—but only for a second. That smile, the one that ruined you years ago, curved back onto his lips.

“Of course,” he said. “You’ve always been a hard one to ignore.”

Your breath caught. Your heart did a little flip-flop thing, and Karina, the ever-present observer, raised her brows behind her glass with a silent finally.

You looked down at your lap for a moment, trying to compose yourself.

Before either of you could say more, someone shouted from across the table, “Truth or drink!”

You groaned.

Yeonjun just chuckled.

Someone shoved a bottle to the center of the table and spun it—glasses were being filled, rules shouted over one another, people already choosing chaos. You thought you might escape this mess, until the bottle slowed… and landed on Yeonjun.

All eyes turned to him.

Soobin grinned. “Truth or drink, Jun.”

Yeonjun glanced at you briefly, then looked back at the table. “Truth,” he said.

Soobin leaned in like this was a setup. “Alright. Did you ever have a crush on someone at this table?”

The table erupted with oooohs and gasps and laughter.

Yeonjun’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

The teasing smile dropped into something softer, something real. His voice was calm when he replied.

“Yeah,” he said. “I still do.”

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t look away—not even when your pulse spiked and Karina elbowed you under the table. Winter’s jaw was practically on the floor.

Yeonjun still had a crush?

You didn’t get the chance to respond—because right after that drop of a confession, Taehyun groaned, “Okay, this is getting too wholesome. Let’s spice it up.”

“I second that,” Beomgyu chimed in, already tipsy and too loud. “Truth or dare, people. Come on, we’re not in middle school anymore.”

The energy shifted instantly. Someone clapped. Bottles were refilled. You laughed nervously, clutching your glass tighter.

Soobin leaned forward, spinning the bottle again, and when it stopped—right in front of you—everyone turned in anticipation.

You blinked.

“Y/N,” Soobin said with a grin, clearly enjoying this too much. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you said without thinking.

“Lame,” Karina muttered, but she was grinning too.

Soobin rested his chin on his hand, tilting his head in that charming, innocent-looking way that was anything but innocent. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Who was your high school crush?”

Immediate chaos.

Winter gasped. Karina started chanting “SAY IT. SAY IT.” The table erupted in whoops and teasing, while you nearly melted into the floor.

You didn’t answer. You were too busy trying not to make eye contact with the one person whose gaze was already burning a hole into the side of your face.

“I’ll drink,” you muttered, reaching for your glass.

“Oh, come on,” Soobin said, still grinning. “Don’t tell me you were into someone boring like Mr. Han from chemistry class.”

“Mr. Han was married,” you shot back, eyes narrowing—but your heart was racing.

“Well, if you're not gonna say it...” Soobin leaned in a little more. “Wanna give me a hint? Was it someone as charming as me?”

That made you laugh, even as your cheeks flushed. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked. “But am I wrong?”

Before you could answer, Yeonjun suddenly shifted beside you. He reached over, his arm brushing against yours—deliberately this time—and took the bottle. “My turn to spin,” he said coolly.

Soobin raised a brow but sat back, clearly amused.

Yeonjun spun the bottle, eyes never leaving yours.

It stopped—on Karina.

“Dare,” she said immediately.

Yeonjun smiled. “Switch seats with me.”

The table went silent. You froze.

Karina blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Yeonjun said, already standing. “Let me sit there—” he gestured at the seat across the table, next to Soobin, “—and you sit here.”

Karina looked at you, then back at him, her expression somewhere between smug and surprised. “Wow,” she said under her breath. “Bold.”

But she stood up anyway.

Yeonjun sat back down—closer than before—and the moment Karina left, he leaned toward you, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I don’t like how he talks to you.”

You turned your head, startled. “What?”

Yeonjun smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Soobin. He flirts with everyone, I get it. But with you? Nah.”

“You’re being—”

“Possessive?” he cut in, eyes flicking down to your lips before returning to your gaze. “Maybe. Can’t help it when it comes to you.”

Your throat went dry.

And then, in the background, Beomgyu shouted, “Okay, next round! And no more skipping dares!”

You didn’t even care.

Because Yeonjun was still looking at you like you were his, and maybe—just maybe—you wanted to be.

“Alright, alright,” Beomgyu hiccuped, eyes glassy with mischief, “since everyone’s too scared to admit their crushes, next round’s dare only.”

Everyone groaned, but Soobin was already spinning the bottle again.

It landed on Yeonjun.

The table collectively ooh’ed.

“You better make this one count,” Taehyun grinned, leaning forward. “We’ve been waiting for years, man.”

Yeonjun leaned back coolly, one arm stretched behind you on the booth’s top. “Hit me.”

Soobin’s grin turned devilish. “I dare you… to kiss the person you had a crush on during high school.”

You choked on your drink.

The table exploded. Winter shrieked. Karina howled like she was on a game show. “THIS IS BETTER THAN NETFLIX!” "This is kinda cheesy." Winter muttered, enjoying the events around her.

Yeonjun looked unbothered. He glanced around, as if thinking, just to tease—then his eyes locked on yours. Steady. Hot.

And before you could react, he leaned in.

You could barely breathe.

His hand brushed your jaw, tilting your face toward him gently. “You okay with this?” he murmured.

You nodded.

His lips brushed yours, soft but sure, enough to set your whole body on fire. It wasn’t a drunken dare. It wasn’t casual. It was a declaration.

The table went dead silent for a moment. Then erupted.

“Oh my GOD—” Winter yelled.

“You two have been the biggest slowburn in history,” Karina said, dramatically wiping away fake tears with a napkin.

You were flushed, dazed, laughing through the heat of your embarrassment. Yeonjun just smirked, brushing his thumb against the back of your hand under the table.

The game kept going, messier now. More drunk, more unhinged.

Karina ended up doing a handstand against a wall.

Winter accidentally confessed her 2020 situationship with Beomgyu that no one knew about.

And eventually, the group started breaking up, people calling Ubers, hugging goodbye, swaying in their shoes.

Karina was flat-out giggling into your shoulder. “I’m gonna throw up in Yeonjun’s car, heehee.”

“You’re not even in his car.”

“Yet.”

Yeonjun appeared at your side, offering his jacket like a silent knight. “You good?”

You nodded. “They’re trashed.”

“I figured.” He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You wanna come with me? I’ll take you home.”

“Can you take all three of us?”

“Obviously.” He looked smug. “But only one gets shotgun.”

Winter hiccupped. “I call trunk.”

Yeonjun helped you both get them into the car, Karina now passed out on Winter’s shoulder in the backseat.

The car was quiet as he drove. You watched the city blur past, heart still racing from earlier.

Karina stirred behind you. “Y/N?”

You turned. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad it’s Yeonjun,” she slurred softly. “He’s like… obsessed with you. Been obsessed since sophomore year. This is me… officially giving my blessing.”

You flushed instantly. Yeonjun laughed, low and soft, his hand gripping the wheel tighter.

“Thanks, Karina,” he said.

Then she added, “Don’t be shy, you can totally make out with her in the front seat. I’m not watching. Zzz.”

You groaned. “Oh my god—”

“Tempting,” Yeonjun muttered under his breath, giving you a teasing side glance that made your breath hitch again.

When he finally pulled up in front of your place, he parked but didn’t turn the engine off.

“I’ll walk them in,” he said, unbuckling. “Then I’ll come back… if you want me to.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat thudding.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

And god, the way he smiled at that?

You knew tonight was only the beginning.

He came back after making sure Karina and Winter were both inside and passed out, leaning on your doorframe like he had no right looking that good after babysitting two grown women.

You were waiting just outside the building, jacket tugged tighter around you, and as soon as he reached you, he tilted his head. “You didn’t go in?”

You shrugged. “Thought I’d say thank you properly.”

“Thank me?”

“For the ride. For not losing your mind dealing with them. For the… dare,” you added, lips curving up slightly.

Yeonjun’s smirk grew. “That didn’t feel like a dare to me.”

You looked away quickly, heart pounding. “Shut up.”

He stepped closer.

“Look at me.”

You did.

The streetlamp cast a soft glow over his face, and god, his eyes—they weren’t teasing now. They were hungry. Honest.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “You’ve always looked stunning. But tonight, you actually destroyed me.”

“Yeonjun…”

He reached out, hand slipping to your waist, tugging you close until your chest nearly pressed against his.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice lower now. “Three years of watching you keep your distance, laughing at my jokes but brushing me off, looking at me like you wanted me but never saying anything.”

“I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I was,” he breathed. “And I still am.”

And then he kissed you again—but this time, it wasn’t soft. It was everything he’d been holding back.

You gasped into his mouth, and that was enough for him to deepen it, one hand cradling your jaw, the other slipping down to your lower back to press you even closer. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself, your knees practically buckling under the weight of him.

His mouth moved against yours, confident, hungry, like he was memorizing every inch of you. And when he pulled back—barely an inch—he whispered against your lips:

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you wanted me back then.”

Your breath hitched. “I did.”

He grinned. “And now?”

You smirked, tugging him closer by the collar. “Now, I want you in my apartment. But let’s start with round two of that kiss.”

Yeonjun groaned, like you were physically killing him. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“You’ve survived three years,” you whispered, “you’ll survive the night.”

And just like that, the door behind you opened with a loud creak—and Karina, bleary-eyed and holding a water bottle, blinked at you both.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “So… we’re past the flirting phase?”

You shoved your face into Yeonjun’s shoulder with a mortified groan while he laughed. "What are you doing in my apartment?"

Karina smirked. “Okay, carry on. I'm leaving... Just don’t make it weird. And tell him you talk about him all the time when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t! ” you yelled.

Yeonjun just beamed, clearly storing every bit of that info for later. “Good to know.”

And when Karina disappeared again, he leaned down one more time.

“Apartment or car?” he whispered.

“Door’s right there,” you said, breathless.

“Then let’s go. I’m not wasting another night not having you.”

You barely made it past the door before Yeonjun had you pressed up against it, his mouth claiming yours like he couldn’t breathe unless he had you. His hands roamed—one sliding up your thigh, hitching your dress up slightly, the other braced by your head.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, and god, he groaned into the kiss like he was finally tasting something he’d been starving for.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he muttered against your lips, "how many times I’ve had to walk away from you because I thought I didn’t stand a chance."

You whispered against his skin, “Then don’t walk away now.”

That flipped a switch.

He lifted you easily, like you weighed nothing, carrying you deeper into your apartment as your legs wrapped around his waist. You were both laughing into each other’s mouths, breathless, drunk off each other, barely able to navigate the hallway from how distracted he was getting with your neck, your shoulder, your little whimpers every time his teeth grazed skin.

He found your bedroom like he lived there—you wouldn’t be surprised if he had the blueprint memorized at this point.

You landed on your back, dress hitched up, Yeonjun crawling over you with the softest grin and the hungriest look in his eyes. His fingers traced your thigh slowly, reverently, and he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Tell me to stop.”

You looked up at him, pupils blown, lips swollen, heart thundering.

“Don’t you dare.”

He kissed you again—slower this time, deeper. Like he was trying to pour three years’ worth of tension, longing, and restraint into every movement. His hands were everywhere—memorizing you, worshipping you like you were something he’d dreamed about for too damn long.

Clothes came off in between feverish kisses and whispered confessions.

“You always made me nervous,” he admitted against your shoulder.

“You made me crazy,” you replied, threading your fingers through his hair.

“You’re making me lose my mind right now.”

You smiled, breathless, lips brushing his. “Good. I want to drive you insane.”

And oh, you did.

Every roll of your hips had Yeonjun cursing under his breath, his grip on your waist bruising as he held you down against him. The friction was delicious, every slow grind of his cock in you dragging a groan from his throat that vibrated against your collarbone as he buried his face there, panting like he was losing control—and god, he was.

“Fuck, baby…” he breathed, hands roaming over every curve, every inch of skin like he didn’t know where to touch first. “You feel—god, you feel so good.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him growl. He pushed his hips up into yours with a desperation that made your head spin, and the sound that left your throat was shameless—needy and breathless and entirely his fault.

“You like teasing me, huh?” he whispered, voice low and ragged as his lips trailed down your neck. “Grinding on me like this… wearing that dress like you didn’t know what it’d do to me?”

His hand slid down, fingers gripping under your thigh to guide your rhythm—slower, deeper, making your breath catch.

“You’ve been in my head for years, Y/N. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your reply was a whimper against his lips, your hands slipping beneath his shirt, nails dragging down his back as your bodies moved in sync—hot, slick, desperate for more but not ready to stop tasting each other yet. He kissed you hard, messy, tongue claiming yours as your hips rolled again, earning another moan from him, rougher this time.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was years of holding back, crashing into one night of hands and mouths and whispered confessions between kisses. A fever that wouldn’t break until you both came undone in each other’s arms.

And he wasn’t stopping until he had all of you—sighs, moans, trembling legs, and whispered “Yeonjun”s falling from your lips like they were meant for him and him only.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet—warm light leaking in through the curtains, casting soft gold over tangled sheets and bare skin. Yeonjun was still on his back, chest rising and falling beneath you, but his eyes—dark, half-lidded, hungry—never left yours.

“Couldn’t get enough last night?” he rasped, voice ruined from moaning your name into the dark hours ago.

You smirked, slow and dangerous, palms splayed across his chest as you leaned down, brushing your lips over his just barely. “Did I say I was done?”

His hands found your hips in an instant—like they’d memorized the shape of you already—thumbs dragging lazy circles into your skin as you sank down on him again, slow and deliberate. The breath he let out? Shaky. Deep. A low groan that shot straight through you.

“Shit, baby—” he hissed, head falling back into the pillow, jaw clenched like he was trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled your hips, grinding against him, watching the way his lips parted, the way his grip on your waist tightened. The way his eyes fluttered shut when you clenched around him on purpose, testing his control.

"You look good like this," you whispered, leaning in, kissing just below his ear. "All needy underneath me."

Yeonjun’s response was to buck his hips up—hard—and you gasped, hands flying to his chest for balance, a moan slipping from your lips before you could stop it. He grinned, smug and breathless.

“Thought you were in charge, sweetheart?”

You were. Oh, you were. And you showed him exactly how much—riding him slow at first, then faster, chasing that high again as the room filled with nothing but the sound of skin meeting skin, choked moans, and the low, filthy things he was whispering against your lips.

“Faster, baby—fuck, just like that—”

“You feel so good—so tight—”

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

It was messy, desperate, bodies slick with heat and want. You moved like you needed him to feel everything—every roll, every clench, every shake of your thighs as you pushed him right to the edge.

And when he came undone beneath you, cursing your name like a prayer, holding you tight like you were the only thing that existed—you knew neither of you were walking out of this as just “friends from high school” again.

No.

This was the beginning of something else entirely.

Your phone lit up from where it had been abandoned on the nightstand, buzzing nonstop like it was ready to expose your sins to the world.

Karina: so???? Karina: did you ride him or nah??? Karina: yk what nvm—i saw his post of you Karina: YOU'RE DONE.

You slapped a hand over your face, burying deeper into the sheets, the scent of him still clinging to every inch of your skin. God. You were sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. Your thighs were still trembling. And to make it worse, you could hear the faint sound of Winter giggling in the kitchen through your phone speaker—she was apparently replaying the video of you stumbling into Yeonjun’s apartment last night, all breathless and flustered.

Then—

Karina: he’s in the shower, right? get in there and make it round 3, queen. don’t let those thighs rest yet.

Your face burned.

Before you could throw your phone into the void, the bathroom door creaked open and Yeonjun peeked out, hair wet, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him like he walked out of a drama fantasy.

“What’s got you hiding like that?” he grinned, leaning on the doorframe. “Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it with one hand, cocky as ever, then walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I left the water running, y’know,” he murmured, hand trailing under the sheets, over your knee. “You can still join me. I’ll be gentle…”

You snorted. “You? Gentle? After last night?”

“Okay,” he laughed, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. “Maybe not. But you weren’t exactly complaining.”

You gave him a shove, but your fingers curled into his towel anyway. “Five more minutes, then I’ll come. You better not waste all the hot water.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smirk, kissing the corner of your lips. “I’ll keep you warm.”

cut to Karina and Winter on the group chat an hour later:

Winter: guys she's not answering. she’s either dead or— Karina: no babe she’s just being put in missionary with love rn. Winter: god i hope so. she deserves it.

The bathroom was warm with steam, water fogging up the mirror as you leaned back against the tile, chest heaving, lips swollen from how hungrily he had kissed you the moment the door closed.

Yeonjun didn’t waste time.

“Turn around,” he whispered, voice hoarse, hands trailing down your hips like he was savoring every inch. “Wanna see you dripping for me.”

And you did. The second your hands touched the wall, he stepped closer—his body flush against yours, hard and already twitching at the sight of your ass arching back toward him.

“Fuck, baby, you don’t know what you do to me,” he groaned, pressing kisses down your neck before biting at your shoulder, making you gasp.

His fingers slid between your thighs, parting you open with practiced ease, teasing your entrance while the water beat down on your skin. “Still so wet,” he murmured, like he didn’t just have you moaning his name minutes ago.

“You gonna keep teasing me or—”

He pushed in all at once.

The moan that ripped from your throat was shameless.

So was the way your hands flew to the wall to support yourself, legs already shaking. “Y-Yeonjun—”

“Say it again,” he hissed into your ear, snapping his hips hard against yours, “Say my name.”

“Yeonjun!”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growled, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. “This pretty pussy’s mine now, yeah?”

You nodded desperately, gasping when he pulled out almost entirely—only to slam back in deeper, harder, hitting that spot that made your whole body jolt.

And he didn’t stop.

He fucked you like he’d been waiting years for this. Like he needed to memorize every sound you made, every time your voice broke from pleasure, every time your walls clenched around him so tight he had to bite back a moan of his own.

The slap of skin echoed with the water, your breath fogging up the glass as your hands braced against the tiles.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m close,” you whimpered, and Yeonjun’s hand reached around to rub your clit in tight, firm circles.

“Come for me, baby,” he breathed. “Let go for me.”

And you did—with a cry, legs trembling, walls fluttering around him like a vice, pulling him right over the edge with you.

He groaned your name into your skin, thrusts becoming erratic until he spilled inside you, hips stuttering before finally stilling. He leaned against your back, kissing your shoulder lazily as the water continued to pour over your bodies.

You were both breathless, soaked, and ruined.

“Holy shit,” you laughed weakly. “That was…”

“A religious experience?” he offered with a smirk, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You swatted at him, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it,” he said, nuzzling into your neck. “And now you’re stuck with me.”

You didn’t say it out loud—but yeah. You were.

Very happily stuck.

The towel was barely hanging on your hips, your legs trembling as Yeonjun scooped you up from the shower floor—literally. You clung to him, chest against his, your head dropping to his shoulder as he carried you out like you were weightless.

“Gonna kill me, Junnie,” you mumbled, voice hoarse, barely audible.

He chuckled, smug and breathless. “You started it, sweetheart.”

“You started it... back in high school,” you slurred, half-sassy, half-gone.

Yeonjun grinned so wide his cheeks ached. “So you have been thinking about me.”

“Nooo,” you whined as he laid you down on the soft of his bed, sheets cool against your heated skin. “Can’t even feel my legs. You broke me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” he teased, tucking the blanket over you and kissing your damp forehead. “You were riding me like a champ twenty minutes ago.”

You groaned, pulling the blanket over your head. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not?” he cooed, slipping under the covers beside you. “I was gonna ask if you were up for another round.”

You yanked the blanket tighter over your face. “Yeonjun.”

“What?” His hand snuck under the blanket to rub gentle circles into your thigh. “You’re the one making those little noises when I kiss your neck like this…” He leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the spot just beneath your ear, smirking when your breath hitched.

“Yeonjun.”

“You’re saying my name again. I love that.”

You peeked out from under the covers, giving him your most exasperated glare. “My pussy’s literally sore.”

Yeonjun’s smirk faltered—but not from guilt. No, he looked even more wrecked by that. He groaned lowly, head dropping to your shoulder. “Don’t say that unless you want me to stay hard forever.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“And you’re irresistible.” He lifted his head, brushing a kiss to your lips. “Get some rest, baby. I’ll deal with the boner you gave me in the shower.”

You blinked at him. “Again?”

“Look,” he said, dramatically. “I got a naked, dripping wet goddess grinding on me, saying my name like a prayer—and then had to carry her limp body to bed. What else was I supposed to do in there?”

You giggled, cheeks burning. “You’re sick.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected, brushing hair from your face. “And maybe a little sick.”

You hummed, snuggling closer. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing the crown of your head. “Sleep, baby. I’ll be here.”

And he was—pressing light kisses to your temple as your breathing slowed, arms wrapped protectively around your sore, satisfied body.

Still hard. Still down bad. Still so stupidly in love.

a/n: hi y'all. I've been gone again for quite a while and my fanfics are rotting in my drafts on wattpad lmao. i made like, another yeonjun fic. DW this ff is already finished but it might take me a while to post it again cause like i said, my laptop broke and editing here on a phone is not efficient. i survived though. LMK IF I FORGOT ANYTHING THAT I SHOULD'VE POSTED.

also, repost the post if you want to be added in the taglist :)) THANKYOU FOR READINGGGG MWAS

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stharchie · 2 years ago

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this is how you introduce yourself to your husband's family 💍👍

i can’t find my post but i still love the idea of sonic and shadow getting married cause they’re bored and that’s what happens while everyone’s on their solo adventures

the thought of them having to explain that they got married without telling anyone is funny to me :3

#it's just something simple but i wanted to do something bruh #BTW ignore Sonic. I know he's weird but I couldn't make it prettier than that.#shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #shadow #sonadow #strawwart #edit: posting again because I didn't see that you had added more ☠☠🤡

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highhhfiveee · 3 months ago

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it’s early morning n i’m at work which means i’d like to escape ☝🏽 [EDIT: i began this at 9 am and it’s now 2:35. customers getting in the way of my budding fiction career!]

cw. smut! minors…if i catch you…

‘company’ by tinashe played on my ride and i was like hmmmm…fwb!sae itoshi?

originally, i thought that sae would be pushing to make things official, but nah. he’s definitely not the type. as corny as it is, his only serious relationship is with soccer. anything outside of that is a fling, just something fun to keep him satisfied between all the stress.

you, on the hand, want him so bad. you’d met him in the dairy aisle of the grocery store, poking him and asking if he could grab a tub of butter down from the top shelf.

he’d done it with no hesitation, but also no enthusiasm. he’d just held it out to you, his eyes scanning over the prices of cheese. your own eyes are trained on him, taking in his ever-present stoic nature and his damp, post-training hair, pushed off his forehead with a headband.

he gave you a peripheral glance, causing you to scramble and ask for another tub of butter…and two bags of cheese.

“anything else?”

he found your flushed cheeks amusing, though he’d never reveal that to you. he was used to this kind of attention from men, women, everyone in between. he’d reached into his playbook, offering, “give me your number and i’ll invite you to a game.”

you’d left the store that day with unnecessary dairy and millions of butterflies in your stomach.

you weren’t a soccer fan really, but you found yourself at every one of his home games, cheering until you lost your voice and could barely make it onto the pitch to give him a hug.

things go on like this for some time; you go to his games and he takes you somewhere after to celebrate. it could be dinner or a bar or even…his apartment, which he brings you to only a few months into your friendship.

after a big win, he’s popping the cork on some champagne and keeping you endlessly refreshed, giggly and bleary-eyed and prettier than he remembers. his eyes bore into you, the tension between your beings a crack of lightning in his dim, well-kept living room.

you’re splayed across his couch, your skirt sliding up your tingly thighs as you rub them together and he thinks, “it’s what a winner deserves.”

he deserves pleasure after pressure, and he’s not oblivious to the way you’ve been eyeing him, biting at your lip and laughing at everything he says like he’s a standup comedian. it’s flattering to a point, almost desperate.

everything happens so quickly, but you don’t mind the whirlwind as it lands you in his bed, pressing the tips of your manicured fingers into his toned abdomen as he gives you thrusts that have you mumbling for a break.

“i know you’ve been wanting this. do you really want to stop?” you hate that your heart explodes at his words, your eyes springing a leak as he grinds your pelvises together, moving one of his hands from your waist to your throat.

the soft, albeit deep, missionary position turns into a deeper mating press, your nails leaving crescents in sae’s pale shoulder blades as you beg him to let you release.

“keep begging and i just might let you…only obedient sluts get to come on my dick.”

he can barely even feel his dick with how wet you are, your equally as soaked face twisting and turning and blushing at his attitude. his arrogance, a turn off on anyone else, always left you reeling. it shouldn’t have sent shockwaves to your core or a tremor through your heart, the way he treated you.

he made you feel like a fan, like every one of your hookups was a meet n greet…

see him, fuck him, leave him. let him, the world class sae itoshi, have his way with you.

let him eat your pussy from behind, gripping your hips and bringing them back against his tongue as it dips into your hole and pulls forward endless streams of come.

let him take a handful of your hair in his hand, pushing your head down until his pubes are tickling your nostrils and your brown lipgloss is smeared all over his thighs, a groan falling from his lips as your throat contracts around his mushroom tip.

hell, let him manhandle you into reverse cowgirl, snapping his groin into you with that same fucking stoic expression, as you wrinkle his sheets between your fingers and cry out a lovesick plea. “oh, sae, p-please come in me.”

you’re not able to catch the way one side of his mouth ticks up, arrogant and shit-eating as it always was. “what’s that?”

his movements slow ever so slightly, allowing you to feel every painstakingly hard inch of him. he’s giving you a way out…kind of. wants to see if you’re serious or just fucked out.

“come in me, please.” you think, just maybe, finishing inside will bridge the gap. he’ll be yours as you feel his load leak out of you, clenching your hole around nothing so that he’ll fuck you again with the same outcome. “i want it so bad.”

he knows what you want. he knows that his come is symbolic of something else, and while he’ll provide you with the physical, he’s in no position to give you the emotional.

your toes curl against his waist as he throbs inside of you, spraying your walls with what should be his love. it should make him pull you up to him and and brush your sweaty curls away from your temples, but it doesn’t.

he only pushes you away from him, sending you face first into his mattress. “you should clean yourself up. i’ve got practice in an hour.”

pt 2: 📌

help, i need to be fucked sideways.

#bllk smut #blue lock smut #blue lock fic #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #sae itoshi smut #itoshi sae smut #faire is writing!#faire needs to be sedated #i wrote this at *work* y’all

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sweetfuchsia · 4 months ago

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ex bf! sae x reader who likes to play around w/ him pt 7

m.list

“okay, now; all you gotta do is just.. pretend we’re getting married!” you beam, a hand reaching up to pat aiku’s broad shoulder. the man’s built well, you’ve got to admit. though, part of you thinks that ex bf! sae is still hotter.

“sure.” aiku purrs, tilting his head at you. his lips curve into a smile, eyes narrowing just a little. he looks good. the man’s wearing a nice suit, fit for a fancy event; because, well. . .

the two of you are having a fake wedding! you even hired all of your friends and even rin to attend. you had to make it believable, after all. how else would you continue to get your revenge on ex bf! sae?

the actual ‘ceremony’ wasn’t too bad. honestly, it was very fun— but if you really think about it, you kind of wish that you could have an actual wedding. a real one, with someone you love.

you wanted that person to be sae— you wanted to marry him and you really wanted it to last. but, unfortunately; the man’s already married to his career. soccer.

so, you don’t feel too bad posting the ‘wedding’ pictures you took with oliver. the guy’s real hot, (not as much as sae,) and you’d be cool with meeting up with him again . . .

but he seems way too into you for someone who you met not even a few days ago. and you’re just not ready for that— i mean, how do you explain to your new partner that you need to prank your ex boyfriend so you don’t feel too bad about the breakup?

when ex bf! sae sees this on his feed, he’s absolutely stunned. you really went through with it?! you married— you married oliver aiku out of all people?!

he doesn’t have a right to be mad and he knows it— but that does nothing to soothe the ache in his heart. did he just get shot? it sure feels like it. his girl isn’t his anymore. but he guesses you stopped behind his ages ago.

so why does this grind on his nerves so badly? he scrolls through the comments— eyebrow twitching in irritation as people gush over you and that— that— that old man! how could you marry someone like that?!

“this was such an unexpected couple but i’m totally here for it!” a comment reads— and ex bf! sae swears he’s about to explode out of pure frustration.

after a day of stewing in his irritation, ex bf! sae hears his doorbell ring. the thought of it being you crosses his mind for a moment, but he has to remind himself thst you’re married. to the most mediocre man he’s ever met, but that’s no matter.

he stands back up, walking over to the door with a sigh— though, the breath gets stuck in his throat as he stares back at you after opening his front door. it’s you.

and… rin?

ex bf! sae’s really confused now. you’re a married woman, yet you’ve come to his doorstep with his brother still wearing your wedding dress and holding a bouquet of flowers. he will admit, this bouquet is much prettier— that can’t mean anything, though.. right?

rin clears his throat, pulling out his phone.

then the second wedding ceremony begins.

“name, do you take sae to be your lawfully wedded husband, to to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him in sickness and health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward as long as you both.. uh, shall live?” rin starts, looking over to you. he feels a little awkward doing this; it’s his first time.. acting as a priest for a wedding.

“i do.” you say, your mouth curving into a wide, giddy smile. this is the funniest thing you’ve done in a while— the look on ex bf’ sae’s face right now is better than the one from the death prank.

“cool. now, do you, sae, take this.. beautiful, gorgeous, funny.. name,” rin pauses, sighing. it seems you edited the script a little. “do you take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you live?” rin continues, the tips of his ears flushing a subtle pink. he sometimes wonders how he got pulled into this.

and with that, you glance to rin; a clear signal to him to.. switch to another app and click on a video. it’s an interview of ex bf! sae, where he says..

“i do.”

ex bf! sae’s face pales, and he shakes his head quickly— this isn’t fair! he’s so confused?! marriage!? is this real?! you’re crazy—

you immediately burst into laughter, lifting your hand to show a cute ring on your finger.

“name, hey—“

he can’t even say anything else before you turn, running down the pathway again as you hold up the skirt of your pretty wedding dress.

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strnilolover · 5 months ago

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٠ ࣪⭑ the first time paparazzi!matt spots famous!reader

warnings : little bit of stalker activities. nothing else?

matt’s body slumped into his couch, a long sigh slipping past his lips as he dug his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. he just settled into his new place—his place away from nick and chris, a place back home in boston.

matt and his brothers moved back to boston not long ago, them all collectively agreeing that they all missed home too much to keep going between L.A and there. so, they ditched their youtube career for the most part, only posting here and there.

now here he was, in his own home, nick and chris also in their respective homes. they all had more than enough money to last themselves, making it just that much easier to find their own homes.

after fishing his phone out of his pocket, he leaned back, resting his head against the back of the cushion. “fuck.” it was too quiet, something he liked, but he wasn’t used to it.

gently, he opened up his tiktok. browsing the for you page as he scrolled past edits of himself and his brothers. social media wasn’t his personal favorite—he was never on it.

suddenly though, his thumb stops. an edit flashing on his screen of a very pretty girl casted in multiple clips. the beat of the song echoed throughout his quiet living room—his eyes zeroed in on your perfect figure.

‘woah..’ was all he could think—his pupils dilating as they locked with yours.

his face grew hot, quickly clicking on the hashtag that displayed your name at the bottom. multiple edits flashed in front of his eyes, along with your own tiktok profile. ‘how have i never seen her before?’ he thought. surely he would’ve known about you, considering he was from boston.

his fingers hovered over your profile, hesitating before clicking down on it. videos of you popped up—looking more prettier than the last. he noticed a link to your instagram in the bio, deciding to navigate there. i mean, he felt like he was already in too deep.

you were cute—no—absolutely beautiful. each photo captured your hair perfectly done, your short skirts and tight dresses showing off every curve of your body. he couldn’t look away.

you were from boston, younger than him of course, by five years. a new coming actress, and someone who modeled and sang as well.

matt could feel the front of his jeans tighten, his dick straining against the front of the fabric. he knew it was wrong to feel this way about someone so much younger than him, but he couldn’t help it.

he had to know more about you—to get closer to you.

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noodlemoondle · 6 months ago

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Drunken Care

Solomon x Reader

word count: 1.3k

cw: drinking/drunkenness, like ONE slightly suggestive scene, nudity? (i’m not rlly sure what to add here)

tags: fluff!, you’re drunk lol, caring solomon, bathing together, literally sleeping together

(idrk what to add here either lolol)

description: you get a bit too drunk at one of Diavolo’s balls and solomon brings you home and takes care of you

author’s note: posting this in honor of the end of obey me. i wrote this like over a year ago when nightbringer first came out so im not rlly a fan of how i wrote it but i rlly didn’t wanna rewrite the whole thing so i just fixed it up a bit. so i do apologize for that and anything i missed. also omfg i edited and fixed this like 3 different times bc tumblr KEPT FUCKING DELETING MY WORK. i was losing my mind but i rlly wanted to post it but i couldn’t post it unedited. also please bear with me as i sort thru all of my fics in my notes before i start writing new ones lolol.

N E wayzz i hope u enjoy!!! ·̀.̫·́✧

Diavolo’s balls were always fun. Sometimes it even seemed as if everyone in all of Devildom was invited to them. It was always fun to socialize and laugh with everyone, but eventually in the night you’d start feel a little left out since everyone would get drunk out of their minds and even though you didn’t necessarily mind the taste of demonus, you couldn’t really get drunk off of it so you don’t really see the point of drinking it. After a while, you’d just go hang out with Solomon since he’d be the only sober one left (not including Barbatos). Diavolo’s kind soul eventually took note this and made sure to get loads of human world alcohol so you and solomon could get as drunk as you please every time you were at the castle. Now this, made Diavolo’s parties the absolute best.

Solomon used to love getting drunk with you, but ever since you both got sent back in time he’s started to watch himself more since he knew how much you loved to get drunk with the brothers and someone needed to be able to watch over you. (and also since the last time he got super drunk he admitted some embarrassing things to you he’d rather not repeat). Tonight was no different, you were drunk out of your mind, greatly enjoying yourself, but it was just starting to get late and you needed to get home. Solomon had to forcefully drag you away before you died from alcohol poisoning (he swears you’re an alcoholic no matter how many times you deny it) you made sure to shoot him an angry glare with your bottom lip slightly poking out for dragging you away so early, but you eventually eased up on the drive home.

Solomon pulled up to the house and before you could get out of the car, he locked the door trapping you inside. In you confused, drunken state all you could do was was angrily stare at him as he made his way around to your door before opening it. He placed one hand on the roof of the vehicle, as he leaned inside to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“I don’t trust you to walk. Come here i’ll carry you.”

His princely act made you lose you forget your childish tantrum, replacing it with a childlike glee as you start giggling at him, jumping into his hold as he lifted you up. As he carried you to the door, you peppered his face and neck with kisses giggling and smiling with every peck you placed on him leaving a faint mark of pink lipstick on his skin. Solomon smiled down at you, adoring your cuteness whenever you got drunk. He begins to walk through the halls as he starts to make his way to the bathroom.

“Sol?” you ask innocently.

“Yes, baby?” he responds looking down and admiring your smile.

“You’re so pretty” you say accompanied with a smile.

“Angel?” he asks.

“Uh huh?” you say giggling obviously appreciating the name.

“You’re even prettier” he replies adding a kiss on your forehead as well.

You gasp and smile so big giggling even more. He looked down at you with all the love in all three worlds as he opened the bathroom door and placed you on the counter so he can start running a bath.

“Sol?” you ask again, beginning to kick your feet back and forth.

“Yes, darling?” he responds with a raised voice as the water begins to run.

“Do you know why i call you Sol?” you question.

He’s heard you tell him millions of times, but he never gets tired of the tale.

“No dear, why do you call me sol?” he says as he turns around to you smiling.

“Well not only is it because it’s a shorter version of your name, but did you know that in spanish sol means sun and you’re like my sun in life so it has two meanings!” you beam at him.

“You’re so cute you know that?” he says as he kissed your cheeks and lips

Solomon doesn’t think he’d ever get tired of telling you that. Telling you how much he loves you, how pretty you are, and how happy you make him. You wrap your arms around his neck as he continues to shower you with kisses. He then pulls away and pinches at your dress.

“C’mon now time to take this off” he says as he’s starting to slide it off your body.

“Why?” you ask him in a flirty tone smirking and tilting your head to the side.

“No. You’re drunk.” lightly slapping your back before kissing you again.

You pout and cooperate, lifting your arms up allowing him to undress you before undressing himself and getting in the bath. Solomon tries to bathe you, but isn’t very successful with you not letting go of him. Ss much as he loves you being a happy and affectionate drunk, you weren’t a very cooperative one. The soft environment and Solomon’s comforting embrace caused you to grow sleepier in the warm bath. He eventually got you to settle on his chest, laying your head on his shoulder, as he thoroughly shampoos and conditions your hair, softly humming.

Soon enough, he’s able to get both of you clean. He wraps you in a towel before bringing you to his room and placing you on his bed. He goes to his drawer to get you both clothes and you can do nothing more but just stare at him in awe as he leans over and picks out some clothes with nothing more than a towel covering his waist.

“Surprised you didn’t throw up. I think you drank your weight in shots. Now, which shirt you wanna wear?”

He said as he turned around only to find you looking at him with the most love struck face he could imagine.

“What are you staring at?” he questioned a breathy chuckle leaving his throat with it.

“You” you answered flatly.

“And who is you?” he teased walking up to you.

“You is my pretty, handsome, perfect, amazing, beautiful boyfriend solomon who i love so so so so so so so so so so SO much” you say looking up at him as if he is the only star in the sky.

“That was a lot of so’s” he laughs as he cups your face with one of his hands.

“I need more of them to describe how much i love you” you give a soft smile as he walks back to the dresser to put on his sleep pants leaving his chest bare while also choosing your sleepwear.

He walks over back to you and dresses you in one of his shirts he knew you favored and a pair of his boxers.

Once he finishes dressing you, he leans you back in bed and tucks you in following soon after. You’re quick to pounce on him the moment he enters the covers. You lay over his chest covering it in kisses, before you begin to settle down and start to fall asleep.

“Sol?” you whisper as quietly as you can. your sleepy voice had to be one of his favorites.

“Yes, angel?” he whispers back.

You move up on his chest getting close to his ear and quietly whisper: “I love you”

He chuckles pressing a kiss against your forehead and leaning down to your ear to mirror your action.

“I love you even more.” he whispers even quieter. it was a statement he made just for you, so only your ears should hear it.

You smile and bury yourself back into his chest, but before you could fall asleep you can feel him kiss the top of your head and smile against your head saying.

“You’re gonna regret drinking so much tomorrow”

#obey me solomon #om solomon #solomon x reader #obey me #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #obey me x you #obey me x y/n #obey me nightbringer #obey me shall we date #obey me fluff #solomon fluff #solomon x mc #solomon x you

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isa-mocha · 8 months ago

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For those who like a peek behind the curtains of animation production:

This is a scene I worked on for episode 4 of The Legend of Vox Machina season 3. I did the storyboards, Eugene Lee directed the episode and the editors put together the final animatic you see above (did some re-editing, added music and sound effects). As you can probably tell, the audio is temp track with a mixture of Luis Carazo and Travis Willingham doing the voice of Zerxus . There were some line edits late into the animatic stage, so Travis recorded a temporary track before they brought Luis back to re-record the lines for the final animation edit.

In regards to the Calamity flashback panels: I pitched to Travis and Sam (the show runners) the idea of keeping the stained-glass motif from the original Calamity portraits. They loved the idea! I'm obviously not a stained-glass designer/artist, so the boards are super rough hahaha. The Art department of Titmouse took the core ideas from the boards and made the final images 10000 x prettier!

I'm super glad the fans enjoyed that part of the episode! I hold this scene very close to my heart <3

Here are some other shots of Zerxus that never made it into the final animation:

And some rough boards for reference (which also got cut early on and/or changed by the time I cleaned up the panels):

I'm happy to answer questions about the behind the scene, just drop me a comment!

See you on my next making of post: The bathtube scene! U3U

#storyboards #storyboard artist #vox machina #lovm season 3 #lovm #behind the scenes #making of #animatic #zerxus ilerez #pike trickfoot #Episode 4: Hell to Pay

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elliesfreckle · 4 days ago

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over & out | radio au |

▶• ılıılıılılıılıılı. 0

previous | next

📟 : record two 𖣠 white noise and wrong stars

⏯ synopsis : you’re a voice on the other side of the radio. she’s your wrong frequency — a mistake. a fortune, maybe, at the edge of a devastated world. you never told her your name. she never asked what you looked like. but when the nights get colder, in a world full of silence, you keep talking.

⏯ pairing : ellie williams & fem!reader

⏯ content warning : swearing; canon tlou after outbreak world; idk and prob edit it later

⏯ word count : 4.7k

⏯ a/n : HELLO we did it! today is the day! i have passed (away) the exam (two more left)! wont say much 'cause i died while proofreading, editing and uploading this shi on tumblr. and im REALLY sorry if there are so many stupid mistakes that you'll ban me forever. trust me i hate being perfectly literate in my native language while writing english like a 9 year old boy. but! i have to thank you all for how gently you embraced this idea and for your support. special shoutout to @losing-it-lately youre SO SWEET, and i loved that crazy night talk.

promise ill learn how to make posts prettier, maybe even create a masterlist and a playlist. flirty reminder that your reblogs and comments feed my soul

also if you wanna be tagged in the next chapter, let me know. for now, enjoy ♡

The one constant thing about the broadcast room in the Great Falls quarantine zone is that it’s freezing cold no matter what. This chill has been dwelling deep inside your bones for years. Not the kind that bites, but the kind that settles over your skin like a breath held too long.

And yet, sometimes you keep forgetting to bring a threadbare sweater on your night shifts. Like tonight. But there are nights in which you don’t need any of it, because the world you’re forced to live in doesn’t let you feel comfort too often. It wants you to keep in mind that given life is fragile, and might be taken back whenever the world pleases. Your blood runs cold every time the sent patrols go silent.

Like tonight, again.

Outside the narrow window, evening fades away and coming night stretches wide and endless, clinging to window frame like wet lining. The air has that strange, waiting stillness—too quiet, too heavy—that lingers in your lungs and makes it hard to breathe. Crickets hum faintly in the grass (you can hear them even from your radio cell on the highest floor), but even they sound unsure, like something’s pressing down on them from above. Birds are hovering in the low sky, almost bruising tree crowns with their angled wings. Their calls warn you. A bug cracks with all its tiny power into the glass of the windowpane, attracted by the lamp’s light. You flinch.

The pine trees don’t move. Not yet.

They stand stiff and dark against the horizon, their needles limp in the air, knowing what’s coming.

You can feel it too—not in sound, but in pressure, like something biding just beyond the edge of hearing. For days, the weather’s been thick with it—heat that doesn’t lift even after sunset, that makes the floors sweat and tempers run short. Checking the weather is one of your responsibilities too—radio signals are capricious with changes in the air, and with years it became a sense, not a science. You’ve learned that from the specific shapes of clouds—or their absence, the shade that sun has at the dawn; you’ve been watching birds and stray cats, as they are the first early harbingers of storms. You like to think they share sacred knowledge with you. Leaving your post on grey mornings, you can tell if it’s going to rain just by looking at the dew. And that definitely won’t be modest to claim that you have some skills in handling forecasting tools. Smartass, they call you.

So now you keep thinking the sky will crack open and bleed it all out.

But it doesn’t. Not yet.

The radio crackles softly beside you, calming like an old friend, warming like embers popping in a dying fire. Yes, in four walls of the radio station there is still cold.

And still no sign of the patrol.

You lean forward, elbow on the desk, the familiar ache of exhaustion in your shoulders. Something’s telling you it’s going to be a long shift. The transmission button is worn smooth, paint rubbed away years ago by hands just like yours, probably older. The headset squeezes your head—a relic that somehow survived the outbreak. You forgive it the discomfort. Most nights. You adjust it out of habit—the ear padding still crooked from the last shift.

You press the button down.

“This is Homebase calling AA40B. Do you copy?” A heartbeat-long pause. “AA40B, check-in, you’re two hours overdue. Report your position.”

You count to five. Then ten. Dead air. This is the first radio term you ever learned—not from a book, not from a manual, but in the heavy silence beside someone older, more practiced. You must’ve been sixteen. Maybe younger. Watching, listening and realizing that sometimes, absence speaks louder than any broadcast.

Dead air means something has gone wrong. Someone important, who never spoke through the white noise again.

It stays with you—static coiling around your ribs, slow and taut like wire. You’ve never forgotten the weight of it, because now it’s here again.

Flipping to a fresh page in the logbook, you scribble the call sign again, even though the page already looks like a graveyard of unanswered calls:

18:04 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — Received scheduled check-in from AA40B. Background static, but no incidents reported.

18:15 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — Attempted contact with AA40B. Negative. Assumed out of range unit. Logged for follow-up.

18:24 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — Logged inactivity. Next scheduled check-in ???

20:02 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — No response.

Silence. It is always about silence at the end. You’ve faced the same ends of different stories too many times. However, you’re just a radio operator, aren’t you? A messenger. The one whose face people barely remember. They know you for your voice. They hate you for it; they hate to hear it in moments of another acknowledgement of things going wrong. But this is not your fault, right? You receive news—then you report. Bad news—report. No news? Report. So you file the report like always. No sirens. No raised voices. Just protocol, neat and quiet. Loss isn’t rare enough to stop the day. Or night. Collateral damage, they call it. Lives.

The last entry in the logbook is smudged—ink dragged by the heel of your palm in a moment of distraction. You underline the status. Twice. You want to breathe, really breathe. Tear off the headset, heavy and too tight; let your pulse settle in open air, feel your shoulders drop for once. Shake off the weight of duty.

But protocol says stay.

So you do.

Anchored in your chair (as old as the headset), waiting for something. Or nothing.

The clock on the wall is old, its plastic yellowed with age, but it still ticks with rude efficiency. Every second lands like a drop of water in an empty basin.

You count minutes by it — minutes left until the next scheduled check-in. The last one for the night. The one you’re not expecting to go any differently.

A small glass jar sits near the base of the radio, filled with dried wildflowers you picked earlier that summer. Yarrow, tansy, bluebells gone brittle in the heat. It doesn’t belong here—not among the grey buttons, frayed wires, and institutional gloom—but you brought it anyway. Something to look at while the hours crawl.

You clear your throat. You don’t bother sounding official anymore.

“This is Homebase. Again. Check-in.” You swirl a faded yellow petal in your fingers. Squeeze it until your fingertips are covered with its sticky powder. “I repeat—AA40B, answer my call. Report the situation. Have you got any troubles? This is channel ninety-four point seven, if you’re suddenly unaware. Be advised, Lisa, if you don’t respond your mother will fucking murder me. Slowly.”

You let the words trail off, resting your fingers lightly on the worn edge of the desk.

The kind of joke born from routine.

Lisa and you had planned to grab dinner after her shift next week—you weren’t close; maybe you would’ve been. It was supposed to be the first. A small thing. And now just…undone. Silence folds back over the room like a heavy blanket. Your peripheral vision catches something alike with a flick of lightning far away. Just a second that might be a play of your overwhelmed mind. Just a second. Then—

Click.

Soft; barely there. But unmistakable—not static. Not interference.

Someone pressed something.

Your body reacts before your mind does—a tightening in the chest, a shift in the gut. The way this familiar frequency is talking to you now: you can recognize its hiss among the thousands of others. And this one is totally different. Something unusual is happening.

This isn’t protocol, isn’t your patrol.

And there’s no call sign.

Just a breath, maybe. A small, ambient shuffle of noise—a movement. Someone is there. And then, at last—a voice cuts through. You will think about it many times later; you’ll try to replay this moment like an old tape, always returning to the second she spoke to you. You will lie for that voice. And you will—

“Who the hell is Lisa? And…who the hell are you?”

A beat. Long pause. The silence stretches, tense, uncertain. She’s close to the mic. No headset, no filter. Unmistakably not Lisa. But someone who’s used to surviving, not asking questions.

The voice doesn’t match anything you were expecting—sharp and low, with a slow drawl that sounds like it's been roughened by time and too many cold mornings. She doesn't sound scared, but she sure as hell sounds like someone who’s ready to pull a knife if you so much as breathe wrong. And as for your breathe…it’s more than wrong. Something about her makes you sit up straighter. You glance down at the console, thumb hovering over the mic: 94.7.

That should be right. That’s the patrol’s frequency; it has been for months. You double-check the band anyway, twisting the dial just enough to hear the edge of the next channel before snapping it back.

How the hell—?

Maybe the storm’s fucking up with the signals. That happens sometimes. Reflections bouncing off mountains. Electromagnetic interference. Whatever excuse science likes to throw at you when something strange happens in the middle of the goddamn night.

Your understanding of fate is called science.

“Are you ghosting me now?” Your stomach dips with another question from her. You forgot to reply. Do you really have to do it? Probably not. But damn—curiosity and boredom are louder than reason. And you want it. Badly.

You clear your throat, shift your weight in the creaky chair, and press the button.

“Uhm…Hello.” Suddenly, you don’t know what to say. You—the person who spent years talking to strangers over the radio—and now you’re mute. “I’m here. But you’re not supposed to be on this channel, are you?”

A soft scrape of fabric brushes the mic—like something is shifting on the other edge. Another pause. You can hear the smile in her voice before she even speaks.

“Nope. Definitely not.”

Her voice sounds younger now, almost smug. The way she says it—calm, sure, like she has a knife in one hand and her finger on the trigger with the other, makes your pulse skip. Calm. Dry. Like she’s holding back either a laugh or a warning. On the edge of your mind you wonder how old she is. Could you be peers? Some people define age by looking at someone’s palms. Your trained hearing doesn’t require watching to see things.

You pull a thin blanket tighter around your shoulders; you keep it here special for night shifts and instead of forgotten jackets. Moths ate through its fabric; holes stare at you like frightened eyes or twisted mouths.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the low hum of the equipment, the way twilight sky is fading navy, and your lamp is the only source of light. There’s no one else in the room: just you, just her. And the strange, thin thread of static connecting your two points of the map.

She doesn’t break the silence again, allowing you to take your time and think. Lead the dialogue or end it. She gives you choice.

You don’t even know her name.

But somehow, in this moment, that feels like the least important part.

“So…first of all, I must ask: do you need any urgent help?”

The question comes out too formal, like you’re reading off protocol.

“Do I sound like I need help?” The mic chuckles faintly with the sound of her voice. You knew the answer, but you had to ask. Just in case.

“Right now I’m not sure if I should answer at all,” you say. Does she hear the smile curving in the corners of your lips? “You’re not in danger, looking for signal to save you?”

“Save me? No way.” Her tone dips low, husky at the edges. A pause. There’s a smirk—quick and barbed—but it doesn’t soften fully. You figure out that she speaks like someone who’s used to being heard but never really listened to; that happens to people who don’t speak much.

Each of her words clipped just enough to sound in control, laced with amusement sharp around it. There’s warmth in it, sure, but distant warmth, like fire through glass. You catch the tail end of a sigh. “I’m fine. No danger. And even if I were, what’d you do? Send a helicopter?”

This. Even in her irony, something stays braced, like she’s talking with her back still against the wall.

You huff a soft laugh. Involuntary. You better think on what the hell you are even doing. You better think twice before the answer. But you choose to play her game.

“Just a helicopter? I have a whole rescue team for losers like you.” probably you don’t think even once, replying.

“Enjoy saving losers?” She baits.

“I’m here daily for it.” You bite.

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“What ‘bout nights?”

You lean back slightly, flexing your aching fingers. The headset hums with a tiny echo of her voice and some static. There’s a rhythm forming here—and it isn’t protocol. You’re treading on thin ice. Almost dancing.

You glance at the faint, flickering bulb above you—the only company in this concrete box you’ve half-started calling home. The air smells like warm dust and coil-burned wire. Silence is hovering, like she’s waiting for you to laugh or shoot back some banter, because she has no idea how long it’s been since anyone spoke to you like that.

Your finger lingers over the transmit button. You press it, slower this time.

“Nights are for ghosts and dead batteries,” you realize how desperate that must’ve sounded, and add, “You fit right in.”

The girl scoffs. You’re not sure if she’s smiling or offended. Or just listening. A low crackle fills the space between you. If you close your eyes, will she remain on the border of your signal? Or will she vanish into the white noise?

You don’t want to know, so your eyes are open. Surreal night.

The connection falls quiet again. That particular silence that means someone is thinking. You interrupt it with another question:

“How did you catch this frequency?”

The response comes, broken and crackling:

“By random? I was—”

The rest is swallowed by static. Not loud, but needling. Noise spilling through the line like wind through the flung open window.

You wait, leaning toward the console, squinting as if that might help decipher the pattern in the interference. You try again, more precisely this time.

“Take on the headset. Your sound is shit.”

A pause. Some fumbling on her end. You hear what might be a soft grunt, the clang of something metal.

“Didn’t think it’d make any difference,” she mutters, half-off mic. “Hold on… I don’t see any— Oh. Here it is. Looks terrible.”

Only God knows what’s going on over there. Something to do with wires and dust, maybe. There is a clumsy thud, then a hiss, then the faintest muttered curse. Whatever it is—they’re putting up one hell of a fight. You smirk silently.

Finally, a low rustle, then—click.

“Well. Fine. Do you hear me now?”

And just like that, you do. You almost regret the suggestion.

Her voice lands crisp, close—like it’s suddenly right behind your ear, not scattered across states. The line is clear enough to catch the curve of her vowels, the scrape of dry amusement under the words.

Oh, you do.

It’s the kind of voice that makes you forget the question. The kind that holds back more than it gives—something low, a little rough, but sharpened and steady, like she’s watching you through the wire and dares you to blink first.

So you blink. Swallow.

“Yes.”

No more, no less. You decide to keep your freaky thoughts to yourself.

She hums, then moves: now you can hear it perfectly well, trying to imagine this natural movement. You fail.

A shift in your seat, the chair creaks. The room suddenly feels smaller. Warmer?

She’s the first to speak.

“What’s with your, how did you call it, AA40C?”

You correct her out of habit—and to buy time.

“Forty-B.”

A beat. Your ink-stained finger hovers the transmit button a moment too long. The clock mocks you—shame prickles beneath your collar. You’d completely lost track of time. And of the patrol.

“I can’t share this information with someone from beyond.”

You hesitate to call her a stranger. You must be losing your fucking mind. You add a half-smile into the mic, though she can’t see it. The words aren’t harsh, but there is a line in them—clear, official, practiced. One you’ve been taught to hold. You almost feel like apologizing—which is absurd. Unfamiliar. Not like you.

Her reply is quick, clipped.

“Fair enough.”

But something in her tone curls at the edge. Like she’s testing you, just to see how far the signal stretches. It’s not like she’s interested in all your military secrets, but like she has some interest in you. Or you’re just fantasizing things.

Her voice lingers in the headset—that grainy warmth, half static, half smirk. She doesn’t let it drop.

“Where are you talking from then?”

You freeze for a breath. The words are simple, innocent-sounding, but they land sharp. You’re not supposed to—

“I can’t—“

“Jesus. C'mon.” A scoff, close to the mic. Her voice crackles at the edges. “Such coincidences happen once in a lifetime. Ain’t you curious?”

You are, and this is the problem.

You hesitate, eyes fixed on the dull glow of the frequency dial. You’ve followed protocol a hundred times before. But it doesn’t feel like protocol—not anymore. You tell yourself it’s fine. Montana’s a big place. Nobody would guess.

“Ugh… Montana.”

There’s a bit of silence on the other end, then a click of her tongue.

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“Girl, you're so fucking paranoid.”

You huff through your nose—not quite a laugh. She’s not wrong. You hadn’t realized how tight you were holding the line—like names could unravel something if spoken too clearly.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” you answer, steadier than you feel. “It’s safer. For both of us.”

“Let it be.”

There’s a shift in her tone that might come with leaning back, chin tilted, daring you.

“Then you can call me…” A beat. A mock-dramatic sigh. “Damn Jackson.”

You blink at the console, then laugh before you can stop it. It catches in your throat. The name drops like a pebble in a well. Small, almost casual. Echoing. You know the name. Most do. A settlement too far south. Rumored to be peaceful. Overgrown with good soil and better people. Rumored, at least.

You let yourself savor the answer. Like you need to place her somewhere on a map just to stay grounded. Small details start to shape her features in your mind.

“Jackson’s not even a state, dumbass.”

“Wyoming doesn’t sound cool at all.”

Her voice flattens with false seriousness. You imagine a shrug. A smirk, maybe. Something self-aware but distant—like she’s drawing lines in the sand just to rub them out a moment later.

The words slip out without thinking.

“It kinda does.”

Are you still talking about names?

You slightly frown, eyes scanning your table, though there’s nothing to see. You raise an eyebrow.

“And why would you tell me your place?”

“It’s not really mine, is it?” A pause. “Just a name.”

You bite your lip. She’s still playing. Still keeping her real cards hidden, just like you. But the word Jackson settles into your memory heavy. Like it matters.

Like you’ll be writing it down later, in a space not meant for records.

There’s a lull again. Not awkward—just stretched thin. Like neither of you wants to admit the conversation has no more ground to stand on.

You glance at the clock. It’s later than you’d thought. Your logbook lies open beside you, the last line still unfinished.

“You should go,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

You don’t add what you’ve begun to notice—how her breathing has slowed between sentences, how the edges of her voice soften, just slightly, like the weight of the night is finally catching up to her.

She’s clearly not home.

Not even on watch. Just… out there.

Wherever she is, it’s not where she’s supposed to be. You hear it in the way she pauses more often now; in how the static doesn’t quite hide her quiet exhale. The kind people let out only when they’ve been running too long.

She’s lost. For now.

And somehow, you don’t want to keep her any longer. Not out of duty—but because something in you wants her to rest. Just a few hours. Just until dawn.

Even if you’ll never know where she lays her head.

Even if she never calls again.

“You gonna report me?”

It’s half a joke. Maybe.

You answer before thinking.

“Not if you promise not to show up again.”

Do you want her to show up again? That’s another question. The one you’re not going to think on.

“Harsh.” You hear her shift—maybe the creak of a table beneath her elbow. “Guess I’ll just get lost then.”

Her tone is light, but something flickers underneath.

You hesitate, then add—

“Batteries don’t last forever anyway.”

That earns you a breath of static shaped like a laugh.

“Neither do ghosts.”

The silence that follows is different. Not quite goodbye. Just long enough to say something without needing words. The button waits beneath your touch, untouched. You sigh.

“Well, Jackson. Over and out?”

You try to make it sound casual, like it doesn’t matter if she answers.

But she snorts — soft, amused.

“What does that mean?”

“Uhmm… it’s like ‘bye’ in radio slang. Some kind of etiquette.”

Another pause. This one warmer.

“Then over and out, Montana.”

You smile—not that she can see it. But feel, maybe.

Your hand slips from the button. You expect silence. Expect her to vanish into space, like she was never there.

But then, you remember something:

“Oh. Wait.”

There’s a second you think she’s gone. You hold your breath, unintentionally. Your knuckles brush the edge of the transmitter, hesitating. Her voice comes through quiet, no louder than an exhale.

“Yeah?”

“Storm’s coming. Stay safe.”

You wait—half-expecting her to follow it with a joke, or some snide comment about the clear skies.

But she doesn’t. You wonder if she hears it too—that strange pressure in the air. That breathless weight.

Her answer is simple.

“I will.”

And somehow… that’s enough.

The line goes quiet. Not with a pop or sudden crackle—just…softer. As if her breath was still caught in the waves of signals, and then even that lets go. An act of disappearing without curtain call.

You don’t realize how much noise she’d brought with her until it’s gone.

Now there’s only the faint hum of the equipment; the low buzz in your skull, and underneath it—a hush that finally feels real. It presses against your ribs. Wraps around the base of your neck. Heavy, still. Known.

You lean back slowly, letting the weight of it all settle in. Shoulders drop, the holey blanket slips onto the floor—loud in the absence of her voice. Your body reminds you that it’s late. That your eyes sting. You haven’t moved for too long. And you sit there, still, another minute, or maybe more. You don’t know why.

You haven’t touched the dial since she stopped talking. Since that sharp and guarded voice cut through the wrong frequency and landed in your hands like something not meant to be held.

You should log it.

You should log everything.

You reach for the journal and stare at it for a long time. The pen dangles on a piece of string, tied to the corner of the desk. You’ve lost too many not to do it this way. It hovers in your hand. No idea what to write. A few entries above, your own writing stares back at you—neat, all-caps block letters. You draw a line underneath it, slow, deliberate. Then glance back at the console, the frequency is still open. But she’s gone. You press the pen to the paper.

20:27 — Unknown signal —

You pause, biting your lip. Hell. No words come. You don’t write what she said. Or what you said back. Instead, you cross this line out and turn to the next page. A blank one, cleaner. Further from truth.

20:28 — atmospheric interference — ghost frequency spill. No contact established.

You underline it once; like that will make it true. Then you flip the page, just in case someone else reads it in the morning.

You know it’s not procedure. But you also know how it works: unofficial frequencies are monitored sometimes. If the others find out you spoke to someone from another city—someone who shouldn’t have been there—they’ll shut it down. Change the band. Pull your shift. Maybe worse.

You close the book and push it at the edge of the desk. Your fingers tingle, thumb is awkwardly ink-stained as before. You don’t bother to wipe it. Just tilt your head back and close your eyes.

The silence hums, her voice lingering in your mind—

and it’s yours to keep.

Ellie doesn’t remember the walk back.

Morning mist obscures the sound of her steps, hides her uneven silhouette. She’s smoke, a breath of wind in the ferns. She’s at the edge of there and nowhere.

By the time she’s near the gates behind the west trail, the trees whisper above, restless with the wind that hadn’t been there an hour ago. She swears it wasn't. Light spills over the treeline—pale and uncertain, like it’s not sure it should be here yet.

Jackson's lights bloom like low, tired fireflies. The gates creak open just past dawn. Someone nods to Ellie from the watchtower. She lifts a hand, doesn’t stop walking.

As she reaches home, the door groans as she pushes it open. Inside, the air is still—cooler than outside. Ellie doesn’t bother turning on the light. Her shoes leave dark shapes on the floor, soles soaked from dirt. She shrugs off the backpack, peels off the outer jacket, and kicks at her converse until one tumbles sideways and stays that way. No sign of Joel. She doesn’t check. The weight of everything settles in the quiet. The shirt—one of her favorites—clings to her back, damp with sweat and dust. She scratches at her wrist, smearing a thin line of dried mud. She’ll shower later. Maybe. Exhaustion pulls her to the ground.

She has a couple of hours before they will need her.

Ellie sinks onto the couch like the bones have gone out of her. Face-down, arm tucked under her head, too tired to change. Her knuckles sting a little—a scraped corner from earlier—but it barely registers. Her brain floats somewhere shallow. Not asleep. Not fully awake. Just drifting.

She blinks once. Twice. Between those blinks, a voice brushes the edge of her thoughts, like a skipped page in a journal. It’s not clear at first—just a wordless shape, like a whisper behind closed doors. But then it forms: “you’re not supposed to be on this channel, are you?”

Ellie doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t not smile either.

She hears it before she sees it—the soft tap-tap-tap on the glass. That type of rain that starts tentative, as if asking permission. She turns her head, watches the droplets race each other down the pane.

Ellie exhales, low and long, and lets her eyes close.

The storm came after all.

#overnout #ellie tlou 2 #ellie williams #radio au ellie williams #fanfic #ellie x fem reader #ellie fanfic #the last of us #i def forgot one more tag #x fem!reader #sapphic #wlw #lesbian

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