Envious

💕

[envious3]

Envious3

Request: OPEN!

╰┈➤ masterlist coming soon! 𐙚⋆.˚

she/her, 18!, suggestive content!!!

Steve Harrington, Simon ghost Riley, Mike wheeler, Robin Buckley, Shane Walsh, Daryl Dixon, Rick grimes, boyliife, 2hollis, Nate sib, nettspend

[honeymoonglimmer]

[lanasdolll]

[lanaloveydove]

[4mookiecookie20]

i try to be nonchalant but i've only ever known being dramatic

[wildnickk]

[envious3]

Dilation-Jacob Elordi

CW: there is an oc(I wrote her know she was black, may be slight mention of that), this is a fic of MINE that i scrapped on wattpad and deleted. Angst/no comfort?? Lowkey cringe writing. LDR, oc cries maybe like twice. DIVIDERS ARENT MINE(creds to owner, I got it from Pinterest). 2k+ words

Requests open!

Aspen Lane still remembers the feeling of resting her head on Jacob's shoulder. She still remembers the feel and taste of his lips on hers, how he always broke back from a kiss with a smile before reconnecting it. How Jacob would always whisper beautiful—now irritating— sweet nothings, and told her he loved her like it was a promise(one she later learned he couldn't quite keep). Aspen still remembers his stupid dumb fading accent and the stupid dumb look on his face when she caught him staring at her. And she could vividly remember how he looked, how his skin felt, how he sounded when he called her "his girl", and how his lips tasted the night he left... the night he left her.

Jacob tried to say it was for both of them to try and reconnect with their own selves. That since they both had been so busy with work, him with acting, her with modeling. He told her he loved but didn't react to her tears, didn't react to her words when she said, "We've been through everything else together. What's so different now?"

The truth is; Jacob didn't want to end things. He was cowardice, weak-minded. Jacob believed that their secret relationship was hurting Aspen. That because he couldn't be what she needed— "truly needed"—, he should soften the blow, act as if he needed time for himself. But the blow wasn't softened, it hurt. Hurt like a punch in the gut. 

12-21-25

Aspen vividly remembers the droplets of rain that hit her skin when she walked out the LAX Airport. She wasn't in LA because of a modeling job, or because of friends, she was there for him. Her Jacob. They concocted the plan for her to finally fly out and come visit him weeks ago. Jacob and Aspen hadn't seen each other in months. The pair had been busy with their own lives and work, they called whenever they could, texted every night, exchanged I love you's like it was bible verses. So, finally being able to see each other, to embrace each other, has been long overdue. 

Jacob was unfortunately— yet understandably— busy shooting for a movie he was working on ( Aspen could hardly keep track of his schedule) so he wouldn't be able to pick her up from the airport. They agreed it would be best if she would go to his house in the hills and wait for him there, given that she has a key. 

The drive through the city was tantalizingly. Between the jet-lag and the weird feeling she held in her chest, she was beat. The rented car was blasting warm air and the thick  sound of "Words I Used" by The Backseat Lovers. 

She toyed with a lock of hair as she slowed to a halt at a red light. Pedestrians crossed the street, and the sidewalks were full of laughter.  The song continued as the ache in her chest grew. 

Tried my best this time, to keep your hand in mine.

The Hollywood Hills home was lively, artistically beautiful.  Aspen had arrived an hour or so earlier. After showering and erasing the filth of airplanes and airport off her body, she felt rejoiced, yet that reoccurring sensation still lingered like a pesky breath. Jacob would be arriving any moment. 

Aspen was changed into low rise sweats and a hoodie(one of Jacob's old ones he had given her years ago), resting on the sofa watching Grey's Anatomy.  Her leg was bouncing with anticipation.

About thirty minutes later, the sound of keys turning in its lock filled the halls of the semi-silent home. Aspen sat up, breathing deeply as a rush of nerves hit her. The door opened, sending a cool breeze throughout. 

"Laney? You here?" The sound of Jacob's voice echoed. He walked into the living room, spotting her, he smiled a quaint smile and walked toward her. Jacob looked... nervous. Aspen didn't talk, she could. All she could was walk into his chest. The smell of his cologne he most likely applied earlier in the day still lingered, he still smelled of the cologne she gifted him last Christmas . The warmth of his arms around her waist felt comforting, loving, and distant all in the same breath. Jacob don't rub her back like he usually would when they hugged, nor did he cradle her head or kiss her forehead.

Everything about the interaction felt...atypical.

"I missed you. Like, really, really missed you" Aspen whispered, tears prickling her eyes. The feeling of the deep breath Jacob took connected with her body. It wasn't a realizing breath, it felt constricted, hesitant even. 

Jacob pulled away from the hug and looked at the couch, signaling that they should sit. And that's when she knew. "What's wrong?" Aspen murmured. She felt rooted to the spot she stood in, emotion gathering in her throat. 

"Can we just sit please?" The man in front of her uttered back. Aspen shook her head, breathing deeply, chin quivering. "Just say it" she panted. 

Jacob closed his eyes for a moment, looking at her killed him. The look on her beautiful face was gut wrenching. He couldn't form words that wouldn't hurt her, that wouldn't hurt them. But it needed to be done. 

"I love you, you know that right? Because I want you to know that before I say anything else. I love you. I love you, Laney. I feel like utter shit saying this but I can't do this anymore. I just... I just can't. And I can't breathe without you, but I'm here, and you're there, in New York. Not being able to hold you at night physically hurts me, and that shouldn't be the case. I shouldn't be so deeply rooted and attached to someone I hardly see." Every word he spat felt like a punch in the face to Aspen. 

His words faded out in her ears. Aspen couldn't grasp the concept of what he was saying. All she could think of is how he waited until now. Now, after she flew six hours to see the man she loves, the man she spent years of secrecy with to protect him and his career. Aspens vision was blurry, her chest was raising with an unusual intensity, her hands were shaking. But this was it. This was where Jacob ended the relationship she gave her all to. 

The feeling of a warm hand cupping her face is what broke her out of her daze.

"Aspen, please. Say something." Jacob begged. The look on his face was thick with emotion. Just looking at him made Aspen want to throw up. How dare he , she thought, how dare he look sad when he's the one breaking my heart.

"Why?" Aspen finally rasped. The hand on her right cheek felt stupidly comforting, she leaned into his palm. "Why wait until now, Jacob?"

Jacob cursed under his breath, he leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers. "I felt it would've been disrespectful to say it over the phone. But, I need time, Laney. That's all. I'm not saying this is it, that this is the end. I don't want it to be. I love you, but we're always so busy, we don't see one another. We just need to take a break." 

"This is make no sense. We've been through everything together... what's so different now?" Aspen said, pulling away from his grasp, furrowing her brows.

"Because you're never fucking present, Aspen! Whenever I try to visit you, there's always an excuse as to why I can't, and I can't deal with it. I just want to be with you." Jacob's tone raised.

Aspen huffed a laugh, "You just want to 'be with' me but our relationship is hidden from the world because of you, Jacob. You can't pin the blame all on me!" 

The "argument" went on for a while. Jacob trying to prove that what he feels in final, and Aspen stupidly trying to prove that they can work. The conversation slowly came to a quiet end with the sound of their tearful sniffles and the rainfall outside being the only sounds filling the home. The two didn't break up, but it felt like they did. Aspen felt senseless, foolish even. She truly believed that her coming to visit would be the peak of their relationship, but now, it was the pit. Aspens hands twitched at her sides, she wanted to reach for him, to hold his hand, play with his hair, shake him into reality, but she held back. 

Jacob looked at the woman in-front of him, the woman he loves, the woman he just hurt. The tear streaks that ran down her face made his chest crawl with guilt. He doesn't know why he thought that a "break" would be the situational solvent, he acting on emotion rather than logic. Jacob was a big over thinker, maybe it was because he thought she was going to end it first, or maybe it was because he felt they were holding one another back from achieving their full potential, no one would know, not even him. But he was the culprit, the cause of it all, the cause of the demise.

Aspen finally moved, letting out a deep shaky breath. She began grabbing her things that lingered around the room, her vibrating hand and blurry vision made it a bit tricky. "I should go—I'm gonna go."

Jacob opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't form words, so instead he just nodded. Fuck, he thought, internally cursing himself for not fighting for her. When Aspen finally straightened up, she began to move toward the door.

"Aspen." Jacob rasped. Aspen stopped, hand on the door knob. She didn't turn, she couldn't, she would've stayed if she did. 

"I'm coming back. You know that right?" 

When Aspen arrived to the newly booked hotel room, the first thing she did was pull out her journal. It was her thought collector. Writing helped her understand what she was feeling. She deeply needed it right now.

December 22nd 

It was December 21st when I crossed an ocean to be ignored(or at least that's what it felt like). Ignored by him, the man I love. The man I've  engrossed my life for years, the man who calls—or called, me his. It's currently a little after midnight on the day of December 22nd, yesterday's me would have thought I would be in bed. In bed with him, Jacob. Kissing, embracing, loving him. I wish that's where I was right now. I would dearly love to be with him, my Jacob. Can I still call him that? We didn't break up per se he calls it "a break", I call it stupidity. If you "love" someone, why would you want to be away from them? He says we don't spend enough time with one another, but isn't that what I came here to do? I flew here to be with him. I waited for him. I've waited for years. I can't be seen with him because of his management but I still wait. He always tells me that we can be public soon, but I don't care about publicity, I care about him. Maybe he doesn't care about me, maybe that's why it was so easy for him to semi-end things with me. I wish I understood his thoughts, I wish I could spend a night in his brain so I can't get what he gets. I wish I wasn't this naive. We're not on a "break", I feel it. We're done. This was his wormhole of an escape from me, perchance to see other people? I will never understand why he thought this was the best thing for us, I don't think I even want to. I'll move on, I always do. I'll have perseverance, I'll work, I'll be strong, I'll be me. If he comes back, it better be strong.

Love yourself, 

Aspen

hope you guys enjoyed!!

[swagonometryfr]

there is drool running down my mouth

[feelslikesugarinme777]

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[envious3]

We’ll Never Have Sex-Steve Harrington

(Divider isn’t mine) top graphic is mine! WARNING: Hurt no comfort, fwb, no really canon, one sided love, not use of y/n but i picture reader as a female 1k words. We’ll never have sex: Steve Harrington

You and Steve Harrington have been friends for years. Since freshman year of high school, you guys have been inseparable. There has never been a time where you two weren’t together(unless Steve was too busy flirting and hooking up with girls). 

Steve has always been a ladies man. From an early age, Steve had girls wrapped around his finger, and when he met you, he had you hooked. Not an over the top, foaming at the mouth, type hooked. You were hooked in a “but you’re not him” way. 

When Steve started dating Nancy, it shot through your chest like a bullet. Steve had never been serious with a girl in that way before, Nancy was the first. Nancy was his one. And you, you were just a bystander. You tried to be supportive, you were always nice to Nancy, even tried spending time with her alone to try becoming friends. Steve wanted you and Nancy to be friends, you, wanted to be Nancy.

Dating Nancy took over Steve’s life. He couldn’t get enough of her. Every time you’d call, to see if he was free to hangout, go to the movies, go get milkshakes, do anything, Steven was busy. Busy with Nancy, busy about to go pick up Nancy for a date. Nancy, Nancy, Nancy. It was like you couldn’t get enough of her. 

You didn’t hate her, no, no you didn’t hate her. Hating Nancy is physically impossible, she’s a sweet girl with nothing but good intentions. She loved Steve, and Steve loved her, so when they got into that argument at the Halloween party, you were shocked. Then finding out through the grapevine that they broke up shocked you even more, but that lingering feeling of happiness rushed through your body. 

You didn’t try to make a move at Steve when him and Nancy split, you didn’t even try and bring up the break up around him whenever he was over, laying in your bed. So it’s a surprise that now, a year after graduation he’s lying on top of you kissing you. 

Whispers and sensual groans fill the room. You two have been “seeing” each other for the past few months, making out, going on untitled dates, sleeping in the same bed together. There was no label per se, outsiders would say you guys were boyfriend and girlfriend, others would say you guys were friends with benefits. You, you said it was hope. Hope that one day, he would be yours and you his. 

Steve’s voice breaks you out of your kiss drunken thoughts, “Baby, did you hear me?” He panted. God, he sounded heavenly when he was like this. Swollen lips, dilated pupils, messy hair, he was like a walking wet dream. You shake your head, promoting him to repeat himself. “Take this off.” He said, tugging at your shirts hem. 

Fuck, you thought. “Not right now,” you replied, leaning back in to continue the kiss. Steve pulled back, brows furrowed. “Why not?” You close your eyes, searching for an excuse, because i don’t want to have sex with you, I want to make love, you want to say. But you don’t, because you know. You just know he doesn’t want anything serious. At least not with you.

“My parents could come home any minute.” You whisper, failing to maintain eye contact. Steve’s face contorts with confusion. “Your parents are out of town.”

It was moments like these that made you hate that he actually listened to the words that come out your mouth, moments like these that made you want to slip and fall into his arm and share the bliss that comes with sex. But you couldn’t. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t lose your virginity to a man who didn’t love you. You promised yourself you wouldn’t be your mother.

“Are you okay?” Steve questions, kissing your forehead. You want to scream at him, to open his fucking eyes and realize that you love him, to realize that you want to be his, his to hold, to kiss, to love, to share passionate moments with.

He was being so stupidly sweet, it made you think want to cry. You couldn’t keep looking at him, because every time you did all you saw was the future you knew you would never have. “I think you should go, Steve.” You finally manage to breathe out. Steve pulls back, he almost looks hurt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you. We can just stay in bed and watch a movie. No strings.”

‘No strings’ he said. ‘No strings’ but all you wanted was strings.

After a while of you telling Steve that you think he should go with empty explanations of why, he finally gets up to go. You walk him to the door, watch him put on his shoes and grab his coat, and smooth his hair. When he turns the door knob, he looks back at you, almost as if expecting you to beg him to stay, but when you don’t, he settles. Steve lets go of the knob, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Steve’s warm hand settles on your chin, and the one that previously resided on the knob went under your eye, the coldness of it hit your senses every time he swiped away a non existent tear. “I love you, you know that right?” Steve’s words made you lean in, lean into his warmth. God, if only he meant it the way you did. You nod your head, because you knew that speaking verbally would result in actual tears.

Steve finally leans down to kiss you, soft and apologetic. Your lips tremble mid-kiss. You mentally curse yourself for being stupid enough to fall for his charm. When he pulls back, he looks deeply into your eyes, running a hand down your hair, almost as if he was petting you.

You step back, whispering a goodbye, before he finally steps out the agape door.

It had been a few weeks since you last seen Steve. You didn’t know if that was because he was busy with work or just flat out avoiding you. Your parents were finally back from their work trip, and your mom automatically knew something was wrong. She was constantly checking in on you when you were in your room for too long. You loved your mother, but at times she was over bearing.

You get pulled from your thoughts due to the blare of the phone ringing downstairs. A sigh brushes from your lips, you know your dad is always closed to the phone, he’ll answer it. “Sweetheart! Steve’s calling!” Fuck. Fuck , fuck fuck.

The walk downstairs was treacherous, every moment of it felt like bracing for impact. When you finally take the phone from your father’s hands and press the phone to your ears, a wave of euphoria hit. The sound of Steve’s breathing relaxed you, making your shoulders drop and your muscles loosen.

“Hello?” You finally broke out.

“Hey,” Steve rasped, “I’ve been calling, your mom said you were feeling well. What’s up?” This was your moment. Your moment to finally tell him how you feel, because living in limbo simply wasn’t working out anymore. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The sound of Steve’s breath stuttering filled the line, mixing with static. “What? What do you mean. What can’t you do anymore?”

“This, us, Steve. I can’t live like this anymore. I… fuck, Steve. I love you. Like more than a friend loves a friend. I love you and I can’t stop thinking about you and your stupid lips. And I’ve tried. And you’ve dated around and I never complained because I figured… I figured you’d realize at the end of the day that you love me back.” You ramble. The only sound that could be heard was your father’s footsteps, retreating out of the room. He was more than liking going to tell your mom.

“You… you love me? That doesn’t make any sense. I thought-” He cut himself off, almost as if he regretted his choice of words because they even got the chance to be heard.

“You thought what, Steven.” Venom laced your vocal cords, bottled up feelings finally coming to surface.

“I thought that what we were doing was casual! I thought we were just making out just to make out. I mean, I thought we both needed a distraction. I don’t—I don’t think i love you in that way.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until a hand brushed your cheek, your mother began wrapping her arms around you and running a hand through your hair.

“You don’t love me?” Your voice was no louder than a whisper, voice slightly cracking.

“I love you, yes. But, not like I love Nancy. You’re my best friend, I don’t think I could ever see you in that way.” Steve softly said.

‘But not like I love Nancy’ he said.

[plottwistpotato]

Tumblr was only down for an hour and I was gnawing the bars of my enclosure

[sobadbad]

[scrmqwn]

𝐊𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐒. 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐡

word count: 1.2k

content warning: death, grieving, some swearing, shane burying his beautiful babygirl. after he PROMISED to keep her safe. 18+ regardless of present explicit content, i kindly ask that minors and ageless blogs do not interact with my works. i am not your mommy, you are responsible for your media consumption. thx fer lookin!

author's note: this is part 1 of shane's decent into madness. requests open :)

the run was supposed to be quick. what was originally a simple run for more emergency surgery first aide supplies turned into shane's worst nightmare. his eyes were never off of you for more than a second. he valued your safety far more than he valued anything else. you were a few steps behind him, as he was clearing the way out.

the walker came out of no where. slack jaw and yellowed teeth sinking down into the flesh of your trap muscle. a blood curdling scream for shane immediately bubbling off of your lips as you dropped to the floor, in shock. you were scared. scared to die. scared to lose shane. scared to become exactly what you had all been fighting against. shane reacted instantly, grabbing the walker at the shoulders and repeatedly slamming the rotten skull into the corner of the wall. tending to you as soon as it was down.

"shh, it's okay baby. i gotcha. s'okay. lemme see." he dropped to his knees to meet you where you laid, blood trickling from the wound, not gushing, but it was a steady stream. shane stripped of his jacket quickly and held some pressure to the hole on your back, cradling you. "right here, girl. look at me. gonna get you outta here." he spoke again, his voice cracking as he forced the lump in his throat down.

"shane, i'm scared." you whispered, tears staining your cheeks and neck. "i'm sorry." in your frightened haze you buried your face into his chest. his cotton tshirt covered in his musk.

"don't you worry about bein' sorry, let's get you outta here, 'kay? you hang onto me, i'm gonna take you home, baby. s'okay. promise." he was lying. he knew it. you knew it.

out in the truck he sat in the bed with you, tending to your wound the best he could. your eyes half lidded, darkness clouding the corners of your vision. tears falling silently. "shay, i am so sorry. i love you." you managed to blubber out.

"don't be sorry, baby. i know. love you most." his hand was still holding pressure as your breathing continued to shallow. in and out. in and out. in and out. in and gone.

shane couldn't believe that in a matter of fifteen minutes his babygirl had been ripped away from him and it was only a matter of time before your eyes snapped back open that same ugly yellow color with an appetite for him in an ugly way.

the second you drew your last breath, his humanity switched off. the knife on his belt holster was yanked out and swiftly placed behind your ear, shoving in fast and hard to make sure you got to rest peacefully.

he covered you with blankets and made a shitty makeshift casket in the bed of his truck. the ride back was silent—slow. avoiding every pothole and bump to ensure your body rested comfortably behind him for the ride back to the farm.

it was late, the cool november air blowing hard enough to move the small truck around on the highway.

when shane pulled in he killed the lights and engine, parking in front of the house. the group meeting him where he was to quickly scoop supplies to hershel.

andrea was the first to ask about you.

shane looked at the ground, and gave a small shake of his head.

everyone jumps to his side immediately. strings of, i'm sorrys flood his ears. a glazed look in his eyes, which for the first time in his life were as big as saucers, his skin paled, sweat beading down his face.

"where do we bury?" he asked, it was low, nearly inaudible as he tossed the rest of the surgery supplies out of the truck, slamming the door.

maggie speaks up telling him where loved ones are buried. he grabs a shovel that's leaning on the porch and gets back in the truck, driving you home like he promised.

all night long, shane carved his way into the dirt, making sure it was deep enough and big enough that you wouldn't feel claustrophobic in your new bed.

dirt flying, sweat dripping. hours had passed by. he felt like jim. and for a split second he could hear you mocking him playfully in his head, "diggin' to china?"

he chuckled as tears blurred his vision. a few more shovelfuls of dirt and he set it down, walking to the bed of the truck, uncovering you as he gently pulled you towards him. it took some maneuvering to get you in his arms but he did it.

one arm around your ribcage, the other hooked under your knees. he was scared to look at you.

more than a few minutes have definitely passed by now because people are coming to check on him.

rick is first, "hey man—lemme help yo-"

he's abruptly cut off by shane pulling you closer to himself and taking a step away. "don't—don't touch her. i got it. just talkin' to her." he snapped.

andrea and glen approach next. the blonde speaking up, "shane you've been out here for hours, you need to get some sleep."

he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulder out of her grasp. "nah, man. fuck that. she's—" the words fizzle out in his throat. she's dead.

"just layin' her down & i'll be through. need to finish this, excuse us." he pushes past them and rick escorts the others back towards the barn.

sinking to his knees, shane pulls the blanket down from your head revealing your graying skin. "damn you, sweetheart. not supposed to wander like that." his eyes wrench shut to keep the tears from rolling as he leans in to press a kiss to your cold forehead.

he sits like this for a while, cradling you. hoping it was all just a dream. and just as the sun starts to peek over the trees he sighs, brushing a piece of your hair behind your ear. pressing his lips to yours, lingering for a beat too long waiting for you to kiss back. "c'mon sweetheart, lets get you tucked in and safe." he chokes out.

he gently gets you into the roomy, earthy bed and covers you back up. "told ya i'd bring ya home, baby. love you most." he whispered. "nice and warm for the winter time, huh?" he stayed squatted next to the shallow grave as he spoke to you.

with the sun approaching more quickly he began covering you with the dirt, making sure it fell inna way that would keep you tucked in and not tamped down.

once you were all covered up and cozy enough for his liking, he parked himself under a tree, tying some sticks together for a cross to point your bed out to him if he wanted to come back and visit.

with one last knot tying it off he rose to his feet as sunk the cross into the dirt mount above your head. "i'll be back, just gotta take care of some stuff. got double the chores now, girl." a small chuckle left his mouth as he got back into the truck and drove back up towards the farm.

[scrmqwn]

hey i just re-read this. i need to apologize cause I am ugly crying and i did NOT have to do this to yall. MY BAD.

[envious3]

Oh so im actually crying!

[dilflovingmisandrist]

just came across this picture... somebody sedate me i'm so serious

[w1nter-fairy]

── .✦holocene༄.°

pairing: shy!bucky barnes x figure skater!reader

summary: he never thought the ice would still have a place for him. you never though you'd belong anywhere other than it. it lives in early mornings at the rink, in blades against ice, and in the quiet understanding that being small doesn't mean being alone.

word count: 5.4k (whoops?)

warnings: grief/mourning. mention of death (non graphic), emotional vulnerability, slow burn, quiet romance.

a/n: this is my submission for @artficlly 's moodboard event, and my very first time writing for an event/collab, who yayed? (me) anyways, special thanks to art for including me and also my beloved @herejustforbuckybarnes because she's my beta reader since my first fic (this is merely the second one I post but who cares?) anyway, enjoy! dividers by @madamesocs

read in AO3

and at once I knew I was not magnificent. —bon iver, holocene.

Starting over was the last thing you wanted to do, but those were the cards life had dealt you.

You had gone from being almost at the top of the world to having nothing left because of a lack of funds. You tried to convince your coach to give you private lessons, but your budget was far too limited.

The cherry on top was your father losing his job, forcing your family to rent out your home to cover the mortgage payments and move into your grandmother's old house.

Transferring to a new university halfway through the semester had been a nightmare. Not that it would have made much of a difference if you had been there from the beginning— fitting in had never come easily to you anywhere.

Figure skating had always been the one place where you never had to force yourself to belong. On the ice, everything made sense. Your body knew what to do even before you thought about it. That was why, when you saw the flyer for the local figure skating team on the bulletin board, it felt as if someone might take it from you if you waited too long. Like taking a breath of fresh air after drowning.

Maybe it wasn't the prestigious team you used to be part of, nor the rink you had imagined when you were close to the top.

But it was ice. And you told yourself the rest would fall into place with time.

You walked in with your coat still on, your hair half tied back, and an expression of exhaustion you only showed when you thought no one was watching. The air inside the rink smelled of cold metal and freshly resurfaced ice— a scent you'd been used to for half your life. A figure in the distance was cleaning the surface with methodical movements, seemingly indifferent to your arrival.

"Barnes", the coach suddenly says. "Come here".

The figure straightens with a slight start, as if pulled out of a trance. You watch him remove his gloves, tuck them into his pocket, and walk toward you with cautious steps. His body language is hard to read— he only gives you a brief glance while his hands fidget on his lap.

"She's the new skater", the coach continues, nodding in your direction with indifference. "She'll be training with us for the rest of the season before the big competition."

That's when he finally looks at you properly. It isn't the up-and-down scan you expected—it's simple acknowledgment. He nods slowly, still not saying a word.

"Bucky," the coach calls out. "Move. You'll be in charge of sharpening her skates."

The word in charge hangs in the air for a moment. He nods, and just when you start to wonder if he's mute, you hear his voice—soft and velvety—as he simply says, "Sure, sir."

No smiles. He doesn't offer his hand. For a moment, you want to refuse to trust him with your skates— how are you supposed to trust someone who barely speaks to you?

You clear your throat and smile gently, deciding to give him a chance. "Hi."

His gaze drifts away, as if he isn't used to being part of a conversation. He gives something that probably meant to be a smile, but ends up looking more like an awkward grimace. "Hi."

The coach leaves you alone without further explanation, as if there were nothing strange about the interaction. Bucky tilts his head toward the bench. "Uh… whenever you're ready. I'm supposed to check your skates."

You nod silently before sitting down and leaning forward to unbuckle the straps. You feel his quiet presence before he approaches. He doesn't invade your space, but he doesn't keep his distance either. He kneels in front of you and takes the blade with complete concentration, as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist.

His movements are firm and precise—a stark contrast for someone who can't even maintain eye contact with you.

"Have you always skated here?" you ask, trying to break the ice.

He shakes his head briefly, then nods. "My mom used to teach here. I always helped her, but I'm not very good at skating."

You watch him adjust a screw, testing it with his thumb. "Oh. I would've sworn you skated."

That's when he looks up. "Why do you say that?"

"You just seem very familiar with the ice… you walk on it so naturally."

Something crosses his face. It isn't quite a smile, but it isn't the awkward grimace from before either. "Because I am," he murmurs before standing and offering you the skate as if it were something fragile. "Let me know if anything feels off. It shouldn't."

You nod as you stand, getting ready to step onto the ice. Before pushing off, you glance at him over your shoulder. "Thanks, Bucky."

He doesn't respond but during your first few minutes of warm-up, you feel his gaze following every moment you make from the edge of the rink. If you had looked back, you might've noticed the spark of admiration in his eyes as you began to spin effortlessly at the rink, as naturally as breathing.

The ice responds well at first, during those early days.

You glide without overthinking, letting your body do what it has always known how yo do. The rink is empty— the only sounds are the blades cutting into the ice and the distant murmur of someone adjusting equipment.

The spin goes wrong from the start.

It isn't a dramatic fall, but the ice doesn't forgive hesitation. Your blade slips, your knee buckles, and the impact knocks the air from your lungs in a short, cold hit. The world turns white for a moment as your ears start to ring with embarrassment.

Before you can react, you feel a pair of hands gripping your shoulders. You look up to see Bucky kneeling beside you on the ice.

"Hey," he says, his voice firm and urgent. "Are you okay? Don't move. Breathe."

One of his hands slides to your arm, the other to your back, holding you with a steadiness you definitely hadn't seen in him before. As if his body had decided to act before before he even thought about it.

"I'm fine," you murmur, still dazed.

"Look at me," he says. "Is it your knee?"

Before you can answer, the rink door opens again.

"Barnes!" The coach calls sharply. "What do you think you're doing? Get off the ice right now!"

Bucky stiffens, pulling his hands away as if the contact had burned him.

"Coach, she fell… I just wanted to—"

"That's not your job," the coach interrupts. "That's what the medical staff is for."

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable.

Bucky stands, awkward for a second, as if he's forgotten how. He takes one step back, then another, until he reaches the edge of the rink and disappears through the door without saying a word.

"Can you stand?" the coach asks, turning to you. You nod and push yourself up on your own. The cold is still there, but something else settles beneath your skin.

For the rest of practice, you catch glimpses of Bucky carrying out his duties. He can't even bring himself to look at you again, as if he's trying to erase the noise of his mistake and fade into the background.

When training ends, you look for him where he usually is—but he's gone.

You didn't even get the chance to thank him.

Another exhausting day of training.

The rink slowly empties. You sit on the bench, removing your skates, your legs still trembling slightly from the effort. You're trying your sneakers when you hear the coach mention something about going out to dinner together.

"Come on," someone else says. "I know a great place nearby—good music, amazing food."

You stand with your coat half on and look around, searching for Bucky without even thinking about it. You still haven't been able to thank him for rushing to help you, and you haven't really talked to him since. You spot him collecting cones at the center of the rink.

"Hey, Bucky!" you call out, making him flinch slightly. "Do you want to come grab dinner with us?"

He doesn't look up right away. He grips the handle of the ice scraper with both hands, then shakes his head. "I can't… I have to clean the ice."

You scan the rink. It can wait—there's no real rush. You're always the last ones to train before the rink closes. "It can wait. We won't be long."

He finally looks up. At you. There's nervousness in his expression; tension. "No, thanks. It's fine."

The coach chimes in from the doorway. "Barnes, you can do that tomorrow before practice. We'll give you a few minutes."

Bucky shakes his head before anyone else can insist. "I'd rather leave that ready today, coach. Have fun."

Silence. Brief. Awkward.

No one quite knows what to say after that.

"Well…" you say, trying not to sound like you're retreating. "Another day, then."

He nods without smiling. "Yeah, another day."

The team leaves. Voices fade as the door closes. The rink falls quiet again. From the window, you glance in his direction one last time. Bucky is already back on the ice, pushing the resurfacer with slow, precise movements. He doesn't look back at you.

Once the noise is gone, he stops for a second. He leans his hands against the handle and lets his head fall forward, as if the silence weighs more than the work.

It isn't that he didn't want to go. It's that no one had ever included him in plans like that before… no one until you.

By the time you're paired with Ethan for the competition, his name already carries weight.

Not because he's the best skater on the team, but because everyone knows him. He's the guy with the easy smile who leads the team photos, the one who always seems to land on his feet. The coach talks about him with pride; the rest of the team follows without question.

"It's a great opportunity for you," Sasha tells you. "Ethan knows how to lead. The judges love him."

He greets you with a wide smile that feels perfectly rehearsed.

"So… we finally ended up together," he says, like it was inevitable. "Relax. I promise I won't be too hard on you."

The way he says it—almost implying something else— makes your stomach churn.

At first, everything is fine. Professional. He corrects your posture, adjusts timing, positions himself in front of you with the confidence of someone used to leading. He doesn't openly flirt; he doesn't think he needs to.

But little by little, the lines begin to blur.

"You should smile more," he comments during rehearsal. "Judges like seeing connection."

The connection is in the routine," you reply flatly. He laughs as if it were a private joke.

Over time, he starts waiting for you after practice. You always rejected him politely.

This afternoon, you arrived before the rest of the team. You were sitting on the bench, lacing your skates with practiced precision. Bucky opens the door, stopping for a moment when he sees you. He isn't used to someone else being there when he arrives. He isn't used to someone else being there when he arrives. He's always the first one in.

Bucky nods towards your skates. "Let me know if anything feels off."

You nod as you stand, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "Hey… you said you're from around here, right?"

He hesitates for a second before answering. "Yeah. I was born here."

You nod slowly. "I don't really know the city yet. If someday you wanted to… show it to me, I'd like that."

Bucky looks down, surprised, and clears his throat. "Sure. Someday."

"How about Friday after practice?" you offer. "End of the week… no obligations the next day."

He nods simply. "Yeah. I know a good place."

You don't say anything else before stepping onto the ice and beginning your warm-up.

Friday afternoon, the rinks starts to empty as you sit on the bench unbuckling your skates, wondering where Bucky will take you later.

"Coming tonight?" Ethan asks, leaning too close to the bench. "Some of the team's going out. I could pick you up. Just give me your address."

It doesn't sound like an invitation. It sounds like a plan already made.

You pull off one glove, look him in the eye, and smile politely. "I can't. I already have plans.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?"

You nod, tilting your head toward the edge of the rink, where Bucky is finishing up with the cones. "I'll be with Bucky."

That's when the change is obvious. He doesn't get angry. He doesn't smile. He laughs. "With him?" he asks, like you've told a joke. "The ice cleaner? Please."

A few meters away, Bucky keeps working. He doesn't turn around—but you know he hears everything.

"Yes," you reply firmly. "With him."

Ethan tilts his head, studying you as if you've lost your mind, as if he can't process the idea that you're rejecting him for someone else—especially someone like Bucky.

"Wow. I didn't know you enjoyed doing… charity work."

The words lands dirty between you, making your jaw tighten. "It's not charity."

"Come on," he continues. "You're fresh talent. Ambitious. I don't get why you'd waste your time with someone who doesn't even compete."

Before you can respond, Bucky approaches, pulling off his gloves and shaking out his hands. He doesn't look tense—he looks defeated. Uncomfortable. "We can leave it for another day, if you want," he says, without looking at you, like he's already accepted the loss.

"No," you answer immediately.

Bucky clenches his jaw, fidgeting with his fingers. "Seriously," he insists. "It's fine if you want to go with them."

Instead, you zip up your bag and stand. "Of course it's not fine. We already had plans."

You take Bucky's hand before he can react. It's not a grand gesture, much less a romantic one. It's firm. Bucky looks at you in shock, clearly unsure how to respond to the contact.

That's when Ethan stops smiling. "You shouldn't mix with mediocre people."

It's the last thing you hear. You raise your middle finger without even looking at him, leaving the rink without letting go of Bucky's hand. And for the first time in a long while, he doesn't feel completely invisible.

The overlook is almost empty when you arrive together. The wind is cold, but not uncomfortable. The city lights stretch out beneath you like something from another life—one that isn't demanding anything from you right now.

Bucky spreads a flannel blanket over the bench, inviting you to sit while he carefully pulls a paper bag from his backpack, handling it as if it's something important.

"I brought food," he says. "I didn't know what you liked, so… I brought a little of everything."

Inside are simple things. Bread, sliced fruit, something warm wrapped in aluminum foil. Nothing meant to impress you.

"Thank you. It's been a long time since I've had something homemade."

Bucky shrugs. "My mom used to say that cooking for others was…" He falls silent, searching for the right word. "A way of caring."

You eat in silence for a few minutes, but it isn't uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that feels earned.

"I'm sorry about earlier… I didn't want you to have to change your plans because of me."

You look at him closely and tilt your head. "I didn't change them. I wanted to come with you."

He stays still for second, then admits, "I'm not used to being chosen."

The way he says it doesn't sound like a complaint. He isn't trying to make himself a victim. He says it as if he's simply sharing a fact—something he's believed for years.

You shift a little closer, just enough to make the gesture clear. "Neither am I."

The wind moves between you. Bucky pulls out a bottle that smells like hot chocolate and offers it without asking. You take a sip and hand it back in silence.

Bucky looks down, rubbing his hands against the bottle. "My mom used to come to this overlook after her classes. She always told me that she could breathe here."

You nod carefully, wondering why he's speaking about her in the past tense—and as if reading your thoughts, he continues without looking up. "The rink was her place. And when she died, I felt like I no longer had permission to be there."

You don't know why, but you sense this isn't something he's said before.

"I stayed close—cleaning the ice, sharpening blades, doing useful things. It's easier when you know exactly what your role is. It's the closest I can be without… getting in the way."

"You're not in the way," you interrupt gently. "You make the place work."

Bucky looks at you surprised as if no one has ever put those words together for him. "I never knew what my role in the world was. At school, I always felt out of place. Like everyone else knew something I didn't."

You pause, looking at out the distant lights, before turning back to him. "Until I found skating. It was the only thing I could do without thinking—where I didn't have to ask permission to exist."

His fingers tighten slightly around the bottle. "You move like the ice listens to you," he says suddenly, not realizing he's said it out loud. You must look surprised, because his cheeks turn red. "Sorry, I just… it's obvious. You don't skate to be seen like Ethan does. You skate because that's where you feel whole."

You swallow before speaking. "And just when I started to believe I belonged… the money ran out. The club. The city. Everything."

Bucky frowns, frustrated—not with you, but with the world. After a few moments of silence, he speaks again. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but I'm glad you ended up here."

The words hang between you, heavy and sincere.

"Sometimes when I watch you train," he adds softly, "I forget about everything else."

You share a quiet smile.

"Thank you for running to help me the day I fell."

"Thank you for coming with me today."

Your shoulders brush, but neither of you pulls away.

There's no kiss, but something shifts between you that night—as if you've both found a place to sit without feeling like you're taking up too much space.

As the competition draws closer, things don't change all at once. They accumulate.

Bucky starts leaving a bottle of water on the bench before you arrive. He never says anything—just sets it there. He checks your blades twice before every practice, even when you don't ask. If he finds even the smallest imperfection, he frowns as if it were personal.

When you step off the ice shivering, he appears with a dry towel. Sometimes he drapes it over your shoulders without really touching you, leaving you the space to accept the gesture or not.

He remembers how you take your coffee, what you like to eat after training. He walks you home when training runs late.

He's always nearby when Ethan gets too close. Not obvious—but enough to make you feel safe.

You rehearse with Ethan every day. The routine improves, and the coach seems pleased. Ethan only smiles when there's an audience, when someone is watching. He grabs your arm to mark steps, allows himself corrections you never asked for.

"We need more chemistry," Ethan insists. "People want to feel something."

You roll your eyes and stick to the routine. You don't look at him the way he expects. You don't laugh at his comments. You don't stay after practice when he invites you—and it irritates him.

He starts calling you difficult. Distracted. Complicated. Always with a smile, always denying it later in front of the coach.

It's the last night before the competition.

You're alone on the rink when Ethan approaches you, blades still on, sweat cooling on both of your skin.

"Tomorrow's the big day. I want us aligned." You nod, exhausted. "I need you to trust me. And stop listening to… distractions."

You keep untying your skates. You don't answer.

Ethan sighs, the way he always does when he thinks he has to explain something obvious. "Look, Barnes is a good guy. Useful. But you can't let someone like that hold you back."

This time, you look up. "Something like that—how?"

Ethan smiles. "You know. A loser like him. Some people are just born to assist… and others are born to shine. You and I are on the same side of the ice. Him? He just—"

"That's enough." He's trying to camouflage his disdain with a compliment for you. Your stomach twists in disgust. "Don't you dare talk about him. Not like that."

Ethan shrugs and smiles. "I'm just saying—be careful. If you surround yourself with people without ambition, you start to resemble them."

He turns away, self-satisfied, like he's said something wise.

From the edge of the rink, Bucky hears without meaning to. He doesn't react—he simply gathers his things with more care than usual.

That night, when he hands you your skates—ready for competition—at the doorstep of your house, his hands are shaking.

"Everything's set," he says softly. "Tomorrow, you're going to be incredible."

And you believe him.

Because he's the only person who truly knows you.

The sound of blades against the floor cuts through the air as you take a step forward. You adjust your gloves, slide them over your fingers, take them off again. Your breathing rises into your chest before you can stop it.

Inhale. Exhale.

It isn't fear. It's your body remembering what's at stake.

Ethan stretches beside you, calm and confident. You look at your hands, your knuckles barely white, and think of the ice.

From the entrance, the rink lights spill in like something foreign. You close your eyes for a moment, remembering the cold. The balance. And right in the middle of the darkness, you picture Bucky—remembering the words he said to you last night before leaving.

When your names are called, your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your throat. You step forward, and the world narrows to a single thing: don't fail.

The music begins softly, almost restrained. The first movement is subtle—a slow, controlled glide, as if the ice is barely holding you up.

Ethan joins a moment later, keeping distance. Your first spins are tight and precise—pirouettes that demand absolute balance, arms drawn in breath measured. You never look at the audience; you fix your gaze on a point that doesn't exist. It's introspective. Vulnerable.

Halfway through the routine, the music intensifies. That's when the long, fast turns come, with angle changes that burn your legs. You glide backward, trusting muscle memory. Ethan takes your hand only to propel you—there are no caresses, no obvious complicity.

The choreography demands that your bodies cross again and again.

The most difficult moment comes near the end: a sequence of combines spins. You go first—leg extended, axis firm. He follows, synchronizing his rhythm, mirroring your movements.

The audience holds its breath as the music softens. The final movement is designed to close in intimacy: a slow glide the center, you advancing, him retreating… your hands meet again. The grip isn't strong, just enough to guide you.

The ending has always been the same. Too close. You practiced it a thousand times. Always with the same instruction: stop just before. But this time, Ethan doesn't stop.

When the music fades and silence falls heavy over the rink, he tilts his head and kisses you. For a fraction of a second, you don't react—not because you want to, but because the ending isn't there. Because your body is still following the choreography.

Before you can push him away, he pulls back and turns to the audience with that infuriating charisma of his.

The crowd erupts in applause.

Everyone, except one.

Bucky doesn't move. He doesn't look away. He doesn't lower his head. He stays there, the image burning into his chest like something irreversible. The bouquet he brought suddenly feels heavy, not because of its weight, but because it no longer has a place to go.

He sets it down quietly on a seat, aligning the stems as if it matters, as if arranging them might fix something.

He claps once. Just once.

And when the lights dim, he stands in silence and leaves before the final results are announced. He doesn't wait to see you come out. He doesn't want you to see him.

You don't have time to confront Ethan. You aren't even taken backstage—they make you wait while the other competitors gather with you at center ice.

The time between the end of the routine and the verdict stretches cruelly.

Standing beside Ethan, you hear names, scores, words you barely process. Sweat cools on your skin as your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

When the result is finally announced, it takes you a second to understand.

First place.

The rink explodes in applause. Ethan hugs you immediately. You smile by reflex, raise your hand when prompted, bow your head to the judges like you've done dozens of times.

You've won.

It's everything you've worked for.

For the first time since stepping onto the ice, you lift your gaze to the stands, allowing yourself to look—searching without thinking. Your eyes land on the spot where you knew he was.

Empty.

The bouquet sits there, abandoned, like someone left in a hurry.

The air catches in your chest, but you force yourself to keep smiling. You have to. Someone places the medal around your neck while the crowd chants your name, but you don't hear any of it.

Because out of everyone watching you, the only person you wanted to see isn't there.

The moment you get backstage, you take off the medal. The metal hits against your chest one last time before you shove it carelessly into your backpack. You hear someone say your name, another voice congratulates you, a hand tries to stop you; but it's useless. You don't stop, not even when you see your parents approaching.

Ethan grabs your wrist, and you finally get the chance to slap him, earning a collective gasp—but you can't bring yourself to care. You can't waste time. You have to find Bucky at all cost.

You leave the rink with your coat still open, skates slung over your shoulder, your heart beating far too fast for the routine to already be over. You hear someone calling after you again, but you don't turn around. You push through the side door and the cold air outside steals your breath.

The parking lot is half-empty, the lights long and distant. You look one way, then the other. You take the stairs two at a time until you reach the street leading to the metro, silently begging it not to be too late. You clutch your backpack to your body and keep moving, calling his name in your head as if that might make him appear.

The metro station is nearly empty, washed in harsh white light that makes everything feel slightly unreal. The announcement for the next train echoes over the speakers when you finally see him.

Bucky stands with his back to you, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the tracks as if they're the most interesting thing in the world.

"Bucky," his name leaves your lips before you can think.

He turns slowly. He doesn't look surprised to see you—just tired.

"I heard you won," he says. "You should be celebrating. Everyone must be looking for you."

You take a step toward him, ignoring the distant hum of the station.

"I didn't want to celebrate without you."

Bucky shakes his head. "I thought it was pretty clear you didn't need me there."

"Bucky, stop. How could I not need you there? If this is about the kiss, you missed the part where I slapped Ethan in front of the entire team."

"But what about what he said yesterday?" Bucky asks quietly. "About people who are only meant to assist. You should be with someone like him. He helped you get first place."

Your breath catches, your heart sinking at his words—you can't stand hearing him peak about himself that way.

"Bucky, he doesn't care about me," you say firmly. "He just wants to use my talent to get where he wants to go."

You step closer, noticing the way his shoulders tense.

"I don't want someone like that. I want you—because you always saw me for who I really am. The person outside of the rink."

"I don't think I'm enough for you," he murmurs.

"I have never thought you weren't enough," you reply as the train screeches into the station and the doors slide open. "And I don't know about you, but I've never felt like I truly belonged anywhere… at least not until I met you."

Bucky doesn't move at first. He takes a deep breath, like he's making an important decision. He lifts his hand to your cheek carefully, as if asking permission. You don't say anything—but you don't pull away either.

The kiss doesn't come right away. Your foreheads rest together first. Your breathing mingles. The world keeps moving around you. The train doors close… then, his lips meet yours.

It's soft at first, like it might break if he presses too hard.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs when he finally pulls back. "I'm not very good at this."

"You are," you say with a shy smile, taking his hand and weaving your fingers through his. "Now come on. Let's go celebrate."

Months later.

The rink is almost empty when Bucky laces up his skates.

It's been far too long since the last time he did. He's held them thousands of times—adjusting them, aligning them with surgical precision. He's walked across the ice without them, pushing the resurfacer as if that were the only thing he was allowed to do.

But today, for the first time since his mother died, he's finally dared to take the step.

"If you change your mind, we can pretend this never happened," you say from the other side of the rink, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky lets a quiet laugh as he finishes the final knot. "I won't change my mind."

He stands carefully, one step and then another. The sound of the blades against the ice pulls a deep inhale from his chest, as if his body remembers something long before his mind does.

The first glide is uncertain—but not clumsy.

You watch him without saying a word, waiting for him to reach you so you can take his hand.

He doesn't rush. He lets himself feel it—the resistance, the cold, the way the ice answers him when he shifts his weight just right. His knees bend instinctively. His balance settles.

For a moment, it feels like standing at the edge of a memory.

He moves again, a little more confidently this time. A shallow curve. A careful turn. Nothing impressive. Nothing meant to be seen.

But his throat tightens anyway.

He remembers his mother's laugh echoing through the rink. The way she used to call his name, correcting him gently. The smell of cold air and coffee. The feeling of being allowed to be there.

When he finally reaches you, he stops short, breathing a little harder than expected. His eyes are glassy—not with fear, but with something closer to relief.

You step closer and offer your hand.

"Are you okay?" You ask quietly, looking at him expectantly.

He nods quietly before lacing his fingers with yours, steady and warm against the cold. You push off slowly, guiding him, not leading—just matching his pace.

Bucky exhales.

This time, when he pushes off, the ice doesn't feel like a boundary.

It feels like a place that's been waiting for him.

thank you for reading. ㅤ♡

[cheugy-djobe]

pleassseee he’s far too sweet for this world