#these asks are so warm and sweet and lovely to answer

[marvelstoriesepic]

Halfway to Saying It

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You agree to a date with another guy to forget about the boy you’ve loved forever, only to acknowledge that your heart keeps finding its way back to him.

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: pining; emotional hurt/comfort; unresolved feelings; self-worth worries; perceived unrequited love; jealous!Bucky; sad!Bucky; two idiots in love

Author’s Note: This took me a while to write and post, but now it’s here, so please bear with me. It’s part of my little roommate series A Window Open to the Moon, but can be read as a standalone. And y’all, these two are idiots here, I’m not even exaggerating. But they’re idiots in love, and I’ll be honest, this could be me lmao. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“I’m feedin’ the cat.”

Bucky’s voice sounds like he is announcing something so important it should have come with a press conference.

You’re standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a half-empty iced coffee sweating in your hand, the strap of your bag still hanging off one shoulder. You’re not even sure why you came in here. To tell him, you think. Because you always tell him things. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.

And this might be the stupidest thing yet.

“He asked me while I was waiting for my order,” you continue softly. “Said he liked my sweater.”

Bucky still doesn’t look at you. He’s bent over Alpine’s dish as though he is performing surgery, shaking dry kibble into the bowl with intense concentration, as if getting the measurement right might save a life.

The tiny white kitten trots up on quiet feet, tail high, and starts crunching away.

“I’m feedin’ the cat,” he mutters again, scooping out the tiniest bit of pâté as though it is a peace offering.

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

You chew on your bottom lip, watching his broad back and how his shirt pulls at the shoulders when he moves.

“And, um,” you keep going. “I said yes.”

His hand stills mid-pour.

There is a pause. A second. Maybe two.

Bucky is still crouched there, as though Alpine’s lunch is the most emotionally taxing task of the century. As though he isn’t listening, but you know he is. Bucky always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.

You cross your arms, trying not to feel the cold silence between you. You try to fill it.

“He was nice. Funny. A little awkward, but sweet.”

Nothing.

You blink. A small laugh slips past your lips, a little uncertain. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make a joke like he usually would. You watch the way his jaw shifts, that muscle in his cheek ticking just barely, and for some reason it makes your stomach flutter in the wrong kind of way.

“Sounds great, doll.” He sounds distant. Bucky gives Alpine a little scratch behind the ears. She mewls softly, nuzzling his fingers as though she tries to reassure him.

“I’m not gonna marry him or anything,” you add with a nervous chuckle, because now you feel ridiculous. You wish you hadn’t said anything.

With a grunt, he scoops another time.

“Buck, I think she’s had enough.”

“Nah,” he says, but his voice is quieter. “She’s small. She’s still growin’.”

He won’t look at you. That’s the part that starts to hurt. Really hurt. Bucky always meets your eyes, always smirks a little, always throws you some teasing quip that makes your chest ache in the most confusing ways. But he’s not doing any of that.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

His head tilts just slightly. Still facing Alpine. He shrugs one shoulder and it seems the movement costs him something. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” you answer quietly. “You tell me.”

The sound of Alpine’s chewing seems almost exaggerated now, as though she is mocking you with tiny, delicate crunches.

“He really seemed nice,” you offer, unsure who you’re trying to convince.

“Hm.”

“He has a rescue dog named Harold.”

“A real winner.”

You pause.

“Bucky.”

He stands. Slowly. Still doesn’t look at you.

The kitchen is too quiet, too warm. The sunlight is cutting across the counter in slanted golden lines, hitting the edge of the fridge where you stuck a magnet that says Do not eat my leftovers unless you wanna lose a finger. His handwriting. Sharpie. Bold strokes.

He finally turns, arms folded across his chest, his hair a little messy in the front as though he’s been raking a hand through it. His grey shirt fits him too well and he’s wearing those flattering pajama pants and socks with tiny cartoon bananas on them.

The domesticity of him hurts your feelings.

“So,” he acknowledges, voice too level. “You’re going on a date.”

You try to smile, and it feels crooked on your face. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

He nods. One of those tight, one-second-too-long kind of nods.

“That’s great,” he says, and it is, objectively, the worst lie anyone has ever told.

You tilt your head at him.

He looks down at Alpine’s bowl, which now contains enough for a three-course meal and a snack for later.

He leans down to pick up a kibble Alpine flung on the tile and you watch him fuss with the bowl as though it holds the answer to every question he’s too scared to ask.

She has enough food in her dish to survive at least three mild apocalypses. One more scoop and she might unionize.

You lean your hip against the doorframe, iced coffee sloshing in your hand. “You know, I think she’s good, Buck. Pretty sure she’s full.”

Bucky shrugs again. His favorite gesture when he doesn’t want to tell you something. And he doesn’t. Not always. His silences can be long, sleepy rivers you’re always tempted to wade into, just to see if he’ll pull you under or let you drown in the quiet.

“I’m makin’ sure.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

Bucky sighs. Scratches the back of his neck as though it itches with something.

You look at him for a long moment. Let yourself really look. He won’t really meet your eyes which means you can see everything else. The way his jaw keeps tightening, loosening. The faint pink blooming high on his cheeks like embarrassment is trying to sneak out of him. The way his fingers twitch as though they want to do something - as though he is trying to put the world back in order but keeps dropping all the pieces.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he remarks eventually, and it comes out too fast. Too quiet. As though maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Your heart gives a little jolt. Stupid thing. Useless thing. Always hoping.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, fiddling with a spoon for no reason at all. “I dunno. Just- Never thought you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t even know what type he is.”

“I can guess.”

You keep your arms crossed. “And what do you think my type is?”

And Bucky looks at you. Right into you. And there is something like grief in his expression. As though you dropped a stone in his stomach and now it’s sinking, dragging the rest of him down with it. “Not guys who can’t spell their own name without checking their Instagram bio.”

You snort. “You don’t even know if he’s that kind of guy, Buck.”

“Again,” he repeats flatly. “I can guess.”

You bark out a laugh, mostly because it’s that or burst into tears. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grins, just for a second, and you want to wrap it in tissue paper and tuck it in a drawer. Keep it safe. Look at it later.

There is a pause. Long and soft. The kind where breathing feels like breaking the rules.

You pick at your fingers. “He just asked. I thought - maybe I should say yes. Try something new.”

Bucky nods again. Slower this time. “Yeah,” he states, voice low. “Makes sense.”

He then he watches Alpine - sweet, nosy, manipulative Alpine - as she rubs up against his ankle and then immediately loses interest, padding off to lie dramatically in the sunbeam on the floor as though she is done with both of you. Probably is. Probably thinks you’re idiots.

“She’s gonna get fat if you keep feeding her like this,” you state plainly.

“She’s emotionally complex,” he mutters, but his voice sounds far away.

There is something hanging in the air now. Something heavy and slow, like a fog rolling in off the coast of a conversation you weren’t ready to sail into.

You look down at your coffee cup. Consider how this all feels. How he feels.

Standing, but stiff, his back drawn tight. The sleeves of his soft shirt stretch over his shoulders. He is so present. So here. A permanent thing in your life. Familiar. Necessary. You’ve had him next to you for years, the way you have your favorite hoodie, or the chipped mug you refuse to throw out because it feels like home in your hands.

You take a breath.

“Look,” you start sweetly. “I know you worry, Buck.”

He freezes. Lets out a heavy breath. His shoulders shift.

You assume he knows just how worried he gets. He worries when you get home late and forget to text. He gets all twitchy when you wear that one coat that doesn’t zip right. He always makes sure you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. He kept checking your brakes after you mentioned your car made a weird noise, even though you were sure it was harmless. He drove six blocks looking for you in socks that time you said you were going to walk home from the train station.

He has always been like that. Big feelings, quiet hands. Careful with everything but himself.

“And I know that’s why you’re acting all weird about this.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I was just feedin-”

“Bucky-”

He exhales again, this time longer. As though maybe he is letting something go. Or trying to hold something in.

“I just-” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his face, as though he can smooth out the thing he doesn’t want to admit.

“You don’t know him,” you begin, before he tries to dodge the conversation again. “But I really think he’s nice. Not like, take-home-to-meet-the-cat nice. Well, yet. But… kind. Polite. Smart, I think. He asked me out in a normal way. Respectfully.”

Bucky makes a face as if respectfully is offensive.

“He told me I had a nice laugh,” you add.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He just clears his throat and stands a little straighter. His knee cracks and Alpine bolts across the floor as though someone dropped a vacuum.

You take a few steps into the room and set your coffee down, because your hands feel too warm all of a sudden. “You don’t have to like him, Buck. I just thought… I don’t know. You’d maybe ask what I’m gonna wear. Or tell me to send my location in case he turns out to be a serial killer.”

He is stone in sweats and a shirt, and somehow it breaks your heart.

“I was gonna get there,” Bucky mumbles. “Eventually.”

You can feel your heart sink just a little. Just enough to know you shouldn’t have expected anything. Not from him. Not about this.

You didn’t want him to be protective.

You wanted him to care.

Not because he’s your roommate. Not because he’s your best friend. Not because he worries.

But because he likes you.

Because he’s been pining the same way you have.

You glance down at Alpine who is now sitting next to the counter, licking her paw, uninterested. Maybe even she can’t fix this one.

“I just thought you’d be happy for me,” you tell him. Soft. Small. A little hurting. “It took a lot to say yes, you know? I never say yes. But I thought- maybe- I should try.”

Bucky looks as though he’s been punched.

His eyes are wide, unsure, as though he just realized he made you feel like you’re not worth celebrating. That he let his feelings sit too long in silence, and now they’ve curdled into disappointment instead of support.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pink, hair falling into his eyes. “Shit, doll. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. Try to smile. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to be excited.”

But that’s not what he wants to hear. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag. In the way his mouth opens like he’s going to say something and then closes again like it hurts.

He looks off balance. As though he is trying to stand on something that’s not quite there.

“I just don’t want you to go out with someone who makes you forget what you deserve.” His voice is soft, too soft, and his eyes are tired and deep in that tender way that makes you want to cup his cheek and ask him what’s really wrong.

You blink. “What?”

Another shrug. But it’s heavier now. “Some guys are good at bein’ nice. For, like, a while. ‘Til they get what they want. And then they change.”

“Bucky-”

“I’m not sayin’ he will,” he adds quickly. “I’m just… I dunno. Maybe I’m just being an ass.”

You frown at him a little. “You’re not-”

“I just-” he interrupts, gesturing haphazardly at Alpine, the bowl, the sunlight on the floor. “I like when you’re happy, y’know? That’s all. Even if it’s not ‘cause of me.”

You stare at him.

He is staring at the wall behind you.

Alpine yawns with a little squeak.

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. You don’t want him to know that your heart’s being weird again. That it did that little skip-jump-stumble thing it always does when Bucky says something just a little too soft, a little too close to the line you swore he wouldn’t cross.

He glances down at the kitten, then back at you. “Look, I’m just- I’m not good at this kinda thing, alright? Feelin’ stuff. Sayin’ stuff. Especially when it’s not what I wanna feel.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice is confused. Your mind and body are confused. Because where is he going with this?

He pauses. Runs a hand through his hair as though he tries to rearrange all the thoughts he doesn’t want to have in the first place.

“I mean-” he begins, then shakes his head, not looking at you. “Nothin’. Forget it. Just- don’t go thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. You know that, right?”

You nod slowly. Still not enough.

Bucky shifts on his feet. Alpine meows as though she’s giving him a nudge. Bucky stops, scoops her up in one arm, and meets your eyes with a drawn out sigh.

“You’re right. He’s probably a good guy. Deserves a shot, yeah?” His voice is low, quiet. A little flatter around the edges. “You should go.”

Something in your chest crumbles. Because he means it. He’s trying. Even if it’s killing him. He is working so hard to sound okay even when he’s clearly not.

You want to wrap your arms around him. You want to say forget the date and stay in and watch a bad movie and eat cereal on the couch with your knees touching and your feelings buried under laughter. But you can’t. Because you said yes. Because you have to try. Because he never did.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “But if Alpine throws up, it’s on you.”

His mouth twitches - almost a smile. “Kid’s got an iron stomach.”

Alpine wiggles in his grip and lets out a soft mrrp. You both laugh.

And then - like he flips a switch - Bucky straightens up. Rolls his shoulders. Clears his throat.

“So,” he says, in a voice two notes too cheerful. “You want me to help you pick an outfit, or you wanna go full surprise?”

“What?” You laugh softly.

“I mean, if this guy’s gonna be all respectful and admirin’ your laugh and whatever, he better lose his mind when he sees you, too. That’s basic manners.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re joking.”

He grins, a little forced. “C’mon. I’ve got taste.”

“Oh yeah? What are your qualifications?”

He leans against the counter next to you, arms still around Alpine, pretending to be cool even though you can see his ears turning red.

“I live with a style icon,” he says, nodding at you. “And a cat with a crown-shaped food bowl. I know fashion.”

You laugh despite yourself. Despite everything.

He smiles too, but quieter now. It is a soft, deflated thing curling up at the edges of his mouth. Something that says he is trying, even though part of him is crumbling like paper in the rain. And the spark in his eyes that always flares when he makes you laugh is gone.

You glance at Alpine. Her tail flicks as though she knows something. She meows as though you’re wasting her time.

Bucky is holding the cat in his arms as though he’s holding onto both of you as best he can.

****

You open the bathroom door with slow fingers, the soft click of the handle echoing into the hallway like the opening chord of a song that might end in heartbreak.

The light spills out behind you, golden and warm, hanging onto your silhouette like some kind of halo.

Your cheeks are warm and flushed from the heat of the curling iron and your heartbeat, and your dress clings just right on the places that matter.

You catch your reflection in the mirror on the wall next to the bathroom door and hope this better be enough to distract a man from looking at his phone every four seconds.

You feel it before you even step out. His eyes.

They’re on you the second you cross the threshold, and you try not to shiver under his attention. Even though you spent the last hour preparing for this - shaving, moisturizing, curling, painting, fluffing, glossing. You did the work. You look good. You know that. You feel the rare glimmer of confidence like a sugar rush in your veins.

But when you look up and meet his eyes it’s like your breath jumped out the window.

Bucky is standing near the living room archway, leaning against the frame as though he didn’t mean to be waiting, as though he just happened to be passing through at the exact moment you emerged, and it’s a poor performance. He is terrible at casual. His arms are crossed, muscles tense, jaw locked up tight, Alpine balanced like a bread loaf on one broad forearm, completely disinterested in the tragedy of the moment.

In his other hand he is holding a glass of water he clearly doesn’t need. Something to do with his hands, maybe.

You fully step into the hallway.

Bucky blinks once.

Twice.

His mouth opens and doesn’t quite recover.

The silence eats a hole right through your stomach.

You stand there for a second, your fingers fiddling with the chain around your neck, your heart in your throat, your entire body one big, glittering question mark.

Bucky is frozen as though someone just hit pause on his thoughts.

“…damn,” he lets out, voice low, hoarse like he forgot how to use it. “You, uh-”

He shifts Alpine as though she’s in the way of his words.

“You look-” He swallows. “You look beautiful, doll.”

Heat curls up your neck so fast you feel dizzy with it.

And then he shakes his head a little, forcing himself to regroup. “But- like, I mean- you don’t even need all that, y’know?” His hand starts gesturing to your entire body and then retreats as though he’s been caught stealing. “You look good, all the time. You didn’t have to do all this. Not for some guy.”

His voice trails off into something smaller, sadder. Something unpolished.

You laugh gently, mostly because you don’t know what else to do with the way your heart is behaving. It’s skipping. Misfiring. Tapping out a beat as though it wants to be caught. And for a second, you wonder what he would have done if you were dressed like this for him.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “That’s sweet.”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods. Too fast. As though he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine. Like it’s all good. Nothing tragic happening in his chest at all.

He looks at you as though he wants to say something more and keeps deciding against it.

You are smoothing your dress down, adjusting the hem even though you’ve done it twice already. There is this little flutter of panic in your chest that came out of nowhere, like maybe you went overboard. Like maybe he’s saying it out of politeness.

“Is it too much?” you ask, forcing the question through an anxious breath. You look down at yourself - your hair done, makeup soft and glowing, dress hugging you just right. “I mean- like, the dress, the heels, all of it. I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I don’t know, maybe I should’ve worn jeans and a shirt. He’s just some guy I met at a café and I probably look like I’m trying too hard-”

“Hey, doll. No, no, none of that.” Bucky sets the glass down. He doesn’t even notice it lands crooked on the table, and steps closer, that familiar furrow between his brows. He meets your eyes and something inside of them is splintering. Quietly. Devastatingly.

“Doll, you look stunning, alright? You’re gorgeous.” He shakes his head as if the words won’t land unless he unsticks them from somewhere deep in his chest. His throat bobs. “And not just tonight. Always. You didn’t have to do a damn thing to knock the wind outta me, but here we are anyway.”

His voice breaks a little at the end. Softens. And for a moment there is something in his expression that looks like surrender.

Your heart does complicated things and you look away, biting down on a smile that is equal parts joy and ache. “That’s a bit dramatic, Buck.” But your voice is a little too close to breathless.

He huffs a laugh, but it’s dull. He rubs Alpine behind the ear as a distraction.

“It’s just the truth, doll.” His voice is quieter now. “You could never be too much.”

You smile, but it’s the brittle kind, the one that feels like holding your breath too long.

He is standing close. Close enough to feel him. Inside your body.

“Thanks, Buck,” you say again. And you mean it. But you need to get this conversation out of your head before you start climbing him and forget the other guy.

You walk over to the table to grab your bag, and he follows a few steps behind, like Alpine when she’s pretending not to beg.

You check your earrings in the mirror beside the door, fluffing your hair where it is curled at the ends. You feel his stare like pins on your skin.

“You sure this guy’s okay?” he asks, as if he’s just casually curious. As if he isn’t dying.

You glance at him through the mirror. “I think so. He seemed nice.”

Bucky’s eyes dart away. His fingers are fiddling with the ring on his index finger. “Just sayin’, if he does anything shady, you come home. Immediately. No questions. I’ll make you popcorn. We’ll put on a bad movie. Just us.”

Your chest stings.

“You got pepper spray?”

“Bucky-”

“Does he know you’re allergic to fake cinnamon?”

“I don’t think we’re going to a candle store.”

He breathes out a laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

You hesitate. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Just hangin' in. With Alp. Probably gonna order takeout. Watch some crime documentaries. Y’know, real cheery stuff.”

You nod slowly. “No Steve? No Sam?”

He shrugs, noncommittal. But it’s like something in his chest caves with the movement. “They got stuff goin’ on. I’m good here,” he declares in a voice too casual. “Gotta be here when you get back, right?” he says, trying to grin. Failing. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t trip over your heels comin’ up the stairs.”

You stare at him, at his subtle sadness and twitchy hands and the way he looks at you as though he is memorizing the moment in case he never gets another. As though he is already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.

The part of you that wanted this date feels smaller now.

Alpine meows.

You don’t know whether to hug him or stay perfectly still or cancel the date and climb into his lap.

You want to curl up with Bucky and Alpine and forget the whole damn date. But instead, you slip your phone into your clutch with hands that suddenly feel too clumsy to belong to you.

“Text me, alright?”

You glance up at him, confused. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping forward, Alpine tucked into his arm like a security blanket. “If this guy makes you uncomfortable, if he talks with his mouth full, if he looks at his phone too much- you call me.”

“Bucky-”

“I’ll come get you,” he insists, eyes fierce now, worried. “I’ll walk there and drag you out myself if I have to. Just promise me. You text me. You don’t sit through some crap date because you’re tryin’ to be polite.”

You smile, helpless under the sheer care in his voice. It tugs at your ribcage.

“I promise.”

His jaw ticks as though it’s not enough. As though even your promises aren’t safe anymore. He is still staring at you.

There is a second when he opens his mouth again. And you swear you see it rush over his expression - that he’s right there, teetering on the edge of saying something different. Something deep. Something important. Something sharp and glittering and buried under years of I shouldn’ts and she wouldn’t want me like that and she deserves better.

And you almost find yourself hoping another aching time.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he presses his lips together. As though sorrow has already folded itself under his tongue.

His eyes flick toward the door, and it stings.

“I think he’s a good guy,” you reassure quietly, trying to fill the silence with something easier. Safer. “He seemed sweet. You don’t need to worry, Buck.”

He snorts. Humorless. Looks at the kitten in his arms as though she needs all his attention right now. Alpine mewls once as if to agree.

“Yeah. Sweet,” he mumbles, brushing a hand through her fur. “Still- just… be careful, alright?”

You nod. He doesn’t look up.

“If he’s late, or he says anything that makes you feel weird, or you’re not havin’ fun - you let me know. Just give the word, I’ll come swingin’. In sweats and all.”

That earns a small laugh from you. But he still won’t meet your eyes. He scratches Alpine behind the ears while she blinks at you with innocent, unknowing affection.

“I will, okay? Promise. But really, I mean, the date could be great,” you offer, voice a little unsure.

His expression changes so subtly you would miss it if you didn’t know him that well. His shoulders deflate, the corner of his mouth tugs downward as though gravity finally got to him, as though someone popped a balloon in his chest and now he’s trying to remember how to stand.

“Yeah,” he says, too quiet, too distant. “Could be.”

There is a knot forming in your chest. A slow-growing tension that seems half regret and half longing. Bucky is towering over you, but he still seems so small like this. Folded in on himself. As though he is trying not to break in front of you.

You take a step toward him, heart hammering in your throat. You lift up onto your toes, lean in, and press a kiss to his cheek.

Soft. Careful. A brush of lips against faint stubble and skin that smells like cedar soap and him.

He goes still.

You feel his breath hitch. As though you just reset his entire nervous system. You feel the way he sways slightly toward you before catching himself, grounding himself back in the tension he wears.

You pull back and offer him the kind of smile that means everything and nothing at all.

“I’ll text you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, nods once.

“Have a nice night, Buck,” you add, backing toward the door.

His voice is thick when he finally answers, barely above a rasp. “Yeah. You too, doll. Have fun.” It sounds like he’s underwater.

Alpine yawns as though this is all so exhausting.

You reach the door, one hand on the knob.

“And if he’s a jerk-”

“I call you. And I come home.”

You open the door and as it clicks shut behind you, you swear you can still feel his eyes on your back.

You lean against the door for a beat, heart knocking against your ribs in a pattern you’ve come to recognize.

Bucky doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call after you.

But inside, you know he’s still standing where you left him with Alpine clutched close, staring at the empty space you left behind.

And you want to go back inside. You want to spend your evening with him. You want to cheer him up and ease his mind with staying in.

But he didn’t stop you. So you don’t stop yourself.

****

You don’t remember most of the walk home.

The city buzzes around you in blues and golds, in late-evening puddles and the traffic lights changing colors.

The dark sky is soft and full and sighing, and the moon hangs above, following you home.

You hug your coat tighter around yourself. Your dress itches where it clings to your ribs, and your heels sound like guilt against the sidewalk.

You didn’t text him you were coming back early. You didn’t know how to say it without saying too much. Without exposing yourself for the fraud this entire night has made you feel like.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s not that big of a deal, that the date just ended early, naturally, like the way a song fades out instead of ending with a bang.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

You’re not sure which ones you believe.

Because the truth is - the guy was lovely.

He was kind. He smiled a lot, and asked good questions, and listened when you spoke. He pulled out your chair and paid for dinner and didn’t make weird jokes. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t get too close too fast. He laughed with you. He was attractive. Safe. Sweet.

He was everything you’re supposed to want.

And still, you spent most of the night nodding at his stories while watching the condensation collect on your glass, wondering if Bucky had remembered to let Alpine sit on the windowsill and watch the city before shutting the blinds. Wondering if he was watching TV with the volume too low again because he gets a headache from the noise. Wondering what he has been eating tonight. Wondering if he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him - constantly, painfully, like something in your head with no off switch.

Your date had asked you about your weekend plans, and you’d said “Oh, probably just hang out with my roommate.”

And your heart had tripped over the word, knowing it meant so much more than that. As though roommate is short for the boy I’ve loved for years but never touched.

The moment your date leaned across the table to compliment your eyes, you - soft idiot that you are - instantly heard Bucky’s voice instead. The way he always says stuff like that in passing, tossed casually between asking you if you’ve seen the TV remote or if there is leftover pizza in the fridge.

And it sits deeply in your chest. Sinking further with each passing beat - the truth.

You can’t give this guy a chance. Not the way he clearly deserves.

Because your heart is still living in a brownstone apartment with creaky floors and a broken light switch in the kitchen. With soft sweatshirts that aren’t yours but always end up draped over your desk chair. With a man who feeds your kitten as though it might end all the hunger in the world and treats you like you’re his favorite person.

You pull out your phone and reread the messages from Bucky, sent in ten-minute intervals.

“all good? Guy still got both kneecaps?”

“everything okay?”

“he better be treating you right.”

“or I’m showing up in crocs.”

You had smiled. Told him all was well. That the guy was nice. That you weren’t being kidnapped.

He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and then-

“lemme know when that changes.”

“and if he’s a jerk.”

“and if you need me to fake a plumbing emergency or something to get you out of there.”

You didn’t tell him you were already heading home.

Didn’t want to see the dot-dot-dot of typing, and then the silence.

Didn’t want to see hope, or disappointment, or relief.

Didn’t say you were going to try harder. That you’d hit your emotional limit somewhere between dessert and the walk to the subway.

You’re on your street now. The one with the crooked lamp post and the peeling red mailbox and the cat that’s not Alpine but sort of looks like her in bad lighting. You know this street by heart. You could walk it blindfolded, dizzy, drunk of heartache.

And there is your building. Soft lights glowing in the window above.

He’s up. Maybe waiting. Maybe not.

You pause outside the door. Let yourself lean against the brick for a second. Let your breath stay lodged in your throat. Because you’re not ready to walk in. You’re not ready to look at him and feel it again. Having the certainty that you are absolutely screwed, because you’re not able to get over your best friend even when going out with a nearly perfect guy.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the way he acted earlier. The way his voice broke so subtly. The tightness in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the tense silence around his body.

And you’re not supposed to hope.

You’ve told yourself that. Too many times to count. But tonight it sits so close to your heart, so deeply embedded, so hushed and burning.

Maybe his reaction wasn’t only about worry. Maybe it wasn’t just protectiveness. Maybe it wasn’t just Bucky being Bucky.

Maybe he was jealous.

You are trying so hard not to let that possibility bloom, trying not to name it or feed it, but it still grows.

Your heels clack against the building’s stairwell as you climb, one by one, pretending you aren’t listening for signs of life. Pretending you aren’t about to see him again after hours of spending your time with another guy but only thinking about him.

You reach the door.

The apartment is quiet on the other side, dim under the light of the single hallway lamp that always flickers twice before it stabilizes.

You slip your key into the lock and step inside on a breath.

You open the door with quiet fingers. The kind of careful that says I’m not sure what I’m walking into even though you know. Even though you always know. Because it’s home. Because it’s him. Because his jacket is still slung over the coat rack the same way it was when you left, and Alpine’s scratching post leans slightly to the left, and the lights in the living room are still on, soft and amber.

And there he is.

Sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a shirt still, one leg pulled up, socked foot balanced on the edge of the cushion. His phone lies screen up and plugged in right in front of him as though he has been waiting for it to light up again. As though he didn’t want to miss anything. As though it has already burned a hole into the cushion with how long he’s been staring at it.

He’s illuminated in the soft light of the TV where a half-hearted commercial flickers across the screen. He’s not really watching. The remote is in one hand, limp.

Alpine is a perfect little loaf on his chest, her head tucked against his sternum. His hand strokes her in slow, nervous passes, more fidget than affection right now.

He looks up the second the door closes behind you.

Not startled, exactly. More like the kind of flinch you feel under your ribs. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. As though your return is both a relief and a complication.

Alpine makes a soft, delighted chirp when she sees you, lifting her head and blinking sleepily.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is quieter than usual, as if he has forgotten how to speak at full volume.

You smile timidly. “Hey.”

He shifts his arm as though maybe he’s going to sit up, maybe he’s going to say more, but he just watches you. Not with the smug little smirks or teasing remarks he would usually toss your way. Not even with the tight, overprotective frown he wore earlier.

No, this is worse.

He’s trying so hard not to look like he’s waiting.

The soft clink of your keys in the bowl by the entryway is too loud in your ears.

“You’re back early,” he utters after a pause. His voice is low, rough with something not quite sleep and not quite surprise.

You nod and toe off your shoes slowly. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when you see the way his eyes drag over your face as though he’s trying to read your mood.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess I was tired.”

He nods. Swallows. Looks as though he wants to ask something and then immediately regrets it. His hand moves to scratch Alpine between the ears but you beat him to it, crossing the room and crouching in front of the couch.

“Hey, sweetie,” you whisper, burying your fingers in her soft fur and scratching the spot beneath her chin that makes her purr like a lawnmower.

Your hand brushes his against the fur.

He doesn’t move. You don’t either.

When you look up, his eyes are on your face, darting around your expression as though he is searching for bruises that aren’t there. Words that haven’t formed yet. Meaning you haven’t chosen to give.

Alpine meows and you start moving your hand again, not having noticed your hand stopped under his gaze. You reach out to scratch the top of her head and your knuckles brush his chest. He twitches. You both pretend not to notice.

“She missed you,” he says softly, swallowing gruffly as though it might steady the wobble in his voice.

You give him a small smile. “Missed her too.”

Alpine leans into your touch and, because she’s draped over him, your fingers trail briefly over his shoulder when you scratch under her chin. He is warm. Stiff, but warm.

You don’t sit. You hover. You don’t know why. Maybe because sitting means staying and you haven’t decided yet if your heart is capable of holding everything tonight.

“You okay?” Bucky asks. It’s gentle. So careful. Too careful. As though if he speaks to you wrong, you’ll pull away from him forever.

You shrug, eyes on Alpine. “Yeah.”

He nods slowly. Waits. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say more, but you don’t know what more would even look like. It’s a shape you can’t hold yet.

“I mean, he was nice,” you add, because you feel like you have to. Like it’s some sort of requirement. Like you need to prove to yourself and him that you tried. That it mattered. That it didn’t.

“Good,” Bucky replies. He clears his throat. “I mean- I’m glad. I figured he’d, y’know… be decent. Or whatever.”

You shift a little closer. Your knees brush the couch.

“Yeah, he was,” you admit quietly.

Bucky nods, but it seems to be a heavy gesture for him. There is something anxious behind his eyes.

“So…” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat roughly, as though it got stuck somewhere behind his teeth. “…You seein’ him again?”

The question is soft. Uneven. Barely anything. As though he’s asking if the sky plans to rain. But it sounds practiced. In front of a mirror, maybe. Or mouthed to the ceiling between glances at his phone.

You pause. Draw in a breath.

You don’t look at him.

Your fingers drag down Alpine’s soft spine, slow, as though it might stop your thoughts from chewing on themselves.

There is something about the way he asks it. Something that pulls at a string inside you that was already frayed and coming undone the whole way home.

You sigh. A long, slow exhale that sounds like defeat.

You feel his eyes on you.

And then you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so.” And it feels like something falling out of you. Soft and resigned and a little afraid.

You see him in the corner of your eye. He doesn’t speak. Just waits. The quiet stretches, elastic, until it almost snaps. His hands have gone still. He has gone still. Completely.

“I mean, he really was a nice guy,” you affirm, as though the explanation might make the no easier to carry. “He was early. He paid. He even pulled my chair out. Held the door. Laughed at the right moments. He talked about his sister. It was- it was good.”

You stop. Swallow hard. Sigh harder.

You say all this as though you’re reading the bullet points off a recipe for happiness. And still, nothing. No spark. No fire.

“But?” Bucky prompts on a breath, so soft.

You lick your lips. Shake your head.

“I don’t know. He did everything right. But the whole time I just…” You trail off. Look down. His gaze dips, searching your face. “I guess, I wasn’t really there, tonight.”

Bucky says nothing.

You don’t tell him that the reason you couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay present, couldn’t even taste the food properly was because you kept hearing his voice in your head. Kept imagining what he’d say about the music in the restaurant, or how he’d roll his eyes at the way your waiter pronounced gnocchi.

Or that you kept thinking about Alpine knocking Bucky’s cereal bowl over yesterday. And the fact that he always hides the yellow skittles because he knows you hate them. And him laughing at those bad commercials, and the weird humming noise he makes when he brushes his teeth.

You don’t say any of that.

But maybe he hears it anyway. Because he’s still watching you with that sweet, unreadable look. As though he’s trying to figure out which part of you he’s allowed to hold.

“Okay,” he murmurs, after a moment. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just warm. Gentle. The way someone sounds when they’ve been holding their breath and they finally get to exhale. And he does seem to breathe easier. Looser.

His eyes drop. Then rise again, fast. “You look beautiful, by the way. Meant to say that earlier. I mean- I did. I said it. But-”

You smile, small. “Thanks, Buck.”

He clears his throat and shifts on the couch as though he suddenly remembers he has a body.

He looks at his lap, then back at you. “I, uh- I got takeout,” he says, as though he’s trying to move the conversation onto safer ground. “Just in case. Thought maybe you’d be hungry after.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t have to-”

He shrugs, looks at Alpine. “Didn’t know what mood you’d be in. Figured it wouldn’t hurt either way.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice softer than you meant for it to be.

“Welcome,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “And well, you always say you’re not hungry and then you eat half my spring rolls. So.”

That earns him the tiniest giggle from you.

He lights up a little.

You stand slowly, dropping your purse to the floor with a thud. “I’m not hungry,” you admit, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “Just tired.”

And you are. But not just from the night. You’re tired of pretending. Of swallowing how you feel. How he makes you feel. Of dancing around truths that tremble between you two like overfilled cups.

You reach for the remote, brushing against his thigh as you do. He stills as though your touch is a match to his skin.

The screen flashes something mid-scene - some low-budget crime show with horrible lighting and a suspiciously attractive cast.

You shift deeper into the couch, your knee brushing his. The screen continues flickering. Someone’s shouting about getting the suspect and a car explodes a second later with all the realism of a microwaved burrito.

You squint. “What even is this?”

Bucky briefly glances at you when he answers. His voice is half a mumble, half a smirk. “Special Crimes Unit 9. Or maybe 11. They keep changin’ the number every season.”

You turn your head to him. Utterly unimpressed. “Is this the one where the coroner uses a cookie cutter to get evidence out of a corpse?”

He grins. You see it. You feel it. “You remembered.”

You sigh, overly dramatic, because it’s the only appropriate response. “How could I forget? I think about it at least once a week. You owe me therapy for that.”

Bucky chuckles - low and breathy and genuine. You think maybe it’s your favorite sound in the world. You’ve heard it hundreds of times and it still makes your spine sit up a little straighter. It makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

You both watch in silence for a moment. There’s a woman on screen wearing six-inch stilettos to a crime scene. You raise an eyebrow. Bucky hums.

“Very practical,” he states dryly.

“So tactical,” you reply, deadpan.

You glance over and find him already looking at you. His smile is quiet, more of a curve than a grin. It reaches his eyes a little bit, just a little, and softens the space between his brows. He looks more relaxed now, eased further into the cushions. You don’t look away, even though you should. You should.

But he’s so close. And he’s warm. And your body always seems to tilt toward him like a sunflower.

Then Alpine, that little traitor of a feline angel, climbs into your lap with all the elegance of a marshmallow being lobbed onto a plate. She settles in, promptly making biscuits on your thigh. Her paws press in soft little patterns and her tail swishes over Bucky’s leg.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, petting her head. She tips her chin up like a queen receiving tribute. She’s purring loudly.

“She’s so attached to you,” Bucky murmurs, watching as Alpine headbutts your hand almost aggressively while you stroke her fur. “Startin’ to think I’m just the guy who opens her food.”

He’s got that half-smile again. But it’s just a little smaller now. Not the usual smirk. Just soft. Something that doesn’t know it’s been seen.

You smirk, scratching behind her ear. “Well, you do open her food like a pro.”

“That’s my one skill. Impressive, huh?”

You giggle. It tumbles out of your mouth and echoes softly in the living room, bumping into corners and creasing into his smile. “So very impressive, Barnes. I’m proud of you.”

He laughs. And it’s real. And it makes your skin prickle. It makes goosebumps rise.

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way you sometimes catch people looking at you. Not the idle glance, not the curious sweep. This guy is looking at you as though you’re the whole screen. As though he is memorizing your laugh because he wants to play it back later when it’s quiet and you’re not around and he misses the way your eyes crinkle.

The soft light makes his eyes darker, deeper. His hair is pushed back, messy from fingers you can’t stop imagining in your own hands.

He looks at you as though you already said the thing he’s been waiting to hear.

Your heart trips. But it doesn’t fall. It tries to recover.

He’s closer than before. Not by much, just a few inches maybe. But enough to notice. Enough to make you wonder if it was intentional or if the gravity between you is just inevitable.

There is a beat. A second. A heartbeat in between two breaths.

The TV keeps playing. Sirens and dramatic synth music. But it’s not present in your mind. The real show is here. His eyes snap to your mouth. Just for a second. Just one.

You swallow. Look away.

He blinks. Clears his throat. Shifts again.

“So,” he says, voice a little raspy, nodding at the screen. “You wanna know what happens next or should I save you the trauma and tell you now that the killer’s definitely the janitor?”

You snort. “Always the janitor.”

“Guy’s just tryin’ to mop floors and everyone’s framing him for murder.”

You both laugh, too loud for the scene currently unfolding on TV. Bucky’s hand drapes over the back of the couch and it shifts slightly behind you. Not touching, but there. And you could lean back if you wanted. You could rest against him.

But you don’t.

Because your chest is already too full. Because if you speak, you’re scared you’ll say something you can’t take back.

Instead, you sit with him in the quiet, both of you surrounded by the purring of a small white kitten and the flickering nonsense of a terrible crime show.

And you let the silence say what you’re still too afraid to.

At least for tonight.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

[kenntoria]

tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * breeding kink, creampie, slight overstimulation, nanami being so in love he can’t stand it, afab reader, mentions of babies, possessive!nanami, unprotected sex, established relationship

nanami doesn’t think of himself as a possessive man.

he’s spent most of his life keeping things at arm’s length. he doesn’t attach easily—didn’t, until you came along—and for the most part, he prides himself on the control he has over his emotions. he’s had to build his life that way. quiet, dependable, steady. never reckless, never impulsive.

but all of that restraint splinters the moment he sees you holding a baby.

he hadn’t expected it to rattle him the way it does. you’re just cradling your cousin’s newborn, bouncing them gently in your arms, cooing softly as you brush your nose against the baby’s chubby cheek. you’re wearing one of his old sweaters too, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and he can see the familiar slope of your collarbone peeking out of the neckline. the way you hum quietly. the way the baby clutches your finger.

he’s always known you’d be good with children, but he’s never seen you like this before—glowing, gentle, swaying back and forth in a rhythm that feels ancient and natural.

and something primal inside him roars awake.

it’s not just lust. it’s deeper than that. it’s a need. a possessive, aching, almost unbearable desire that has him clenching his fists and shifting his stance and averting his eyes before someone sees what he’s thinking.

you look so natural like this. too natural. like that baby was meant to be in your arms. like you were meant to carry something that’s his.

he’s quiet the whole way home.

you notice. of course you do. you always do.

“you okay?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand once you’re both inside, your voice as sweet and calm as ever. “did seeing the baby freak you out a little?”

and god, it almost makes him laugh. you’re so innocent. so unaware of the way you unravel him just by smiling.

“no, sweetheart,” he says, voice low. “it didn’t freak me out.”

you blink up at him, confused, and that’s when it happens—that last thread of self-control snaps.

“go to the bedroom,” he says, fingers tightening around yours. “please.”

—

you’re on your back and nanami’s over you before you can even ask what’s gotten into him, his mouth warm and desperate on your neck, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. he needs to feel you. needs to bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets what it felt like to not be touching you.

“you looked so fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, panting already, rutting into you like he can’t help himself. “you and that baby—fuck.”

“kento—” your voice is soft, breathless, eyes wide as you wrap your arms around him. “what’s gotten into you?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just groans and shoves your legs open wider so he can sink into you, raw and deep. you gasp at the stretch, already wet and warm and fluttering around him.

he has to pause once he’s fully inside—buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing where it fills you—because if he moves too soon, he’s not going to last. not with how tight you are. not with how his mind keeps replaying the image of you swaying with a baby in your arms.

his baby. your baby.

you’re still his sweet girl, but the look on your face when he bottomed out in one smooth thrust—half-shocked, half-fucked-out—tells him you’re not exactly innocent anymore. you know what he’s doing to you. you know what this is.

and he knows you want it.

“want to put a baby in you,” he whispers, voice rough and shaking. “can’t stop thinking about it. want to see you all round and glowing. full of me.”

your breath catches, a sweet little whimper breaking in your throat as you arch into him.

“kento—”

he pulls back and thrusts in hard, swallowing your gasp with his mouth.

“you want that too, don’t you?” he growls. “want me to fill you up? want to carry my child?”

you nod, dazed and wide-eyed beneath him. “yes,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “yes, please—i want that. i want you.”

he groans and fucks into you harder, deeper, his hips snapping against yours like he’s starving for it. every thrust punches little breathless sounds out of your chest, and it only fuels him more.

“you’d be such a good mom,” he murmurs into your hair. “so soft. so gentle. they’d be lucky to have you.”

“they’d be lucky to have you,” you reply, and the sincerity in your voice nearly breaks him.

you’re looking up at him like he’s everything and precisely like you want to be filled. bred. ruined.

he grabs your thighs and pushes them up, folding you in half as he pounds into you now, deeper than before, the angle perfect to grind against the sensitive spot inside you.

“gonna give it to you,” he pants. “gonna give you everything. every last drop.”

“please,” you cry out, teary-eyed and sweet and so goddamn perfect. “please, kenny, i want it—want you to come inside—”

he doesn’t even last another thrust after that.

he spills deep inside you with a guttural moan, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips stutter. he groans your name, holding himself there, pulsing thick and hot and full until you’re gasping at the warmth that floods you. and even then, he doesn’t move.

he stays there, locked inside, as if letting any of it spill out would ruin the moment.

“you okay?” he asks softly, brushing the hair away from your face. “was that too much?”

you shake your head, smiling up at him, dazed and blissed out and still trembling slightly.

“no,” you whisper. “never too much. especially not with you.”

nanami exhales, resting his weight on his elbows so he can kiss you again—slow this time, deep and reverent.

he still doesn’t think of himself as a possessive man.

but you’re his. and he’s yours. and the thought of seeing you round and glowing with his child?

he’ll spend the rest of the night making sure it happens.

[callmenigma]

Two sides

His two sides are so different. Pairings: Jinu x Fem!Reader Warning: Obsession, NSFW, Demon/Human sex, dumbification, dirty talk

*

You’d fallen in love with Jinu twice.

First, it was the man—the soft-spoken version of him who kissed your shoulders in the morning, who brought your favorite snacks to late-night rehearsals, who touched you like he was memorizing you one heartbeat at a time. That Jinu whispered I love yous into the crook of your neck, smiled against your skin, held you close even when he didn’t have to.

He made love to you like you were something sacred. Reverent. Careful.

And then… came the truth.

He hadn’t meant to tell you, not really. But one night, breathless and raw with emotion, he’d confessed: “I’m not human anymore.”

At first, you didn’t believe it. And then—he showed you.

The glowing eyes. The lilac markings that crawled over his pale skin like veins of some divine corruption. The inhuman strength, the sharp canines, the hunger.

You begged to see more. To know him.

And eventually… he gave in.

That was the second time you fell in love.

But it was different.

You hadn’t realized how deep the abyss went—how completely the demon would overtake him when unshackled. Gone was the soft-spoken idol, the gentle man who held you like crystal.

What stood above you then was feral.

Eyes glowing like wildfire, stripes burning across his skin like ancient scripture. His voice, deeper. Rougher. Tainted by something dark and primal. And gods, the way he touched you—like your body was his altar. Like you were nothing but pleasure and purpose wrapped in warm skin.

Jinu didn’t just take you—he consumed you.

Because when Jinu gave in—when the demon stepped fully into the light—you learned what it meant to be claimed.

The stripes along his body lit like veins of starlight under pale skin, and his every movement became something animal. Every growl, every sound he made was low and devouring.

And gods, how he loved to ruin you.

“You asked for this, little flame,” he breathed into your ear, his voice a dark purr as your fingers twisted in the sheets beneath you. “Now look at you.”

Your body trembled, your mind already hazy, words half-formed and lost in your throat. You couldn’t think—he wouldn’t let you. Every movement from him was deliberate. Every thrust purposeful, dragging moans and mewls from your lips that made his grin go sharp.

He loved how your thoughts slipped away under him. How your sweet mouth, usually so quick with questions and curiosity, could barely string together a sound, let alone a sentence. He'd hover over you, his lips brushing your temple as he moved inside you with devastating precision.

“You’re so quiet now,” he’d purr. “Where’d that clever brain go, hmm?”

You’d try—gods, you'd try to answer—but it would just be another broken moan, another gasp, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

“Empty little head now, isn’t it?” he whispered, almost in awe. “Just like I like it. Nothing up there but me.”

You couldn’t even deny it.

Not when he was inside you. Around you. Everywhere.

Not when he moved just right—just once—and your entire body arched like he’d struck a chord only he could reach.

He groaned at the way you responded, the way your thighs shook, the way you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “So good for me. My obedient little angel.”

And the worst part?

You loved it.

You loved how easily you gave in. How much you craved him like this.

The demon.

The man.

The everything.

Even when you were wrecked, he praised you. Worshipped the way your body trembled. The way your voice broke when you tried to speak and failed.

His clawed fingers traced the edge of her throat, slow and reverent.

“You begged for this,” he whispered, his voice a reverent snarl now. “Begged to see who I really am. And now look at you… letting a demon ruin you.”

His fangs grazed her neck, dragging over her skin in a slow tease before settling over her pulse point.

“I could bite you right here,” he murmured. “Mark you. Keep you.”

And she meweled, body arching beneath him.

Jinu groaned against her throat, his voice wrecked and hungry. “You love it, don’t you? Being ruined by me. Being my perfect little thing.”

And gods help him, he loved it too.

Not just the way her body surrendered.

But the way her mind unraveled.

All for him.

You whimper—helpless, needy, gone.

And he laughs.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, rutting harder into you just to feel the way your thighs twitch, “So obedient. So fucking good for me.”

He was two creatures in one.

The man who kissed your fingers and made you soup when you were sick.

And the demon who could fuck your thoughts clean and make you thank him for it.

And you?

You loved all of him.

Every beautiful, terrifying piece.

[kukinkrim]

Can you do one where when Jinu first made the deal with Gwi-Ma. Instead of him just giving him some random voice, he actually took the voice of someone else (i.e. Reader). Maybe Jinu knew from the start or maybe he didn’t realize until he saw Reader couldn’t use their voice anymore.

your voice and mine.

jinu x reader

themes: angst, no comfort

warning: kdph spoiler! jinu's backstory; somewhat altered to fit the storyline.

before he was called master jinu of the grand court, before silk robes and five course meals, he was just a boy in worn hanbok, cradling an old bipa beneath the bridge in hanseong.

he was a great player in his village. that was what made money no matter how little, just to be able to buy a scrap of bread for his family.

but it wasn’t enough.

no matter how skillfully he played, no matter how sweetly he sang, hunger always came before applause. he could only go so far as a lowborn orphan. the world did not reward beauty born from poverty.

jinu didn’t want to beg.

to a demon, of all things. but humans are selfish beings—they do whatever it takes to survive; even turning to the devil when god turns them away.

kneeling in the cold pavement, clothes tattered and body tainted with dirt, pride meant nothing. his mother and sister sits somewhere in his poor excuse of a home, huddling together for warmth, starving and cold.

gwi-ma offered him a life so glamorous, so tempting, it was hard to refuse.

“you ask for power,” gwi-ma drawled, his voice an echo and a shiver travels down jinu’s spine. “and you offer nothing in return."

“take anything,” jinu said, knuckles white against the ground. “my future, my soul, my bones. just—give me a voice. something. get me out of this hell. i'll do anything.”

gwi-ma smiles. not soft, but cruel.

no more words were exchanged. just fire in his throat that he couldn't claw out. he lays down on the snow, sputtering blood.

the next morning, jinu’s voice had become absolutely divine. so much so that he was summoned to court, where he performed before the king himself. queen dowager requested for his presence in the palace, and there he was granted a place to stay.

a warm bed. meals that he no longer had to beg for.

and so he was granted a title: noble musician of the inner court, permitted to walk where no commoner was able to. he dined beside scholars and princes, lived in a residence lined with cherry trees and gold.

but if he were to be asked what the most precious thing in the palace was, his answer would have been you.

you were a quiet, lowly maid assigned to his wing, who laughed at his jokes without sound. it took a while for him to find out you were you couldn’t speak, and that you weren't just ignoring him. everyone said you’d been born that way. a mute with a gentle soul.

your silence never made him pity you. in fact, drew him in closer.

the palace was full of voices. they filled the halls like expensive perfume: cloying, sweet, and so suffocating. praise dripped from the tongues of ministers, nobles, scholars and performers alike. jinu had once craved that attention.

as a boy hunched over his bipa in the alleyways, he had dreamed of such admiration; of being heard and remembered. but now, wrapped in brocade and adorned with titles, he understood the difference between admiration and manipulation. they didn’t love him—they loved the way his voice made them feel important.

he was a musician raised to nobility, a dream that any poor man like him would kill for, favored by the king and queen just because he sang praises so sweetly. his talent had earned him rank, fine robes, and a manor surrounded by many maids that tend to his needs. but none of it erased his bloodline. the older nobles sneered behind their hands, unable to accept a lowborn artist occupying a space they believed sacred to lineage. to them, he was a peasant polished in silk—a dog taught to sing.

and still, they bowed. they smiled when the king called for him. they raised their cups when he performed at banquets, but jinu had long learned how to hear the difference between music and noise. their voices rang false, like a broken string—just slightly off, enough to unsettle something in his chest. every compliment felt heavy with condescension, every gesture tainted by self-interest.

no one around him was genuine. they didn’t care what he thought or felt. they only wanted what he could give.

except you.

you, who never spoke. you, who never bowed too low or even once tried to flatter. you were a palace maid—silent, modest, overlooked by most, yet unforgettable to him. while others sang his praises, you only listened. your silence wasn’t cold; it was... calming.

you simply existed beside him, and in your stillness, he felt something he hadn’t known he was missing: peace.

at first, he thought it was just your presence that comforted him. but over time, he realized it was your silence itself.

he remembered one evening, after a particularly tense banquet where he had been paraded in front of foreign envoys like a prized canary. he had returned to his quarters aching, his voice raw, his patience thinner than paper. you were already waiting for him, a clay pot of ginger tea in hand. you didn’t speak—of course not—but your eyes asked if he was alright. and when he slumped to the floor, exhausted and bitter, you sat beside him and stayed.

in a court filled with calculated words, you never spoke. you never lied. you couldn’t. and for jinu, who spent his days guessing at motives, decoding hidden insults beneath flowery phrases—your silence meant everything. you were the only person he could trust completely. there were no layers to peel back with you, no riddles to solve.

you were simply there, sincerity in your gaze.

you tilted your head, smiling in that soft way of yours, and he felt the lump in his throat return. he didn’t even know what your voice sounded like. hr had never heard you hum, laugh, or cry. and still, somehow, he knew that no sound could’ve said more than your silence did.

he loved you, he realized then. not because you were beautiful, though you were, or because you were kind, though you had always been. he loved you because you had never tried to deceive him. because your silence spoke more honestly than all the voices in this palace combined.

the courtyard was quieter than usual. late spring, nearly summer, and yet the petals still clung to the old cherry tree’s branches, falling gently like they didn’t want to leave.

jinu sat beneath it, bipa resting in his lap. his fingers hovered over the strings, but he hadn’t begun to play yet. today, it wasn’t about music. It wasn’t about performance or the palace’s ever-hungry eyes.

today, he had made a decision.

he would tell you; the feelings he’d buried beneath years of hesitation had grown too large to contain. it wasn’t just measly affection anymore. he loved you.

and so he waited beneath the cherry tree, just as he had so many times before, while the blossoms drifted around him like snow. when he spotted you coming from the far end of the path, he smiled, heart already pounding. you waved, cheerful, bright-eyed, as always. that shy little wave that said you were happy to see him.

he raised his hand to wave back, only to freeze.

that’s when he heard it. a familiar voice whispering in his ears.

“have you fallen in love, my little mortal?”

the petals seemed to slow in the air.

“you must be living in such lavish comfort now… all thanks to that voice i gave you, hm?"

his heart pounded. he hadn’t heard that voice in years—not since that day he begged, not since the deal that changed his life. gwi-ma’s whisper curled behind his ear like smoke under a door. it wasn’t loud, but it was all he could hear.

“aren’t you curious…” the demon purred. he had no body but it felt like claws were digging into his shoulders in pressure. his eyes shook as he watches you get closer, blissfully unaware. “where do you think you got it from?”

jinu’s breath caught in his throat.

his hand, still raised, trembled in the air.

the smile on his face vanished, replaced by a thin line that seemed to twitch; as if unsure whether to start screaming or crying.

his mind was racing, panicked, clawing at reason. but something inside him already knew. something cold and twisted bloomed in his chest. he felt absolutely sick, like bile rising in his throat.

gwi-ma went quiet, leaving behind a wreckage in his wake.

and as you walked toward him; still smiling, still waving, still awfully, painfully, blissfully unaware—jinu couldn’t find himself to breathe.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

A Cozy Fourth Of July

I recommend listening to the song COZY by JEREMY ZUCKER while reading as it’s inspired by it <3

Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: On a chaotic Fourth of July , Bucky Barnes battles old memories beneath fireworks , but finds safety and solace in the unwavering love who never stops reaching for him.

Word count: 2.1k+

Content: hurt / comfort , angst and fluff , mentions and scenes of of PTSD , anxiety / panic , kissing

a/n: hai my loves! For the PTSD symptoms and scenes I took inspo from my real life and my grandpa who struggled on the fourth just liek I have written Bucky. My heart is for all the veterans and sweet animals the struggle with today.Tysm for all who voted on the poll this was made from! If you were hopin for the other prompt my inbox is open for requests hehe I hope you enjoy and have a safe and happy fourth for all who celebrate! see you on the next one bbys!

my masterlist is pinned!

The warm savory scent of grilled street corn and charcoal smoke from the grill drifted on the early evening breeze , laughter rising in spurts from the backyard as giggling kids chased each other with sparklers and sticky fingers. 

A classic and joyful Fourth of July party. Patriotic decor and flags hung lazily over the wooden porch railings , music from a bluetooth speaker floated out over the large freshly cut lawn , and someone was already breaking out the potato salad. It was a perfect evening.

Bucky Barnes stood just inside the open glass sliding door , a golden beer bottle in one hand , the other brushing lightly against yours as you scanned the yard full of people. Your family was loud , chaotic in the most loving way and a little crazy. 

There was always someone talking , someone yelling for a dish to be brought out or the ice chest to be refilled , someone laughing hard enough to make their whole body shake. He should’ve felt overwhelmed already , but you had a way of keeping him anchored.

“You doing okay?” you peered up at him , nudging his arm. His knuckles brushed yours. That simple touch had become something of a tight tether.

“Yeah ,” Bucky glanced at you then added a little nod. “I’m alright. Just... watching.”

“You’re allowed to sit , y’know. No one’s making you stand guard.” You nudged and whispered so only he heard.

His lips curved into a half-smile. “Old habits.”

“I know” You led him out into the yard , easing him into a lawn chair near the picnic tables while a few younger cousins gathered at his feet , inexplicably drawn to him. 

Kids had a weird magnet type radar for soft-hearted people hiding behind stoic faces , and Bucky—despite the dark stubble and biceps and history , was no exception.

“Did you really fight aliens?” asked your little cousin Mateo , green eyes wide as saucers , mouth sticky and wet with watermelon.

Bucky smirked at the kid. “Yeah.”

“Were they , like, hugeeee?”

“Some of ’em.”

“Did you punch any of them?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yep.” Popping the “p”.

Mateo’s whole body bounced with excitement and awe. “COOOOL!”

You tried not to laugh too loudly at the boy. He was trying so hard to be normal and calm.  And this? This kind of attention? It helped. Watching him gently mess and pull down Mateo’s baseball cap playfully  , answering question after question , even showing the metal arm when asked ( kids loved the metal arm)—it was progress.

Then came your grandmother.

“James ,” she said , her voice like honey and pepper , hands on her hips , she was one of the very few people who refused to call him by his nickname. “You still haven’t eaten anything. My granddaughter told me you were strong as an ox. Oxen eat,  you know dear.”

He blinked at her ways , then chuckled. “Yes , ma’am.”

“Oh nonse, enough of the “ma’am” , Eat!. Get yourself a plate before I start piling it on myself. You won’t like that. I don’t believe in small portions.” She winked walking away back to the food tables.

Bucky leaned toward you as she left, whispering in your ear, “She scares me a little.”

“She should ,” you grinned, grabbing his bicep. “She once made an ICE agent cry.”

As a hazey purple dusk settled in the sky and the first firework went off—small , whistling up into the air before bursting with a polite pink pop—you instinctively touched Bucky’s hand.

His jaw twitched. “I’m okay,” he murmured.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. These… these are okay. When I know they’re coming , it’s different. When I can see the people lighting them. It’s the surprise ones that—”

He trailed off , but you nodded. You knew. And when the sky flickered pink and green with another burst , you kept your hand right on his thigh , grounding him with nothing more than your presence.

More people showed up. Chairs shuffled. Fire pits flickered to life. A group of teenagers was setting up a bigger batch of fireworks , the kind that boomed louder , lit up more sky brightly. You didn’t love those for your own reasons , but Bucky…

You kept checking in. And then it felt like pure chaos burst right open.

Mateo tripped near the stone path to the front door , catching his little knee on the edge of rock. He screamed like he’d been stabbed or broken and bone , and a crowd gathered in seconds. 

You rushed to him as you were closets , hands already reaching into your pocket for tissues and wipes. The scrape wasn’t too bad , but he was inconsolable in the way only six-year-olds could be. Between soothing him and shooing off hovering worried relatives , it took a minute before you looked back to where you and Bucky had been sitting.

Gone. Empty.

You stood up , eyes sweeping the yard and street. Fireworks were going off now in steady booming waves. People were whooping , cheering. An older cousin shoved a Roman candle at his buddy nearly missing him making an older unt curse at them for being reckless. 

Bucky wasn’t at the picnic tables. Not sitting on the porch. Not in any of the lawn chairs.

“Where’d Bucky go?” you asked no one in particular. They were too busy watching the show in the sky.

Panic set in , low and heavy in your chest.

You turned and ran straight toward the house. Not walking. Sprinting.

The house inside was quieter. Not silent—the muffled cracks of fireworks still bled in through the walls—but it was dim , still , and closed off from the relentless chaos outside.

“Bucky?” you called out , crossing to the kitchen. No answer.

You moved fast , checking the guest bathroom , the study.  Nothing. You headed down the hallway toward the your bedroom your family had lent you for the weekend.

Your chest was tight now with fear and worry. That pressure in the center of your ribs you only got when you knew something was wrong before you saw it. 

You creaked and opened the bedroom door slowly.

“Bucky?” you say again , softer now.

Silence.

Until a barely audible—a sound reaches your ears.

You crouched looking for the noise. Peeking under the bed.

And there he was. Your love.

Curled in on himself. Shoulders shaking. Fists clenched so tight the metal one was digging into the hardwood floor. His eyes were shut , hard , tight , like he was bracing for the impact of something destructive and terrible.

Your heart immediately sank to your knees. You dropped to him , flat to the floor , then slid and rolled under the bed with him , not caring if the dust stuck to your clothes or if the wood frame pressed into your hip.

“Bucky,” you reach out but stopping just short of touching him. “You’re safe. You’re not back there.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did , but his brain was still locked in that place , wherever it had yanked him right back to. That place with screaming and metal and chaos and death. That place he didn’t talk about in detail.

You scooted closer and cupped his scruffy cheek carefully , your voice firmer now , but steady and calm.

“James. You’re home. You’re not in the past. You’re not a soldier tonight. You’re not alone. Look at me.”

Still nothing. You inhaled sharply. Two words shook him out of his trance.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

His eyes snapped open like a switch had been flipped abruptly.

Wide. Unfocused. Searching.

But on you. Never leaving you.

“Hi ,” you whispered , your voice breaking. “I’m here. You’re safe. I got you.”

Bucky’s eyes filled with moisture. The tension that had been holding him upright collapsed all at once, and he lunged—not violently , but desperately , into you. His hands found your shirt , grabbed tight , and he pulled himself into your chest like he needed to disappear into you.

You cradled his head against you , wrapping your arms around his trembling frame. Still beneath the bed. Still dark. Fireworks still going off outside. But in this small space , it was just you and him.

His voice was barely audible muffled by your body. “I couldn’t breathe.”

“I know”

“I couldn’t tell where I was.”

“I know , baby.”

You stayed like that for some minutes , maybe ten , maybe thirty. His breath evened out but he didn’t let go. You didn’t ask him to.

Then a louder more intense bang then crackle went off outside. Closer this time. Bucky flinched so hard he nearly hit the slats with his head under the bed.

“Okay,” you whispered quickly. “Okay. One sec.”

You slid out from under the bed , but didn’t let go of his hand. You reached up blindly and grabbed your headphones from the nightstand , then the weighted blanket you slept with every night.

You crawled back under and slid up beside him , slipping the headphones gently over his ears , kissing his temple as you did. You tapped your phone , pulling up a playlist you’d made for him , songs he mentioned he loved. A quiet vintage piano melody filled the headphones. You could hear it faintly through the foam coverings.

Then , slowly , you draped the soft grey weighted blanket over the both of you , cocooning him and yourself in that soothing safe pressure and warmth.

He closed his eyes again—but this time , not in panic. In rest.

You pulled your phone out again and opened the family group chat. Being mindful not to turn off the music as you typed up a message.

>>> Hey , if anyone needs me and Bucky , text me. Please don’t come inside our room. He’s okay now , just needs quiet.

Then you tossed your phone aside and wrapped both arms around him under the blanket , your head tucking under his chin.

You didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stayed. Placing a few kisses here and their to his chest and shoulder every once ina while.

His fingers found yours eventually through the third or fourth song , linking and lacing tight.

The playlist looped through soft piano and ambient strings , a lull beneath the weight of the blanket and the world surrounding.

Under the bed , it was cramped and getting warm but neither of you moved.

Bucky’s breathing had evened out into a slow pace , chest rising and falling steadily. His grip on your fingers and hands never loosened. He held on like you were the only thing tethering him to this century , to this very moemnt. Maybe you were.

Eventually afte the fireworks began to calm for a moment , his voice cracked the silence. Low. Fragile.

“I’m sorry.”

You turned your head up to look at him , your eyes meeting his ocean ones. “What for?”

He hesitated running a hand up and down your back , soothing him and you. “Ruining the night.”

You scoffed , gentle but real keeping your eyes on him. “You didn’t ruin anything..”

Another pause. Then again.

“For scaring you.”

“You didn’t scare me ,  Buck.” Your thumb rubbed over his metal knuckles kissing each one , a gesture you did to show you weren't afraid of that part of him.  “But I hate seeing you hurting like that. This is not your fault. Your brain’s just... wired to panic when it hears war outside.”

He exhaled , shakily. “It’s so stupid. I knew there’d be fireworks. I prepared. I told myself I was fine. But then I wasn’t. And I couldn’t control it.”

“ PTSD is not something you logic your way out of. It’s not about being strong.” You said plainly.

“I should’ve told you I felt it coming on.”

“You didn’t have to. I could tell.” You smiled softly , even though he wasn’t looking at your eyes anymore. “That’s why I kept checking in. You don’t have to carry that alone anymore , Bucky.”

His eyes shifted toward you. 

You continued your words. “You’re not some broken thing we have to fix. You’re healing. And that’s messy. Some days there are fireworks. Some days are quiet and peaceful. Either way , I’m here. Right here. I’ll always be right here.”

He blinked hard , trapping the tears that formed behind his eyes , then nodded , swallowing against the tightness in his throat.

The blanket shifted slightly as he leaned in closer , pressing his forehead gently to yours. His voice was rough. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You didn’t answer. Just kissed the corner of his mouth , his nose then back to his lips , slow and light , your hand brushing over the stubble on his cheek as you did.

Outside , the fireworks kept cracking. Bright colors flashing through the curtains lighting up the room. People still shouting , cheering.

But in here—under a bed , wrapped in a heavy blanket and the softness of your love—Bucky Barnes was safe.

And for the first time in a long time , he finally believed it.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[feeder86]

Friend-Zone

As a campus rep, Lisa hardly seemed the most enthusiastic. She’d taken on the role as a favor to her boyfriend, and hadn’t wasted any time in telling them all so. Unenthusiastically rattling off all the information from a printout that she unfolded from her back pocket, it was obvious to Adrian that this woman didn’t really care at all how they settled into college that first week. The pretty, athletic-looking girl was about to start her PhD and obviously felt far too busy and important to be wasting her time with a bunch of first years like this. Most of the others had taken the hint and left her be, staying up in their rooms, or heading out in small groups to explore the site themselves.

“What about during the winter?” Adrian asked, having no intention of letting Lisa sneak away. “How bad does the snow get?”

Lisa rolled her eyes and huffed. “It’s Chicago. What do you expect?”

Just then, Lisa’s eyes suddenly grew immediately warmer and a smile spread across her face. “Hello stranger!” she called to someone behind Adrian’s back.

Adrian turned around, spotting a tall, broad and incredibly overweight guy strutting towards them. More than twice the width of a regular guy, his stomach drooped slightly over his belt and the fat in his large double chin vibrated with each step he took. Adrian couldn’t help but feel aroused. This guy was the most beautiful specimen of obesity he had seen so far since arriving on campus the day before. He watched with surprise as the gigantic guy walked by and pulled Lisa into a sweet kiss; the contrast between their two bodies being enough to make anyone’s jaw drop.

“How’re you getting on?” the fat man asked her softly, before turning to face Adrian as well.

“We’re doing great!” Lisa beamed back; her voice suddenly infused with enthusiasm. “I was just explaining to Adam here all about our winters.”

“Is this your boyfriend?” Adrian asked, smiling with delight as he held out his hand to shake with the enormous beast. He noticed Lisa’s hand sliding down the guy’s enormous gut coming to rest on the softest, most enticingly jiggly underside; exactly where he himself would most like to have touched such a fat man.

“He is indeed!” Lisa smiled back proudly. “I met Gray in our first year and we never looked back!”

Gray smiled down at his love and kissed her once more. “Don’t worry about the winters,” the large man stated to Adrian as he was about to walk away. “They’re not as bad as everyone makes out. You’ll be fine.”

Adrian nodded, noting that such a large, over-insulated guy like Gray was unlikely to feel much of the chill. He seemed like exactly the type of guy who went around wearing the same sweatshorts that he wore in the summer, all year round.

“He’s gorgeous!” Adrian marvelled to Lisa as the fat man finally went off; his gigantic, wide glutes pressing against the material of his shorts. “How on Earth are you going to concentrate on a PhD when you’ve got a sexy big boy like that to keep you warm each evening?”

Many women might have taken offense at Adrian’s obvious drooling, or even assumed that he was mocking her. Lisa, however, only smiled back with a wicked glint in her eyes. “You like them big, huh?” she laughed. “I thought I saw you checking out a couple of the fatties earlier.”

Instantly, Adrian knew that he had found someone exactly like himself here on campus. “Definitely!” he nodded shamelessly back. “None of them were like your guy, though!” he replied; his heart still beating faster. “What does he weigh?”

Lisa chuckled. “You don’t hold back, do you?” she replied, seeming pleased and delighted with him. The old, impatient Lisa now gone. “About four hundred pounds at the moment,” she answered. “Maybe a little more. It’s not easy trying to find an excuse to get him on the scales.”

“His love handles are so…” Adrian continued to marvel.

“Oh, I know!” Lisa nodded back, not needing Adrian to finish his sentence. “So soft and squishy! Can you believe he used to play for the college football team when he first got here?”

“Seriously?” Adrian asked, suddenly finding that little piece of information all the more arousing. “He played sports?”

“Oh, I soon put a stop to that, don’t you worry!” Lisa grinned back; clearly sensing that she too had found a kindred spirit. “I saw him gorging himself after a game one evening and I knew right away, that’s the man for me.”

Adrian almost felt breathless with admiration. “How much weight has he put on since you got together then?” he asked excitedly.

“I’ve more than doubled his weight. A greedy little fucker like that, you’ve just got to play the doting girlfriend role and quietly enable it. Then sit back and watch the pounds pile on! I have no doubt that Gray would have ended up this big at some point. All I did was help speed things up a little.”

Adrian looked at Lisa as though she was the greatest person he had ever met. He had never been so deeply jealous and in such great awe of anyone like this before.

“If you want to date a fatty, there will be a lot more of them around here in a few weeks,” Lisa explained, motioning around the campus. “The first few months of college are absolutely savage. You’re going to see a lot of folks putting on a lot of weight very quickly. I added eighty pounds to Gray in the first year alone.”

“The Freshman Fifteen?” Adrian asked. “Is that real?”

Lisa smiled and nodded. “You bet it is! This is my fourth Freshers Week. I can spot the future fatties a mile off! The guy in the room opposite yours, for example.”

“Cal?” Adrian questioned her in disbelief. He’d spoken to the handsome boy only yesterday. They’d both gotten on really well and even arranged to go to one of the Freshers’ Fairs later today. “But he’s a black belt in karate!”

“And?” Lisa laughed, waiting for the significance of such a statement to be explained to her. “The guy has a dad like a beached whale!” she smirked. “He’s a Computer Science nerd at heart. He only came to college here in order to get to know his father better. His parents divorced when he was four and his mom moved him away. Trust me,” she cautioned, seeing Adrian’s skepticism. “Never underestimate the power of having fat genes on your side. I saw him and his father at the fast food place down the street last night when I was picking up some little greasy treats for Gray. That appetite! He’s definitely his father’s son!””

Still shaking his head, Adrian didn’t believe a word of it. Lisa had previously seemed so disinterested by them all. She must have been making it up. He’d come across jocks like Cal in high school. Guys like him always stayed classically handsome.

“Whatever,” Lisa huffed, rolling her eyes. “It’s a fact of life. A few months living here and you’ll soon see how these things really work. Past athleticism doesn’t mean shit when you have an appetitie like Cal’s.”

In the following weeks, Adrian soon learned that Lisa had been absolutely right about Cal’s gigantic father. He’d peered out of his window on several occasions and seen the guy’s truck pulling up outside, with Cal in the passenger seat; both of them nibbling on something they would have picked up on the way back. 

Cal was such a sweet guy, he’d been snapped up almost immediately by a girl on the floor below them; the pair of them strolling around campus hand in hand. For Adrian, the development had been something of a disappointment to him. Cal was one of the few guys who seemed to share his sense of humor, and the fact that he’d paired up so quickly meant that there wasn’t an awful lot of time to develop his friendship with him. One thing was for certain though. Cal absolutely idolised his father, usually twisting a conversation so that he could talk about something his dad had told him recently, or something new that he had learned about the man he had been estranged from for so long. Adrian was one of the few who didn’t mind in the slightest. He was quietly fascinated by the large, older, fat man and he listened attentively whenever Cal spoke about him.

“What does your dad think about Kim?” Adrian asked daringly one afternoon, having just listened to Cal talking about how his girlfriend was unhappy that he was off for a fishing trip with his dad that weekend, instead of hanging out with her.

“My dad’s nice about everyone,” Cal shrugged.

“And what about Kim?” Adrian asked, sensing a small chink the armour. “What does she think of your dad?”

At this, Cal shrugged unhappily. “He’s just very different from her dad, I think.”

“She doesn’t like him?” Adrian pressed, trying to sound more surprised than he actually felt.

Again, Adrian shrugged. “She just thinks he’s a bit of a bad influence.” At this, Cal lifted his shirt a little and grabbed at a small roll of fresh fat that had been expertly masked by the guy’s large sweater. “Particularly when it comes to my diet. I’ve gained the Freshman Fifteen and she’s a bit pissed at me for it.”

Despite the surge of arousal and elation that Adrian felt, he did his absolute best not to react, shrugging nonchalantly. “That’s nothing,” he shot back. “She can’t seriously be annoyed at you for that?”

“Well, she is,” Cal sighed. “My dad loves food. So when we go out, of course we grab something to eat.”

“You guys are getting to know each other for the first time in years. Kim can’t begrudge you that,” Adrian replied; his brain whirring with excitement. Had Lisa been exactly right about this guy?

“I just know that this fishing trip is going to add a couple more pounds again. A whole weekend with my dad… we’ll probably be eating constantly!” Cal sighed again.

Adrian could see genuine anxiety flushing across Cal’s face. “Just stop stressing about stuff like that!” he countered, trying to assert himself as the voice of reason. “Kim has no right planting these little insecurities into your brain,” he grumbled. “You’re going to go on that trip and enjoy yourself. It’s no big deal if you gain a couple of pounds, is it?”

Cal nodded, smiling that someone had at last told him exactly what he wanted to hear. He smiled even brighter that Friday night when his father picked him up in his large truck. It had been Adrian’s free afternoon and he had set about baking some fresh brownies for the boys to take with them, surprising them both as he handed them over just as they were setting off.

“Don’t you have some lovely friends here!” Cal’s dad beamed, opening the box and putting one straight into his mouth.

Cal nodded, ignoring his sulky girlfriend who stood to the side. “The best!” he agreed, smiling gratefully at the guy who lived across the hall from him.

“Well, well, well…” Lisa smirked, catching Adrian sitting alone at a computer in one of the labs early one Sunday. “I see you’re making the most of college life, sitting here at seven on a Sunday morning completing an assignment. Why weren’t you out last night fucking all those fatties you were going on about during Fresher’s Week?”

“Who says I wasn’t?” Adrian teased her back. He held it for a short period, then sighed sadly, unable to keep up the facade. “I’ve fucked up!” he finally grumbled, realising that Lisa was the one person in the entire world he could actually talk to about this right now.

“Let me guess…” Lisa smiled playfully back. “Has this got anything to do with that cute little chub you’ve got growing across the hallway from you?”

Adrian rolled his eyes. How was it that Lisa always seemed at least ten steps ahead of him in every conversation they had?

“What is it about watching a guy pushing out a pot belly that has folks like us fall desperately in love with them?” She stopped as Adrian looked at her, a little surprised. “What? Did you think that just because I get my kicks quietly fattening Gray up that I don’t really love him?” she asked with a slight air of annoyance. “Sorry, but life isn’t that simple, is it? And, judging by that glum face, I think it’s a lesson you’re very quickly learning.”

“I thought it was just some straight guy crush, but…”

“You know he has a girlfriend, right?” Lisa asked in a tone that betrayed her limited sympathy. “You’ll need to speed up his gains a lot more if you want to sweep her out of the way. I heard about the brownies you’ve been baking for him.”

“I was just trying to be nice,” Adrian shot back.

“No you weren’t!” Lisa laughed, more than happy to call him out. “People like us are never just ‘nice’, are we?’ It was my anniversary with Gray last night. You really think I cooked the fatty all that food just to be nice?”

“So that’s why you’re here on your own?” Adrian smirked.

“Yeah,” Lisa nodded, checking her watch. “Fatty is still sleeping it all off. I’ll do a couple of hours here, then head back and fry him up some breakfast. You should see the tits on him now!” she sighed in amazement. “Stunning!”

“You’re so lucky!” Adrian chuckled.

Lisa shook her head. “I just know what I want, that’s all. And I’m not afraid to go after it.” She looked at Adrian thoughtfully, recognising his low mood. “I genuinely think you could be in with a chance with Cal, y’know. I’m quite good at sensing these things. You just need to shake off that girlfriend of his. It’s a bit annoying that he’s such a nice guy. It may take a little more than just a little paunch to get her out of the picture.”

Adrian nodded, suddenly feeling brighter. Lisa never said anything that she didn’t mean. If there was no hope, she would have told him straight. “I’ve got to keep ensuring that he puts on weight,” he agreed, already knowing exactly how he was going to start.

The one thing that Adrian had over Cal’s girlfriend was the fact that he had a genuine rapport with the guy’s father. He’d make a point of following Cal down to the parking lot anytime his dad was picking him up and would give up as much time as was required to chat with him as possible. Adrian had always known how to be charming and he’d picked up plenty of bits of information from Cal’s ramblings to know how best to get the man on side. Not only that, but it seemed to make Cal beam with pride to see his estranged father getting along so well with his friends.

“Kim keeps on nagging me to go to the gym,” Cal grumbled a couple of months  later, coming specifically into the kitchen area for a chat. He’d started opening up a lot more in recent weeks, telling Adrian a lot more than he did the other guys in the dorms who, on paper at least, had a lot more in common with him.

Adrian had chuckled at Kim’s demand. “Oh, yeah?” he asked sarcastically. “And when does she expect you to make the time for all that?”

Cal smiled back nodding in complete agreement. “Exactly, right? It’s like she doesn’t even realise how much stuff I’ve got going on.”

Adrian agreed. Overfeeding a guy was one way to effectively enable a weight gain, but the other, arguably more effective one, was to simply tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. “You literally never stop,” he rambled. “From studying, trying to spend time with your dad, balancing that with Kim and trying to at least have some social life here, I really don’t know how you fit it all in.”

Cal listened carefully, nodding as though it was just dawning on him how complicated his life was. The puffiness of his stomach was more than apparent now, pushing unflatteringly against the t-shirts he had yet to notice were far too tight; the tight pecs already noticeably softer. When he walked, there was a certain width to his rear now; a plushness that betrayed the fact that Cal had at least bought some larger pants to accommodate it.

“Dad was asking if you wanted to come fishing with us one Saturday?” Cal asked after considering it for a moment. “I said you probably wouldn’t be interested.”

“No!” Adrian shot back instantly. “I’d love to come with you both,” he exclaimed, knowing that it was exactly the type of opening he had been waiting for. His time to shine had at last arrived!

Preparation started days in advance: sandwiches, cakes, brownies, salty snacks, pastries. Adrian was about to show Cal that he was the best person to invite along to spend extra time with. And, if the guy came back a little fatter, it was sure to piss Kim off, just as Adrian needed. His campaign would be to market himself as the exact opposite of the girl who so often stressed poor Cal out about his weight. The chubby boy was about to learn that life could be a lot easier with him by his side instead.

In the blazing sunshine, the father and son set themselves up underneath some shade. Without an ounce of shame, Cal’s father removed his shirt, revealing his enormous torso and giant, sagging stomach. His chair was extra wide to accommodate the wide shape of his butt and, when he sat down, Adrian had the sense that the huge, broad, lardy blob would be unlikely to get up again for quite some time.

Cal followed pretty soon afterwards, taking off his shirt and sighing with relief as he too sat down beside the stream; the ice box filled with sodas resting beside his feet. Thankful that he was wearing shades to mask his stares, Adrian was immediately amazed by the startling way the fat was beginning to transform Cal’s body. In recent weeks, the guy had been trying to cover his body up more on campus, wearing thick layers despite the warmer days. Now, uncovered at last, Adrian could see the clear development of the guy’s new belly. Pounds and pounds of new blubber were stubbornly resting on his formerly trim waist, rippling into a full roll that ran underneath his softening chest. From the side, it was startling just how thick the guy was around the middle; his gut beginning to extend out onto his lap for the first time. Since when had his nipples become so pointed? Had he lost some muscle? Or was it just a layer of chub over his arms that was destroying the old definition?

The two men ate well the entire day, enabled by Adrian who was up and down from his seat, fetching it all and keeping things in order. As expected, Cal’s father had a gigantic appetite and capacity. But, without even realising it, Cal had clearly learned to keep up every step of the way. In his head, Adrian tried to calculate the amount of calories that were flowing into them both as they were sitting there lazily: thousands upon thousands!

“You know, this is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you,” Adrian smiled at Cal after his father had dozed off in his chair. He held the box of brownies out, knowing that Cal would accept.

“Yeah, this is definitely my happy place,” Cal agreed.

“You’ve got the same sense of humor as your dad. I’ve never heard you laugh so much,” Adrian smiled, watching the chubby boy chew and reach out for more. “I can see why you like hanging out with him so much.”

Cal nodded. “I’m very lucky. My mom would never let me see him growing up, so this last year has been about making up for lost time. When the semester ends, I’m going to spend the summer staying at his place.”

“That’s exciting!” Adrian beamed, his mind immediately whirring at the thought of how much extra lard Cal would be carrying by Fall if he was to continue keeping up with his father’s appetite. “And that means you and Kim will be able to see each other as well,” he smiled, pretending to be supportive.

At the mention of her name Cal pulled a face. “Yeah, that’s not really going to work out,” he confessed. “It’s only when I’m here, chilling out with a few drinks with my dad that I can get a proper perspective on things. Kim seems to think I’m someone that I’m not. She’s pretty shallow if I’m being honest.”

Adrian did his best to keep from smiling. “Well, she’s missing out,” he simply stated. He meant it too. Having spent the afternoon seeing the real Cal, relaxed and carefree, he’d fallen harder for the guy than ever before.

Adrian could remember his shock as he saw Cal for the first time after the summer break. All of a sudden, he was staring into the eyes of a genuine fat guy. Gone was the fluffy chub that had plagued the latter half of Cal’s first year, replaced by a definitive mass of solid fat that rounded out into a full belly of fat. He was dressed better, no longer trying to conceal it all; at least eignty extra pounds on him since they’d met last year. Yet, Cal also seemed more confident and self-assured than Adrian had ever seen him.

Having clearly enjoyed the single life all summer, Cal didn’t seem in the slightest bit interested in the new crowd that had moved into the dorms. “Want ro come and watch a movie in my room later?” he’d asked Adrian, despite the fact that everyone else was heading out for some fun at the clubs.

Adrian agreed instantly, despite knowing that he was going to piss off more than a few of his friends, cancelling on them at the last minute. Without time to bake any treats, Adrian headed quickly to the grocery store to pick up snacks. He knocked on Cal’s door, amazed to see the guy answer it with his shirt off. A sticky heat had lingered in the dorm building all day and, with the added insulation on his body, Cal seemed unable to tolerate it. 

Bulbous. That was the only word Adrian could think of to describe the remarkable shape of Cal’s blossoming gut. Full, generous love handles widened the boy from the rear, as he turned and led the way inside; the padded glutes making it difficult for Adrian to not ogle. “What do you want to watch?” the fat guy asked, throwing his oversized body onto the creaking bed.

Without much thought, Cal devoured almost everything that had been bought, too transfixed on the screen to even notice it all going in. It was exactly like Lisa had said when she’d spoken to him in the past about how her boyfriend had blown up since they’d been together. For the most part, the guy wasn’t even aware of just how much he was even consuming. The pathway to Cal becoming every bit as fat and blubbery as his father seemed totally clear. The destination was inevitable, and Adrian had no intention of missing any of it.

Over the coming weeks, it was apparent that Cal had no intention of getting to know more people around the dorms. The guy had found his trusted circle and instead focused on keeping them close. It was obvious that Cal preferred hanging out with Adrian above all the rest. He was the only one Cal could completely relax in front of. His climbing weight was definitely something he had noticed and wanted to talk about, yet Adrian was the only one he could mention it to without having to endure harsh criticisms about his diet and less active lifestyle.

A nasty flu had swept around the campus after the holidays. Cal had barely emerged from his bedroom in days. “I lost fifteen pounds from it all,” the chub had commented, finally back up on his feet, pulling out the waistband on his pants to demonstrate. “It probably would have been even more had you not been trying to look after me and bring me things.”

In truth, Adrian was annoyed at himself for not having done more. Cal had slept so much, many times he had gone in to check on him, the guy had been totally out of it. All he could do was tidy up a little and bring some water and sodas to keep his energy up.

“I’ve been really ill, yet all people can say to me is how much better I look having lost weight!” Cal grumbled, clearly annoyed at the strange priorities of those around him.

“Well, I won’t be convinced that you’re back to full health until I see those pants fitting snugly again,” Adrian nodded, having baked up all Cal’s favorites now that he was able to eat again, at long last.

Cal smiled warmly at him. It was a gaze that never failed to make Adrian turn to mush. People wondered how he had gone almost two full years in college without a single relationship; this chubby boy was the reason why. How could anyone ever come close to matching him?

The weight loss that Cal had experienced turned out to be little more than a minor blip on an otherwise unstoppable upwards trajectory. His portly stomach had transformed into a full tank of lard by the end of their second year; expanding further after another summer working with his father. In total, Adrian assumed the guy must have packed on at least 150lbs, taking him well within the 300lb range. Lisa had agreed, taking a keen interest in the changes and never failing to remind Adrian that she had predicted it right from the beginning.

“He looks like his old man these days, don’t you think?” Cal’s father joked, poking his fat son in the stomach during the fifth or sixth fishing trip that Adrian had been invited along to. “His mother goes mad at me,” he laughed. “She’s worried he’ll never find a nice girl to settle down with, but I tell her, being fat has never done me much harm with the ladies. I was hardly ‘slim’ when when I was with her”

Adrian nodded. He could fully understand why that was the case. Despite Cal’s father’s enormous size, there was an attractive confidence and charm that Adrian could envision many women being drawn to. Owning his own plumbing business, Cal’s dad also wasn’t short of cash either.

Cal rolled his eyes, slurping from one of the cans of soda and sitting himself down in the chair by the stream. “Mom’s priorities are all skewed,” he grumbled.

“You can’t live your life according to what other people want,” his father agreed. “I keep telling you that. You’ve got to go after whatever makes YOU happy in life.”

At this, Cal’s father looked between Adrian and his son in a way that startled Adrian. What was the guy trying to suggest?

“You know I’ll always support your decisions,” his father finally stated, before throwing his fishing line out and sitting himself down quietly.

Lisa had been buzzing when she’d told Adrian the news of her engagement after the summer break. With their final year of the PhD approaching, having something to look forward to after it all was exactly what the pair needed. 

“I could tell that he was nervous about something,” Lisa smiled, recalling the memory. “Gray’s a bit of a stress-eater and had been gorging for days - even more than usual!” she boasted.

“I’m pleased for you both,” Adrian chuckled, always surprised that the disinterested campus rep he had met on his first day had turned out to be one of his very best friends here. “So, does this mean I’ll get an invite to the wedding next summer?”

“Of course!” Lisa nodded emphatically back. “Hopefully you and Cal will have got your shit together by then so you come together.”

Adrian rolled his eyes, but tried to keep the conversation on Lisa and her engagement.

“It’s now over two years that the pair of you have been dancing around each other, and still nothing?” Lisa persisted.

“We’re just good friends,” Adrian countered.

“Just ask him out!” Lisa sighed.

“It could spoil everything, though!” he shot back.

Every one of his meetings with Lisa ended pretty much the same way. Surely Lisa had proven her good instincts about Cal. So why couldn’t Adrian just take that one last leap of faith?

Later that semester, the smell of the pizzas filled Adrian’s nostrils as he entered Cal’s room and sensed the frosty atmosphere. It was obvious that the fat boy was comfort-eating, with two large bottles of soda on the side and several boxes of cookies opened, or emptied across the space. Cal’s body was expanding more rapidly of late; his belly peeking out of the bottom of his XXL shirts, love handles cut in half by uncomfortably tight pants. It was difficult not to swoon.

“What’s the matter?” Adrian asked, knowing when Cal was in a bad place.

“Nothing,” Cal instinctively replied, ripping his teeth into another slice. He huffed, seeming to reconsider. “It’s my mom,” he finally stated. “She was staying in the city this weekend so I went over to see her.”

Adran winced. He knew Cal’s relationship with his mother was a tense one.

“I get top grades. I’m focused on my future career. I don’t do drugs. I’m a nice person, and yet… all she wants to do is complain about how much weight I’ve put on!”

“That’s rough,” Adrian agreed, despite quietly sympathising with the guy’s mother. The woman saw her son so infrequently, she must have been in complete shock; especially given how well the double chin had been coming along since the start of the year. Cal must have eaten his way up to at least 350lbs, considering his tall, broad frame.

“She was with yet another new boyfriend,” Cal grumbled on. “But one look at me and she refused to even introduce me to him. She was embarrassed! She kept saying I’m just like my dad, over and over again; like he’s the worst person in the world! But it’s her!” he sighed, taking another bite. “What sort of a woman wants to disown her own son because he’s not slim anymore?”

“She really said that?” Adrian asked. He’d heard some dreadful stories about Cal’s mother in the past, but this surprised even him.

“She told me not to contact her again until I was back to a more presentable weight!” the guy laughed, now stacking two pizza slices on top of each other and grinning. “So, fuck her!” he spat, taking the biggest mouthful as if this was the greatest act of rebellion in his whole life.

Adrian pondered. Should he really say it?

“Your mom’s right,” Adrian sighed watching the grotesquely greedy boy gorging himself. “You really are just like your dad.”

Cal swallowed, caught by surprise at his best friend’s words.

“You’re sweet and kind; generous to a fault, and as loyal as they come.” He sat himself down on the side of Cal’s bed, beside him. “You’re exactly the type of man anyone would be lucky to have. And yes, I do think that’ll probably mean you’ll continue to put on weight. But those of us who love you can definitely cope with that.”

“Love me?” Cal repeated back to him, like it was the only part he had heard.

Adrian’s heart was beating furiously. “Don’t panic,” he sighed. “I accepted a long time ago that you would never feel the same way. I just can’t help it. I never could.”

Cal sat up properly, actually pushing his pizza box to the side. His eyes were clearly filled with a thousand questions. He even tried to voice a couple of them a few times, starting and stuttering. In the end, he reached for Adrian’s hand and held it sweetly. “You’re serious?” he asked. “You really think you could put up with all this?” he nodded down at his fat belly.

Electricity sizzled through Adrian’s brain as he held Cal’s large, sweaty palm. He leaned in, taking that leap at long last, barely comprehending anything as Cal’s lips came to meet his for the first of many, many times.

“I didn’t realise that Lisa’s boyfriend was so big!” Cal whispered months later, seeing the rotund, 550lb man waiting for his bride up at the front of the church.

Adrian smiled back and nodded. “It’s a great suit he’s wearing, huh?”

Cal chuckled. “Forget the suit. Look at the gut on him! It’s even bigger than my dad’s!”

Adrian considered. “You’re probably right,” he agreed, admiring Lisa’s hard work. “I hope you’re not judging?” he teased.

“Quite the reverse!” Cal laughed back. “We both know I’m going to be even heavier than that by the time we get married.”

Grinning, Adrian looked down at Cal’s large tank of stomach fat, only just contained by the enormous shirt they had had to order online for the day. “That’s fine by me,” he smiled back appreciatively.”

Cal reflected the smile, never failing to count his blessings that he had found someone who still couldn’t keep his hands off him, even as he had packed on an additional sixty pounds since they had got together.

“You can’t eat in here!” Adrian laughed, watching as Cal indiscreetly unraveled a chocolate bar he had secretly hidden in his jacket pocket.

“Come on, look at the size of me!” Cal shrugged. “At this weight, people pretty much expect me to be eating wherever I go,” he joked, pushing the long bar into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it all in two gigantic bites.

Adrian smirked as people turned and stared disapprovingly. He wouldn’t change his big, gluttonous man for the entire world.

“At least they’ll all know why there won’t be much food left at the buffet later,” the fat man teased, patting his giant, hungry stomach with pride.

The music started to play as Lisa began to make her way slowly down the aisle, no one noticing the sweet kiss shared between the giant, greedy man on the fifth row and his very, very appreciative lover. 

[revelboo]

Could we get various IDW characters with their human in a senario where they're watching a firework show? I'm really craving fluff so sweet it rottening my teeth rn.

Sure! Got the Roddy pin!

Celebration

IDW/G1 Bots

• “It’s criminal to not have any beer or a grill.” You hear someone whining as you bend to spread out your blanket on the ground. And you glance at where Wheeljack, Inferno, Red Alert, and Perceptor are working to set up the homemade fireworks a hopefully safe distance from where everyone’s getting comfortable to watch the show. And you love Wheeljack, but when he’d said he and Perceptor had been asked to make fireworks, you’d been worried. Still are as you see the shadowy shape of Waspinator’s person trying to coax him into lying down and your skin prickles as the bot flops down in his giant wasp form.

• “Think he’s going to blow himself up?” Sideswipe asks, stretching out on the blanket beside you and shifting so his upper body is caging you. ‘Sides!’ You whisper, sounding delighted and scandalized even as Sunny shoots him a warning look, because even if the little humans can’t see well in the dark, everyone else can. Venting he hooks an arm around you and rolls so you’re sprawled on top of him. “Think anyone wants to place bets?” And Sunny rolls his optics with a growl before stretching out beside him.

• “What exactly are we celebrating?” Hound asks, watching the humans chattering excitedly around him while the other mass displaced mechs laugh and talk. ‘No more shitty, minimum wage job?’ You suggest with a shrug. ‘New beginnings?’ You add with a shy smile that leaves him warm. And laugh when someone almost trips over you, Bumblbee’s optics bright as he catches his human and apologizes for them.

• “Not stripping for cash!” You toss out there with a laugh overhearing the conversation from the next blanket over. And you hear what you’re pretty sure is Red Alert’s person yell an ‘amen’ as Optimus just vents with a small smile at you. ‘Hey, you still okay with teaching pole dancing?’ Someone asks and it’s hard to tell who it is in the growing dark. “Sure, hun,” you say with a shrug, grabbing Optimus’s chassis to pull yourself into his lap. More than happy to teach all your skills to the rest of the Ark’s human population.

• Relaxing as the humans call out what they’re celebrating, Trailbreaker glances at you as you toss back a bottle of water. Unable to see out here as well as they can, so hopefully unaware that he’s staring at you, though his visor glowing is probably giving him away. “Second chances,” he calls out softly. But he’s heard and you smile up at him, leaning into his frame. Hears other bots calling out their own answers, emboldened that they’re allowed to voice their desires. Goals and hopes.

• “A future.” Head lifting to look up at the shadowy form of your mate, you smile and duck your head. Because sooner or later it’s going to come out anyway. It might as well be tonight. Letting him pull you into his lap, you startle when the first firework screams into the air and you hear Waspinator hissing, wings buzzing as his person tries to calm him. Watching the glittering, colorful lights in the sky, you feel your mate interlace his servos with your fingers and you lean back into him. Hear a second rocket launch as you cup your hands over your mouth. “I’m sparked!” You yell in the silence right before the firework explodes.

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 4 , CH 5 , CH 6

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

January 1st, 2025

Dear Diary,

Baku confessed to me today.

It still feels strange to write that down. Like my pen might hesitate if I press too hard, or the words will vanish if I look at them too long.

I don’t really know what to feel about it.

Baku and Hyun-tak… they’re close. Really close. So close that Hyun-tak literally renamed himself. "Gotak." That nickname stuck harder than I expected — like it belonged to both of them, stitched together by jokes and sparring matches and the way they always, always have each other's backs.

Sometimes, I think Baku's the best thing that ever happened to Hyun-tak. He brought him out of his shell a little.

He gave him a brother. A safe space. A balance.

And honestly?

Baku’s always treated me nicely too.

Like I wasn’t just Hyun-tak’s “shadow” or “tagalong” — but like someone worth talking to. Like I mattered on my own. I was never left out. I never had to be loud to be noticed when Baku was around.

So I didn’t expect the confession.

Not from him.

He smiled that crooked smile of his — the kind that makes everything feel like a dare — and said:

“I think you’re really pretty. And cool. Wanna go out with me?”

Just like that.

Like he was asking me to come watch him play basketball or walk to the arcade.

Like my answer wouldn't break anything. I didn’t know what to say. Well — that’s a lie. I did know. I was going to say no.

Not because Baku isn’t kind. Or warm. Or someone I care about.

But because...

I already gave my heart to someone else.

Years ago.

But before I could answer, he just laughed and added, “You don’t have to say anything now. If you show up at the basketball court at 6 PM tonight, that means yes. If you don’t… well, then I get my answer.”

God, he really is dumb sometimes.

Sweet, but dumb.

It’s 8 PM now.

I didn’t go.

And I know — I know — he won’t take it too badly.

That’s not who he is. He’ll probably joke about it tomorrow. Ruffle my hair and say something like, “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

And maybe I’ll laugh.

And maybe I won’t know what to say then either.

But right now — I’m alone in my room, staring at my ceiling, wondering if I made something awkward between two of the most important people in my life.

But you know what I keep thinking about?

How easy it was for Baku.

How fearless. How brave.

He likes someone, so he says it.

Simple. Direct. With that crooked grin like the whole world could break and he’d still be okay.

I envy that.

So much.

Because I’ve never been able to do that.

I can’t even imagine it — standing in front of Hyun-tak, looking him in the eye and saying, “I like you.”

What if I did?

What if I told him everything?

That all these years — the laughs, the fights, the quiet walks home, the summer nights, the way my heart stumbles every time he looks at me just a second too long — meant something more. Everything, actually.

What if I told him that sometimes I lie awake and wonder what his heartbeat sounds like up close?

What if I told him that the way he says my name has started to mean more to me than any poem I’ve ever read?

What if I said it — really said it — and he didn’t feel the same?

Would he laugh? Would he pity me? Would we stop being “us”? I don’t think I could survive that.

I’d rather have him as my best friend forever than risk losing him for even a second.

Even if it means never hearing him say he feels the same.

Even if it means watching him fall for someone else someday.

Even if it breaks my heart, one silent page at a time.

Because loving Hyun-tak…

It’s not like a spark or fire or rush of adrenaline.

It’s like a river.

Slow. Gentle. Deep.

I don’t even remember when it started — only that it never stopped.

But maybe that’s my problem.

I let it keep flowing.

And now it’s so big, I don’t know how to dam it without drowning.

Baku was brave.

And I… am not.

So I’ll stay here — behind my diary pages, behind quiet glances and untold truths — and love him safely, silently.

Like always.

— Y/N

(17 and too afraid to lose her favorite person)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

A smile crept on his face. He was relieved that she rejected Baku. His fingers gently traced the edges of the diary as he kept re-reading the lines where she expressed her feelings unfiltered.

The words blurred slightly. His eyes didn’t sting, but they burned — like they’d just seen something too intimate, too honest, something he wasn’t supposed to find.

His hands were still. He could feel his heart. Physically. Loud and uneven and too fast. It pounded in his ears, down his throat, through his chest.

A low ache bloomed there — behind his ribs, in the spaces where her words settled and curled up like they belonged there.

“I already gave my heart to someone else. Years ago. Quietly. Fully.”

The weight of that line hit like a punch. Not all at once — but slowly. Like he was falling into it.

She was talking about him. Him. He had to reread it. Twice. Three times. It didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. Because… how? How had he not seen it? How could someone pour themselves out like this — years of love, of hope, of quiet breaking — and he’d just… not noticed?

His hand moved to the middle of the page, fingertips pressing gently over her words. As if he could touch the shape of her heart through her ink.

“I’d rather have him as my best friend forever than risk losing him for even a second.”

He sucked in a breath. His mouth was dry. His throat too tight. And for the first time in a very long time — he felt afraid. Not of the words. But of what they made him feel.

Because suddenly, everything — every moment, every memory — came rushing back like a river too strong to hold back.

Her laugh echoing behind him as she chased him down the street. The way she pouted when he teased her for being short, then stood on tiptoe just to flick his forehead.

The way she looked at him during his matches — fists clenched, face burning with pride, screaming his name louder than anyone else.

The way she once clung to his arm when thunder cracked, whispering she wasn’t scared of storms, just “surprised.”

And her smile — the one she gave him when he handed her his jacket in the rain without a word.

God.

Had he really never realized?

He clenched his jaw. A slow heat crept up the back of his neck. His ears — red. His chest ached. Not in the painful way. Not exactly.

In the new way.

Like something just bloomed there. And it was wild. And tender. And unfamiliar.

Was this love?

Was this what it felt like?

And had it been there all along? Buried under years of routine and jokes and quiet, half-noticed glances? Tucked into her smiles, the way she always waited for him, the way his day never started unless he heard her voice?

But suddenly he realised something. "She's with Baku, alone right now??" He mumbled while sitting straight up.

He didn't know why. But after reading that diary entry, he didn't want her to be him. It was dumb of him to wish this. But it wasn't something he could control, his heart just felt that way.

But then his eyes wandered back to her diary. Even if her writing style has changed drastically over the years...

There was one thing that hadn't changed.

The way she always wrote Hyun-Tak with a blue pen and for some reason it had her voice in it.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

ISTG I LOVE WRITING HYUN-TAK

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex @itzcandy @ryeounistic @ruruyinn @ashayein @bblgeum @tojirin @lov3lylyn @urmazah

[jjoelmillers]

michael berzatto - forever, if you want

♫ weyes blood - andromeda

you don't even understand how much i need this man holy shit, please request him more... 5k guys, i caught those feelings bad

reader has fem! pronouns <3

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Good things happening to Michael were rare occurrences, and when they did he always seemed to have a talent for ruining them. He knew he could be a handful with all of his issues, and he had grown very accustom to the good things leaving him as quick as they arrived. It was a vicious cycle, but one he got so used to so fast that he barely even registered it anymore. Michael believed things wouldn't change on that front, and he made peace with it long ago.

That was until you walked into his life. 

Sure, it hadn't been an instant thing, but on first impression you had intrigued him. He couldn't pinpoint whatever it was, but Michael felt like there was something hiding in you. 

You'd been a customer at The Beef for a while, and you knew Michael and Richie on basic terms. It was initially a quiet start because you didn't talk much, save for a shy smile and your order. Richie teased you a little for it in jest, and Michael was very sweet on you. He loved when you came in with your laptop or books, ordered the same combo every time and just sat in a quiet corner by the window. 

"Well hey, if it isn't our resident bookworm," Michael had come over to your table one day, the first day you actually had a proper conversation with him that wasn't a little flirt. "Whatcha reading today?"

You smiled up at him, knowing he was coming to pester and had no real interest in ever reading your book. Still, you answered him so sweetly.

"It's called House of Earth and Blood, it's part of a series that I'm into right now. I do-"

You met his eyes and saw him grinning, so wide and happy. You laughed and finished your sentence.

"You don't really care do you?"

Michael laughed; it was beautiful. It made his whole face light up when he smiled. Something you noticed about him on your first visit is that he was always warm and welcoming, and always smiling. You wondered at first how he kept it up, you couldn't even imagine being so happy. 

"Not even a little, sweetheart," he said, his tone light. "I actually came to give you this."

From behind him, he moved his hands round and presented you with your food. Raising a questioning brow, he winked at you and placed the meal in front of you, drink, straw and napkin included. 

"I haven't even ordered yet," you giggled. "How did you know I didn't want anything different?"

"Did you want something different?" he asked, already knowing the answer. 

Shyly and a little defeated, you shrugged. "No."

"Exactly."

His matter of fact statement sent you both into a small fit of laughter as he sat in front of you for a while. The way the sunlight hit the left side of his face, it highlighted all his features perfectly. You hadn't fully thought about it before, but he was incredibly attractive. Realising you were staring, you quickly looked back down to your book. Michael's voice broke your thought train.

"Don't mind if I sit here, do you? You're eyeing me like I'm not welcome." There was jest in his tone, which relieved you; the last thing you needed was calling out on your staring. There was such an air of confidence around him, he was the antithesis of yourself. You let out a heart giggle and responded.

"Not at all, you own the place. You don't mind me sitting in your chairs, do you?"

Your own playful tone wasn't lost on him, and he stuck his tongue out and licked his lips with an almost inquisitive look. He leaned back in his seat, pretending to ponder your question. 

"Hmm, I don't know, maybe you can and maybe you can't."

With a smirk, you put the bookmark into your page and closed the book. Leaning forward, you were both playing like villain and superhero having a head to head before a big battle. This was different for Michael, he hadn't been so open and fun before. Normally, it was a quick quip and a fun bit of flirting which made you blush. 

"What are your terms and conditions then, good sir?" you asked in your most regal voice.

"Well, you could start by letting me take you out for a drink some time? We close in an hour if you want to go tonight? I could probably leave Richie with the cleaning today if I'm honest."

From across the shop, you heard a voice.

"Heard that cousin, fuck yourself."

You burst out laughing and covered your face with your hands. What you failed to notice was Michael looking at you like you were the sun and stars. He felt something in his heart for you, he had done for a while. But what it was he didn't know. It was positive, though. 

"If it's okay with Richie, then I'd love to go tonight."

As quick as you mentioned his name, the man in question leaned around the wall and walked to your table, polishing some cutlery with his towel. 

"Imma say yes, but only for my favourite customer. I want it on the record that I did not do this for you, Mikey."

You exchanged a look with Michael like you were being given permission to go out for the night by your dad. Richie raised a brow and pointed at his best friend. 

"You bring her back safe, no funny business. If I hear you damage her or hurt her, I will kill you."

"Yes, Dad. Thank you, Dad," Michael mocked him, giving off his best smart pose. You held back your giggles long enough for Richie to swat Michael with his cloth. Richie walked away, but popped his head round the counter one last time and gave you a genuine smile. 

"Run off now, you two. Go on, I'll close up. Have some fuckin' fun, alright."

Michael stood, shouting a thanks to Richie. Offering his hand, you took it and collected your things, packing them safely into your bag. 

"I haven't even eaten the food you gave me, and I haven't paid either."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "I'm not gonna make you pay anyway, doll. Plus, I'll take you somewhere nicer for food instead. Get out of this fucking place."

For a second, you saw a brief look of sadness hit Michael's face, and it was the first time you'd seen him anything other than happy. Nobody can keep happiness up forever, but you saw a glimpse of the Michael behind the mask. 

"How about we grab a pizza and watch a film at my place?" you asked him quietly, leaning in to his ear. 

"You sure? You don't want a fancy dinner date?" His voice was confused. "You just want pizza?"

Nodding, you broke out into a small laugh. "What's so unbelievable about that?"

"Nothin'! No, nothing at all," he protested, shaking his head and smiling. "No, I just uh, I just didn't expect it really. Most women like big, fancy dates, not just staying indoors."

Raising your brows with a cheeky smile, you just stood there. Michael looked at you for a moment, allowing himself to take you in. You weren't like others, that much was obvious to him. There was a person within you he was just itching to meet. His polar opposite in every way, and he liked it.

 You waited a few moments for Michael to get his things, before heading towards your car. The drive was pretty quiet, Michael seemed lost in his thoughts just staring out of the window. He hadn't been around this area before, so it was a nice change of scenery here. 

"Pretty nice place you live in," he said, turning his head over to you as you concentrated on the road. 

"Yeah, it's pretty nice. It's quiet here, too."

For a few moments, Michael let his eyes stay on you. Taking you in, he smiled to himself a little. In the setting sun, you were soft and glowing. Your hair fell and framed your face perfectly, and if he were less sane than he was now, perhaps Michael would have asked you to pull over just to kiss you there and then. 

That was the exact moment he knew he wanted something more than friendship from you. 

The thought hit him like a truck.

Michael didn't do these kind of feelings, all this love stuff. To him, it was bullshit and any other attempts at it had left him alone anyway. He didn't see the point in letting someone into his life like that, someone who would only leave when they saw how bad things got. When the reality of Michael's life hit, everybody ran. If they didn't run, he pushed them away eventually. He was nervous about these feelings for you; why did he feel like this? He thought he trained this out of himself long ago.

You'd broken every barrier so far without even knowing it., and he was allowing himself to finally break out of that cage. To let someone into his heart. For whatever reason, Michael believed you wouldn't hurt him, that you could even be a force for good in his life. Doubt washed over him though, and he decided not to entertain those thoughts any longer. Why would you feel anything for him anyway? He's a stranger, the owner of a sandwich shop you frequent, and you probably just agreed to this date so you didn't feel awkward. 

"You okay, Michael?" your voice pulled him from the darker side of his mind, back into the present warmth of the setting sun. He nodded, though you had your eyes on the road and hadn't seen.

"Yeah," he replied, his words coming out a lot shakier than intended. "Yeah, just thinkin'. And hey, call me Mikey. Please, Michael is too formal."

"Fair enough, Mikey." Shit, he thought. Shit, that sounds so fuckin' sweet. 

Pulling into your drive, you both jumped out of your car and headed to your door. As you unlocked it, Mikey's eyes widened a little. Your house was really nice. It was muted, the walls white but the decor natural woods. Cabinets full of books and DVD's, and a desk in front of the window with writings and journals all over it. In the middle, your laptop sat charging. Various colours, from rugs to the sofa and up to the curtains gave the place such a homely feel.

Why did Mikey feel like he was home?

"This is me," you spoke, chucking your bag down and hanging your coat up. "Make yourself at home, Mikey, I'll make us a coffee or something if you want?"

"Sounds great," he replied, his eyes still wandering around your apartment. 

Mikey took his shoes and jacket off, taking a seat on your sofa. His eyes fell on your TV and the cabinets around it. Where the spaces weren't occupied by literature, there were photos of you and what he assumed were family members or friends. He smiled to himself, noting how sweet you looked in them all. 

You came back to your living room holding two cups and a decanter of fresh coffee, and caught sight of him sitting back relaxed. It felt strange, a small feeling in your heart twanged. Mikey looked right, resting here in your home. It looked as though he had lived here forever, like the room would be incomplete without him. Shaking off the thought, knowing he probably didn't feel the same, you placed the drinkware down onto your table and joined him on the sofa. 

"Here, hopefully this'll warm us up. It's freezing today."

"I agree with you there, sweetheart." God, that sounded good, you thought. Why does that sound good?

You sat in a comfortable silence and your brain started to think. Sitting here with Mikey without the bustle of the shop was nice. It felt so right. You'd felt something for him for a while, but you hadn't thought he would feel the same. He had invited you on a date, but you thought that it was just because he felt bad or something. You weren't sure, but you had convinced yourself Mikey was above liking you in that way. 

"So, what's the best pizza joint around here?" Mikey asked, and you blinked at him. Hearing him laugh pulled you back to reality. "You didn't hear a word I said did you, doll?"

"I did," you protested. 

"You have no fuckin' idea, do you?"

"Yeah!" you swatted his arm playfully, and he caught it in his hand. Pulling you over to him, your legs now touching as you faced him. "

"What did I say then?"

You sighed. "Alright, I have no fuckin' idea."

"Ha!" he clapped and threw his head back in victory. "See, I knew it. You gotta buy me dinner now. I want full princess treatment."

Mikey winked at you and you could swear you might faint. The feeling that gave you in your stomach was sickeningly sweet. 

"I can get us an order in and find something to watch, if that must be my punishment for not paying attention one time," you feigned your own dramatics, sighing loudly. 

"No, it fuckin' isn't, sweet. I ain't gonna make you pay for dinner. What kind of date would this be if I did that?"

"You'd be exactly like every other man I've met. But I know you aren't, Mikey. You're different."

Your statement hung in the air for a few moments, a small vulnerable side of you coming out to him. Mikey took from your statement that your previous encounters with the male species hadn't been too favourable, but he was honoured you felt differently about him. Mikey hoped he wasn't like some of the jagoffs he knew and saw hanging around. 

Looking into each others eyes, neither one of you seemed to move, or want to. His eyes were shining, a flicker of the Mikey you were hoping to get to know was in there. Clearing your throat and grabbing your phone, you broke away from the obvious tension and brought up your delivery app.

"This is my favourite pizza place, their jalapeno poppers are so good."

As you turned the phone to him so he could look through the menu, Mikey moved closer to you instead, placing an arm around the back of the sofa and leaning over your shoulder as he scrolled. You still held the phone, with Mikey using his finger to check through the menu, and your heart was beating so much faster. Why was the closeness of his body making you feel so flustered? Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you heard him humming, trying to decide what he wanted. 

After the order was paid for and being prepared, Mikey sent you the money just like he said he would. Despite your many protests, he simply shushed you with a finger to your lips. 

"I offered you a date and I'm paying, doll."

Whilst you waited, you picked out a film to watch (or have on in the background). Some old comedy from the 80's. You learned more about him and his family in the meantime. Mikey told you he had a sister who lived here in Chicago, and a baby brother who was off being a chef in Copenhagen. With all the pride in the world, he showed you the pictures Carmen had sent him of the food he was making.

"I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly is that?" you asked, gesturing to the plate on his screen.

"I have no fucking idea," he laughed out, that gruff chuckle like music to your ears. "I really have no idea, but he's the shit. Yeah, like he's so fucking good at it, like real good."

"I hope I can meet him one day when he's back," you said, smiling at Mikey. He sent one back, nodding.

"Yeah, yeah that would be nice. You could meet Sugar, too. She would like you, I think. Nat's lovely, like a really good sister. She's younger than me, but sometimes I feel like she's more of an older sister, you know? She just takes care of you, always pulls you back up and keeps you straight."

Without thinking, you leaned and rubbed his back, hand trailing lightly across his shirt. He looked a little sad as he spoke, so you wrapped your arm around his shoulders and held him closer to you. Mikey's eyes widened, but he welcomed your touch all the same. 

"I get that, yeah. I don't have the greatest relationship with my family, if any at all. But that's depressing, and for another day. I think I would like that, though. To meet Nat and Carmen. I really would."

Mikey looked up at you, his head still resting against you, as your fingers ran through his hair now. You weren't even thinking about your actions anymore, and Mikey wasn't denying them either. He sighed at the feeling of your hands in his hair, and you both just sat there for a while in silence, in each others company. 

Mikey began to think you were more alike than he had originally thought. Maybe not in your hobbies or interests, but more on a personal level. He craved that, a deeper understanding of another human being. In truth, he craved you. Someone to learn about, someone to open up to. Finally, Michael realised this was something he'd been missing for too long. 

You wouldn't fix him, he knew that, but maybe you could make him happier.

The bell rang, and you stood up reluctantly, grabbing the food from the driver and closing the door. Mikey was sat up now, fixing your cushions for you so you would be comfy coming back in. Such a sweet gesture, something he didn't have to do. He was far more a gentleman than any of the other men you'd known. 

You both sat in comfortable content, eating and laughing like friends that had known each other forever. When he found something really funny, Mikey had one of those kinds of laughs that made everyone else laugh even if the source material wasn't all that funny. His laugh truly was infectious, and you found yourself unable to take your eyes off him sometimes. 

As the credits rolled, you had both retired to the sofa again, but this time you were curled up close to Mikey. He had his arm around you, playing with your hair and occasionally resting his head atop yours. How you ended up like this you didn't know, though neither of you were about to complain or protest it. This feeling was something you wouldn't easily shake, and something you hadn't ever felt before. Never had you gotten so close to someone so fast, letting them into your home and life like this. 

Unbeknownst to you, Mikey was also feeling the same. He was scared; no, terrified even, of allowing himself to love and be loved. He knew he was volatile, and at times unpleasant, but he would fight himself every day to make sure he was never like that with you if you would have him. It was insane, he'd known you for such a short time, but he felt so close to you. He wanted to be here with you, to hold you and watch shitty films for the rest of his life. 

"Hey," Mikey whispered. "You awake, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, I am," you replied, looking up at him with a smile. "Just enjoying the moment."

Mikey hummed in agreement. "Yeah, same here."

You sat up by his side, facing him dead on as he looked over at you and his eyes locking onto yours. You said nothing, you hadn't had anything to say in the first place. Reaching out gently, you brought your hand to his face, stroking across his cheekbone. Mikey closed his eyes, the foreign feeling of someone else's touch on him tingling across his skin. 

Reopening his eyes, he found you staring at him with doe eyes. He couldn't resist that, leaning in close to you as he took in your scent. Sighing against your skin, Mikey's lips brushed against your ear as he whispered to you.

"I really wanna kiss you right now, sweetheart."

Your hand ran through the hair on his head, settling at the nape of his neck.

"Then why don't you?"

That was it for Mikey. He pulled back and leaned in, capturing your lips with his own. It was sweet and slow, giving you every chance to pull away and change your mind. Mikey used to force, leaving enough space for you to move should you want to. You had no plans of leaving, but Mikey was used to people changing their mind on him all the time. Knowing you were not like that, he still had reservations and doubt. 

Letting out a gentle gasp, Mikey took your bottom lip in between his teeth, biting down softly so as not to draw any blood but enough to make it feel good. You moved closer to him, the kiss never breaking. God he is good at this, you thought. Mikey's hands were on your hips now, your tangled in his hair again. He loved the feeling of you pulling on his hair, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to feel nice. 

"Fuck," you breathed out, breaking the kiss for a moment. "Mikey..."

You trailed off as your eyes met, and he looked so beautiful. His hair was messed up, his beef shirt was askew at the collar, and his face was so relaxed. For the first time in forever, he felt no stress, no sadness and no anger. All he felt now, was adoration. He was enjoying this, lost int he moment.

You pulled him back in, lips meeting with just as much passion as before. Mikey felt a bit bolder now, knowing you wanted this with him. Mikey pulled you up with ease and settled you on his lap. Your legs either side of him, he couldn't help but run his hands everywhere. Over your jeans and under your shirt. Not in any other way than to just feel skin. He just wanted to feel you there, to tell himself this was real and happening.

Anything else was not what tonight was about. 

Letting out a small gasp at the feeling of rough hands along the soft skin of your ribs, Mikey breathily laughed. Not mocking, just loving. He was loving this situation. 

You pulled away again, just sitting on his lap as your hands held his face, cupping his jawline. Your eyes ran all over his face, as though you were trying to memorize every inch of him, burning his features into your mind. 

Mikey looked up at you like you were an angel. Something sent to him that was so pure and beautiful, and his fingers ghosted your hips as though any harsher touch may shatter you. He treated you like porcelain, like you were the most important thing to him right now. You didn't know it, but you were the first person in Mikey's life like this since he had gotten pretty bad with his mental health. You were the first to break the barrier without even knowing, and he was grateful you had. 

Mikey whispered your name, and you answered with a nod, encouraging him to carry on talking. 

"I didn't think you wanted this, you know? Thought this was just gonna be a quick, cute little date."

"I do want this," you answered, sensing he needed some affirmation. "I've wanted this for a while, but I didn't want to come off as desperate or weird or anything. I was just a customer in your shop, that was all."

Mikey chuckled in disbelief. "You're fuckin' joking, doll. I always looked out for you coming in, you know? Always waited for you, made sure your order was perfect. You were the highlight of my day. When you don't come in, I worry."

He paused, scrunching up his face as you let out a small giggle.

"No," he started. "No wait, is that weird? Does that sound weird? Shit, not what I meant, I-"

"I get it," you interrupted, and he nodded. "No, yeah I do. I feel the same. When I had a shitty day, I'd make sure to come in for a sandwich. Those were the days I was in later. But, if I'm being honest, it wasn't just the sandwich."

Mikey feigned offence. "My food that shitty to you, huh?"

Swatting him and throwing your head back, you shook it in protest. 

"No, you idiot. No, It was you. I came in for you, just seeing you made my day that little better. I was just too shy to start a conversation."

"Fuckin angel," he breathed out. "God damn it, god fuckin' damn it."

Mikey pulled you in again, this time for a short kiss and a cuddle. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you heard the thud of his heartbeat, steady and calm. 

"Do you want to stay, Mikey?" you asked, suddenly shy about asking him. 

"Stay with you, doll?" he questioned back, making sure he heard you right. 

"Yeah, here. I think I have a pair of lounge pants that would fit you if you want them. I used to wear really baggy ones for comfort."

"Are you sure you want me to stay?" he asked, seriousness lacing his voice. He wanted to be sure you wanted that, and wouldn't have any regrets. 

Sitting up on his lap still, you pushed stray strand of hair from his forehead. Your smile was like honey, so sweet to him as you nodded your head yes.

"I've never been more sure about anything. I'd love for you to stay. Forever, if you want to."

Mikey smiled, a wide smile that lit his whole face up. He spoke softly and low, glancing over at the clock on your wall. 

"It is kind of late, and I gotta open the beef tomorrow morning. I don't know my way back properly, though. You gonna give me a ride to work, sweet?"

You smirked. "Of course, the full princess treatment."

Mikey laughed loud, remembering his earlier statement. "That's it."

As though you were featherweight, Mikey stood up with you in his arms, legs wrapped around his middle. He attacked your neck with kisses, and the feeling of him laughing against your exposed neck was heavenly. 

"Mikey!" you exclaimed, as he stormed off out of the room holding you, quickly realising he didn't know the layout of your house. 

Mikey began to open doors, each one the wrong one every time. You couldn't contain your laughter as he picked through them. The kitchen, the bathroom, the clothing cupboard, the pantry. All the wrong doors. You heard him let out an exasperated sigh. 

Mikey placed you down for a minute to regain his bearings. Turning to you, you hid your face behind your hands so he couldn't see you holding back more giggled. A completely puzzled and bewildered look spread across his face, like he was lost in a maze. 

"Which one is your fuckin' bedroom?" he asked. "Why've you got so many rooms in this place?"

He wasn't really angry, just baffled by the door situation. He stood with his hands on his head. Holding out your hand for him, he took it gracefully, but not before placing a kiss against your knuckles.

"Come on, I'll show you."

When you reached your bedroom, you grabbed him some pants from the wardrobe and threw them to him.

"Feel free to get changed, I won't look," you winked at him, still a little giggly from the events that had just transpired. 

"I don't care if you do," Mikey winked back, changing into the bottoms and leaving the shirt off. You couldn't help but stare. Under that beef shirt, he was stacked. Not incredibly muscular, but enough to know he does some heavy lifting from time to time. 

He looked so incredible to you. Mikey Berzatto was beautiful. 

"You can get changed too, I won't look," he mocked your tone playfully. To his credit, he did actually sit on your bed with his back to you whilst you changed, opting for a long, oversized shirt and some fresh underwear. 

"Such a gentleman," you said, climbing onto your bed and ruffling his hair. Wrapping your arms around him from behind, he placed kisses against your wrist as you buried your face into his neck. 

The sun had long since set and the pitch black, quiet night of Chicago fell over your neighbourhood. Mikey spun round and pulled back the cover for you, letting you slip under. Settling himself behind you, his arms wrapped securely around your middle. His hand found comfort under your shirt, hand resting perfectly on your hip. His face was in the crook of your neck, light little kisses being placed there. So gentle, so tender.

You held his hand, lacing your fingers into his and only now noticing the size of his limbs compared to yours. Smiling, you leaned back into him and relaxed. 

"It's late, doll, we both gotta be up early. I've got work and you have to drive this princess to work."

His joking tone was not lost, having fully accepted his new title. You laughed again, all you had been doing tonight. 

"Yeah, I'm glad I'll be waking up with you, Mikey." Your statement was rooted in so much truth, you had wanted this for so long. Your bed no longer felt empty, filled with a presence that felt as though it had already been here forever. 

"Likewise, sweetheart. Have a feeling this'll be a regular thing, if you'll have me."

"Now I've got you, I'm not letting you go so easy."

Mikey took a few moments to ponder those words. Someone wanted him. You wanted him. You actually wanted to be with him, to wake up to him and fall asleep with him. To eat with him. You wanted to be in his life despite everything. He knew he had a lot to tell you, and you had a lot to learn about him, but he had a good feeling about things. For once, Mikey was looking at a bright future. Something that wouldn't be destroyed or self-destruct. 

He had something to live for in you, well and truly. 

"Goodnight, lovely girl. Sleep well, I'll see you in the morning."

Your voice was sleepy, between the warmth of his body and the smell of him against you. You hadn't felt more comfortable than now in your own bed. 

"Goodnight, princess. Sweet dreams." You poked.

Mikey let out one last quiet chuckle. "Fuck off."

"See you in the morning, Mikey Bear."

With that, you were off to sleep, safe and secure in Mikey's arms. He was quick to follow, savouring the feel of you with him, curled up in his arms before the dreamworld took him. 

You both had the best nights sleep either of you'd ever had, with something to look forward to once the sun had risen over the skyline of Chicago. 

[spirk-fic-recs]

any recs for fics where spock is very sweet and affection seeking? tos preferred but aos okay as well!

Hey Nonny!

Haha your ask is perfect, exactly the kind of ask that I would love to answer on my birthday:D I’m a sucker for these kinds of fics as well, so I’ll try my best to compile a comprehensive list!

Never and Always, Holding and Held (TOS, 5526 words) by Bibarian

The entire galaxy think Vulcans hate being touched, but that's not the complete truth. Vulcans simply don't like to be touched by strangers. In private, with the people they care about, Vulcans can't get enough physical affection.

warm (TOS, 2014 words) by Sir_Bedevere

"You're going to look after me?" Jim said, suddenly a little shy. Jim Kirk, shy? He must be more tired than he thought.

"Come," Spock said, turning on his heel and leading the way to the bathroom. "I will administer to your needs."

After a tough day in the field, Jim is feeling more than a little overwhelmed when Spock offers to help him through it.

Home Renovation (TOS, 5581 words) by noodleinabarrel

Shortly before his first mission to Romulus, Spock buys a fixer-upper house with Jim. Although Jim is excited to begin renovating their new home, Spock worries it’s only a matter of time before his husband falls off a ladder and breaks his spine. Not to mention, the house’s derelict state is preventing Spock from enjoying his remaining time with Jim.

Count Your Days (TOS, McSpirk, 3076 words) by lenin_it_to_win_it

Spock plans a delightful anniversary surprise for Jim. Meanwhile, Jim is being threatened by a mysterious assassin. Surely the two are unrelated.

love, i think (TOS, 2999 words) by snek_of_eden

Nobody knows who professor Spock’s husband is. All they know is that he really loves him.

You're the Area 51 For Me. (AOS, 3807 words) by Meanderingthrough

Spock Greyson is an alien. Why won't anyone acknowledge this but Jim? Spock Greyson can not be human. Between the ridiculously good grades, the shiny hair, and the dexterous fingers that Jim just knows have an extra alien joint in them, there is no conceivable way that Spock Greyson could be anything but extra terrestrial. Jim is going to prove it.

just a human (TOS, 3137 words) by rhapsodicalfreddie

Proposal: prospect of selecting the captain (James T. Kirk) as mate, by Commander S’chn T’gai Spock.

Either Once Only, or Every Day (TOS, 2850 words) by scioscribe

They had said their vows—and every day since then, Spock had presented him with some small token of regard.

Pleasures of the Mind (AOS, 930 words) by whiteraven1606

For a prompt from the LJ community tarsus_iv_fic: 7. Spock loves Jim's mind. Even the parts of it that Jim doesn't want to let him see.

Quiver (AOS, 2661 words) by Jaylee

Jim is hesitant to allow Spock to meld with him.

beautiful (TOS, 687 words) by sunshine_captain

Jim thinks he isn't beautiful anymore. Spock begs to differ.

A Comedy of Errors (TOS, 6655 words) by yeah_w_r_i_t_e

“We’re gonna start with the classics,” he told Spock over their chess board. “Knock-knock jokes. Knock, knock!”

Spock looked at him with an intense expression for several seconds before saying, “Is this funnier to one with English as a native language?”

OR: Jim tries to teach Spock human comedy, Spock goes overboard, and the crew thinks they're going insane.

Eye of the Beholder (TOS, 6152 words) by WeirdLittleStories

Vulcans have very different standards of beauty than humans do, but it truly doesn't matter to Spock that Kirk is physically ugly by Vulcan standards, since Kirk's mind and character are so very beautiful. And as time goes on, Spock finds that love begins to work a sort of magic...

It's Not An Illusion (AOS, 118714 words) by Borealisblue

The Enterprise comes across a mysterious planet with a series of caves that manifest copies of loved ones. These copies are taken from a person’s mind to allow them to confront and heal the turmoil in their heart.

Jim is shocked when a copy of Spock shows up professing love for him and while he had never considered falling in love with his first officer, this copy allows him to explore the possibility. The real Spock would never have to know. The copy’s touch is electric and his body is warm and inviting, there’s just one problem, Jim doesn’t realize, it’s not a copy.

throwback (TOS, 695 words) by sunshine_captain

Spock is fixated on Jim's stomach; Jim wants to know why.

Special Delivery From The Stork (TOS/AOS, 12143 words) by NightOwl1

Spock is lonely and wanted a baby brother, after a misunderstanding and an accident a baby Jim is dropped into his lap courtesy of a stork. Taking this to mean that Jim is his new baby brother he takes Jim out for a day of fun.

Fulfilling the Needs of the One (Or the Both) (TOS, 8741 words) by plaidshirtjimkirk

Spock begins to wonder if his relationship with Jim has been one-sided in his own favor.

Um. I’m sorry if they’re so diverse? Like some kid fics and some OMS in the mix, but in compiling I just really thought of ah. Spock being affectionate HAHAHA I hope you still enjoy nevertheless.

Happy Reading!

—M

[garez19]

blackjack

yandere oc x captive! reader

unedited. MDNI. gn reader. yandere themes. gambling themes/simulated gambling. reader is forced to carve yandere’s skin. mention of stabbing. graphic depictions of attempted drowning. spitting. (none of them are done to reader.) please let me know if something is missing! english is not my native language. 2.5k wc.

you like to bet on a lovely day.

“come on, love,” he chirps. his joy doesn’t reach his eyes,

“let’s not do this now,” and it’s more of a demand than anything, although his voice is dripping with sweetness. he grabs your hand slowly, his hand is warm, but it doesn’t look good— his nail picking habits still don’t go away, you recall. you don’t know what triggers it exactly, maybe it has something to do with your tantrums. but none of that matters, as you remember the promise he made over a month ago. the tea burns your fingertips for 21 days, and on the twenty-second, you let go of that feeling of familiarity. he still doesn’t show you the mercy he said he had. and you still won’t allow him to have the satisfaction of winning — which is why you don’t answer. you remain still as his hand reaches out to your torso, the other one gently caressing your hand. he looks down on you. it’s not what you had in mind.

“come on, darling,” he tries once more, yet your eyes are on the cards: the cards are on the table, sitting pretty, waiting for you to grab them.

he becomes aware of the reason why you are distracted, “or…” he begins, “we can play it in your very own way.”

you don’t answer, but you know what he means to say.

the first time you played blackjack with him, twenty-two days ago, the cards transcendented russian roulette. pulling the trigger would take only half a second, but you were supposed to tap the table to let him know — you were on the verge of being busted, of losing it all. pulling one more card took two extra seconds. adding the numbers up and pondering the consequences as you bite your inner cheek — another two seconds.

“busted,” he muttered, looking down at his cards. you uncontrollably let out a shaky breath, relief washing over you for a hot second. but, his grin stayed. the house always won, after all, even when it didn’t.

“okay, love,” he said as he gathered the cards, “you’ve earned yourself a favor,” your body remained tense; however, stepping out of the roulette wheel alive had left you weirdly connected to the cards.

but he gets it, really. there is only so much to do in this house, and he knows you need something to pass the time with. the tea burns your upper thighs for twenty-two days, and on the 21st, he grants you the illusion of free will with fifty-two worn-out cards.

the illusion of fate, of bad fortune and miscalculations here and there. how ignorant and clueless one must be to not understand that the house always wins— even when it doesn’t.

and, how malicious one must be to not understand, a drowning man will clutch at a straw. you get it now, the state where one bawls uncontrollably because of a chess book is an unnerving thought, yet it’s not as distant anymore. you now know how that lawyer must’ve felt.

but unlike the lawyer, you have more than a chess book in this house, you have language learning books, rubik's cubes, and 1000 piece puzzles. he gets you romance novels, stickers, and sketchbooks with high-quality pages. markers and canvases on the corner of the room. nevertheless, none of them gives you the ecstasy the cards do. none of them give you a sense of accomplishment, a victory of sorts. “you know you can ask for anything,” he says, clearly proud of you though it’s nothing but a stupid card game. “except one thing.”

and that one single thing becomes holy. it turns into a scripture. it becomes a dream you hardly dare to imagine.

your dream is his reality. and, it’s not helping that both of you make it painfully obvious. he comes home with clothes soaked in the rain, “it’s raining cats and dogs, should’ve asked you about the weather,” as if you ever feel the need to check it. then, another day, his jacket is covered in cat fur, “it was quite adorable,” he pulls out his phone, “wanna see it?” you shake your head. finally, on a random tuesday, he reeks of alcohol, “my friends said hi,” he’s shameless, “they want to meet you one day.” he says. you look at him, intrigued. he cracks a smile, “a shame you’re so busy.”

but it’s okay, you have your cards. you have your destiny, and the power to catch it with your bare hands.

he hardly stifles his smile when your figure fails to conceal the excitement whenever he mentions playing cards very briefly. you don’t answer at first, but you don’t say no either— he’s proved playing bluff is his favorite. you remain silent, but it’s the only time of the day you get to communicate, even when it’s a little too intense for your tastes.

“well, if you don’t like to,” he starts talking –bluffing– certainly his strongest suit.

the third time you played blackjack, you finally knew how sour defeat tasted. but you also were not as terrified as you used to be. it wasn’t like your life wasn’t on the line, he assured, it was all about fun and games.

on his end, at least.

yet there wasn’t anything to do but try to figure out what he planned with a boxcutter. you absentmindedly took it without thinking too much when he suddenly held it out to you.

“carve your name, love,” he said, pointing at his upper arm with the other hand, “add a little heart while you’re at it.”

mouth agape, you stared at the boxcutter, then to his arm, to his expression—trying to catch a glimpse of sarcasm. an unfunny joke from a degenerate man, but he seemed eager, waiting for you to get out of trance, waiting expectantly.

so now, you can read your name with the big scar right next to it whenever he wears sleeveless shirts— the scar isn’t some failed heart shape, no. and attempting to stab someone with a boxcutter most certainly isn’t the brightest idea you had, to be fairly honest.

still, that’s also the game he’s taught you to play correctly. in a house full of whatever you could ever desire, the only thing that seems to get on your nerves is right in front of you. and he’s smiling softly. you no longer waste your wishes on meals and new books — he would get them in a heartbeat if you simply asked.

the bathtub is full of water. you dip your finger to check the temperature. he isn’t as frightened as you have pictured him in your head.

“if i die,”

“it’s not cold enough,” you cut him off. but you know what he’s meaning to say: if he dies, you die. and it’s not a simple threat. he says it almost endearingly, like a mother warning her children about strangers. he’s worried, he’s kind, and he’s ready to be sacrificed, but still, it’ll not be a game you end up winning. it’ll not be 21.

and you can’t understand if that’s a bluff. he’s really good at it. it’s not a risk you’re willing to take yet.

“oh, reminds me,” he makes a pretense of thinking, “should we pick a safe-word, just in case?” his little grin is nerve-racking. you stay quiet, and fortunately he seems to be on his best behavior as you bind his hands. he still isn’t as terrified as you painted.

“you ready?” you ask right before grasping his hair in a quick motion — too wrathful, too raw, not giving him a second to think. his head plunges under water, caught completely off guard. he tries to lift it, his mouth opens by instinct — you can see the bubbles in the tub. even though his arms and legs brace against the floor, it still takes effort to keep him down.

when you see him moving less, you quickly pull his head towards yourself. he pants, and for once, his attention is not solely on you, as he tries to regulate his breathing. you bend down just a little bit, pulling his hair down to make him look up. he is coughing up water, blinking fast, his chest rising in sharp, uncontrollable breaths.

your expression is dull. you aren’t amazed. it doesn’t give you a sense of justice. you aren’t ashamed. it doesn’t give you a sense of satisfaction.

he yet struggles with exhalation, spluttering after a fit of coughing. quite a sight for eyes, you think. the sound of his chokes doesn’t make you feel better. but well, it’s certainly better than nothing.

an unwavering emotion fills you up when you spit on his face. it’s an unnamable urge. is it out of spite? or did you just do it for the sake of it? not that it matters. his mind doesn’t comprehend the action at first. then he looks up at you — eyes bloodshot and wide. his mouth is slightly ajar. he doesn’t seem as indifferent now. gulping. his eyes darts around in the room, trying to make sense out of something– anything. an exit, an answer, a way to reverse time. there’s a twitch in his throat. and you see excitement in his eyes for the first time. “please,” he begs, voice wretched.

yet you pay no mind to it. your hands forces him underwater once more.

you yet want to play more. the disillusionment of having a fate -even though it feels scripted and cruel at times- comforts you. you seek solace in aggression. talking to someone—anyone for a few minutes sounds like a good bet, a good deal to gamble. abusing him for a couple of hours is a consultation.

so you don’t turn him down.

“wait,” you call out, and he already knows he succeeded in bluffing, though he doesn’t stop collecting the deck.head slightly tilted, he gives a small nod to show he’s listening. “we can play,” you say. he seems content. “are you sure?” he asks, “promise not to rock the boat like the last time when you lose.”

“sure,” you nod as you help him collect all the cards.

the cards are in his hand,

“we’ll have a date if you win,” he says as he shuffles the cards. you look at him dumbfounded— not quite the best bet to gamble. he gives out a light chuckle at your expression,

“in your favorite cafe,” he adds.

and there it is, the last piece of the puzzle. your eyes are wide, you recheck to make sure it’s not a fever dream. but he is sure of himself, and cards are ready to reveal your destiny,

“just one round, okay?” he says as he slowly nods his head. you imitate him.

your first card is a seven. he flips another card for himself. you purse your lips, but his grin is unwavering. the second cards are on the table — he’s slow and deliberate, a little too patient for your liking.

the second card is a five. twelve. you look up to him. his smile is very charming— very serene. he seems amazed. his gaze on you is sweet. almost like, for a millisecond, he’s a good friend, good company, someone you enjoy being around. and for half a second, he contemplates granting you the joy of winning. after all, you’re too cute to lose, too fragile to have your heart broken over a silly game.

your gaze shifts to his cards. there’s an ace on the table, and the other card is yet to be revealed. he waits, slowly nodding as you request one more card. eight.

twenty in total. quite close to blackjack. he looks up again. you wave your hand over your cards -letting him know you stand- your demeanor shifts. confidence lights up your expression, and he hums softly at the sight.

the smell of the air calls out your name, and the sounds of car engines are no longer as distant.

not until he flips the hole card. the card burns down the utopia you had. the king of spades.

it makes your heart sink. the king’s eyes are piercing, sword sharp, it’s a ten. the little purse on your lips is entertaining him.

it’s blackjack.

“lucky, aren’t I?” he says softly, declaring victory.

he then glances at your cards. “i was really hoping we’d grab a drink, too,” he claims, voice more cheerful than intended. the king of spades is in his hand now– he carries it like a medallion of his victory. he does it effortlessly, he does it like you aren’t there. he does it, too comfortable, it���s almost –no, definitely– cruel.

you’re left with defeat and 1000-piece puzzles. the phantasm of the cozy cafe haunts you. the tea burns your tongue on the fifty-second day, and you call out to him in pain, “wait,” you say, the king of spades still there, and you call out his name again, “one more,” he gazes at the cards. “one more time,” you beg.

an old man who lost everything on horse-races must understand the agony you’re in. an unfortunate destiny with its limited offerings for you, that’s all it is. “let’s play one more time,” you try again. a gambler figures the despair, as you keep replaying the scenario you’ve made up. the image is so vivid — the king of spades is on the table, and you’re given the second card now. fingers crossed, you slowly grab the card. and here it is; it’s the ace of diamonds, or maybe of clubs. your eyes widen at the sight. even people who hit the lottery couldn’t be able to describe it, nor could they comprehend such delight.

“please,” your voice is low and shaky. you try again, and again, and again. you’re a drowning man. you clutch at a straw. his expression is unaffected. he has had his fun, it seems. the owner is getting bored with his pet, you’ve seen it a few times. the show is over, destiny is revealed.

you come closer to him, grabbing his arm. he doesn’t seem to pay any attention to you, “do you want me to buy a card shuffler? you know, the ones they have in casinos?”

“one more time,” you try again, even though you clearly don’t stand a chance. “no can do, love,” he sighs, giving up, “you know we’ve talked about this.”

“please,” you say. the conversation isn’t going anywhere.

“it’s getting late, isn’t it?” he ushers you to your bedroom. you keep rambling about demanding a rematch, and how you are definitely going to win if you play again. his heart breaks listening to you cry and beg. you’re now a madman, lost, scared.

he tucks you in, “okay, baby,” he whispers, “let’s play again tomorrow,” he doesn’t wait for an answer before giving a quick peck on your cheek. to an outsider, you two just look like a cute couple arguing over a stupid card game.

in reality, he’s definitely going to burn that deck by tomorrow morning.

[elodieunderglass]

You have got me with your horse boys.

I think Killie would fall into fiber arts when he retires from racing, starting with spinning. Killie would make horse yarn and Derek would be overjoyed that Killie is not putting himself in mortal peril everyday.

Before Derek can think, they have gotten an evil alpaca and 2 angora rabbits. There's flax growing in the garden. There's a loom being built in the barn. Half finished felting projects are all over the house.

Killie would have no idea about the value of his yarns and fabrics. He just liked the feel of the bunnies and was drawn to the evil alpaca. He would sell his yarns to neighbors to supplement feed.

Killie would make gorgeous thread paintings and toss them in a pile. Every year Derek convinces Killie to enter some projects in the fair. Killie just digs something out of the pile and goes to visit the horses.

This is so nice! Thank you so much for sharing this lovely mental image. I really enjoyed spending time in this snapshot, thank you.

[abyssmalice]

"Trick or treat!!" Tonia is, of course, going around with a little pumpkin-shaped basket today. "It's obligatory give me a treat before I throw toilet paper into your house day!"

[the-kr8tor]

*trying to find an excuse to send an ask to my favourite creator but I technically have nothing to ask about and I think its incredibly awkward if I just write hi and nothing else also hi lovie what's popping*

-🍄

OMFG you're adorbs! Hello to you too, 🍄!! It's absolutely ok to just say hi! (I love it) I'm good, how are you?

[sclepurpose]

Send me a🌻 and I'll tell you whatever the fuck I want.

@eyeknowmayhem // 🌻

" So, I never really told Megamind this, but I remember a lot from our planet -- at least, a lot more than he does. I was born a few years before him, around five Earth years, if I recall correctly.

From birth, I was pretty much taught how to be a caretaker. His species and my species were like humans and dogs -- although, we could communicate with each other very well, but that's beside the point.

One of my earliest memories is being about...two or three. Sir's mom, she was just pregnant with him. See, their species had a longer gestation period than humans, being around two years. My mother was her caretaker, and my father had been Sir's father's caretaker. Our families had been connected for quite a long time.

Sir's mother entered the room, and I was in my enclosure, a giant spherical tank of water. We had sand at the bottom -- though, it was a lot thicker than Earth sand, but it behaved quite the same. I was playing around in it, making it cloud up the water. She laughed when I said, in that obnoxious little toddler voice, ' I like sand, it's messy. ' She came up to the glass and summoned me over, lifting her shirt a bit and letting me see the baby in her belly -- at least, the bump. I saw it move, and man, I was the happiest fish on the planet at that point.

I told her I couldn't wait to meet my new best friend, and she said it would only be a little while longer. Of course, I didn't get to meet Sir officially until I was ready, she reminded me, and I only had a few years to go... "

He pauses, falling silent, suddenly listless eyes staring at a spot on the floor...before he shakes his thoughts clear. His eyes almost light back up.

" By the time I had a little bit left to go, the black hole showed up. And Megamind and I were put on the little craft his parents made, and that was the day I got to meet him...when everything else around us fell. "

[chrisbangs]

and fuck the hate anons 😤 you’re one of the best people on this site!!! No one loves bang chan as much as you!!! you are talented, showstopping, amazing, and things just wouldn’t be the same without you!! Keep being you!! :D