✨Older Men??✨

2001

[bnwrittes]

The Night He Didn’t Come

SUMMARY: Connor loves you. You know he does. But somewhere between road trips, late practices, interviews, recovery days, and the endless demands of hockey, loving you becomes something he assumes you’ll always understand instead of something he actively shows. On your birthday, when he promises he’ll be there and doesn’t show, you finally realize the worst part isn’t that he forgot you. It’s that you expected him to.

WC: 6.6K

WARNINGS: Angst, emotional neglect, missed birthday, breakup, groveling, hurt/comfort, no cheating, eventual reconciliation, Connor realizing he messed up badly.

For years, you had been proud of being easy to love.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You were understanding. Patient. Flexible. The kind of girlfriend who never made a scene when plans changed last minute, who smiled through phone calls that started with I’m so sorry, baby, who learned the difference between a optional skate and mandatory practice before most people even learned the names of Connor’s teammates.

You knew what his life demanded from him.

You knew hockey wasn’t just a job for Connor Bedard. It was the thing he had chased since he was old enough to hold a stick. It was early mornings, aching muscles, ice baths, media scrums, flights at ungodly hours, trainers, coaches, expectations, pressure. It was the sound of an entire city placing its hope on his back before he was even old enough to rent a car.

And you loved him for it.

You loved his dedication. You loved the boyish focus that came over his face when he watched game tape on the couch, one arm wrapped around you like holding you was muscle memory. You loved the way he lit up after a win and the quiet, hollow way he folded into himself after a bad game. You loved that hockey was part of him.

You just hadn’t realized, until much too late, that you had started becoming the part he could afford to forget.

At first, it was little things, dinner reservations canceled because practice ran long, movie nights delayed because he wanted to get extra shots in, your calls going unanswered until close to midnight because his phone was buried somewhere in his stall, his mind still stuck on a bad shift from the second period.

He always apologized.

That was the thing.

Connor was never cruel. Never dismissive on purpose. Never the kind of boyfriend who snapped at you for wanting his attention or made you feel stupid for missing him. When he remembered, he loved you with this almost startling softness. He brought you coffee without asking. He memorized your comfort shows. He kept your favorite blanket on his couch even though it didn’t match anything in his apartment. He kissed the top of your head when he passed behind you in the kitchen, like his body naturally looked for yours.

So you forgave him, again and again and again

“It’s okay,” you would say, even when it wasn’t “I understand,” you would promise, even when the disappointment sat heavy in your chest “After the season, things will be calmer,” you told yourself.

Then the season ended, and training started, then summer came, but there were sponsorship shoots and charity events and skills work and development camps.

Then the new season began, and everything repeated, you became good at making yourself smaller inside his life, you stopped asking for Saturday mornings because those were for recovery, you stopped suggesting dinners on game days because he liked to keep a routine.

You stopped calling when he was on the road unless he called first, you stopped telling him when you were upset because he always looked so tired, and there was something guilt-inducing about adding your hurt to the weight already on his shoulders.

The worst part was that Connor never noticed the difference, he still thought you were happy because you were still kind, he still thought you were fine because you were still there.

Your birthday fell on a Friday that year.

Connor had known about it for weeks. Months, technically, since your birthday had been marked in his phone calendar since the first year you dated. He had asked you what you wanted to do in that sweet, distracted way of his, chin resting on your stomach while you played with his hair on the couch “Nothing big,” you had said. “Just dinner. Maybe cake with everyone after.”

He had looked up immediately. “Everyone?”

You smiled. “My friends. My parents. A couple of your teammates if they’re free. Nothing crazy.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, you raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” His face softened like the question hurt him. “Of course I’m sure. It’s your birthday.”

And because you were still trying, because some tired, hopeful part of you still wanted to believe that all you had to do was wait for the right moment and Connor would come back to you fully, you believed him.

You bought a new dress.

Not an expensive one. Not flashy. Just something soft and pretty that made you feel like yourself when you tried it on in the mirror. You made a reservation at a restaurant you loved, the kind Connor always said he wanted to take you to but never found time for. Your friends offered to help decorate your apartment afterward for cake and drinks, and your mother called twice to ask whether Connor needed her to save him a parking spot.

“He’ll be there,” you said, you said it so easily the first time, the second time, when your best friend Maya glanced at Connor’s empty chair fifteen minutes after the reservation started, you said it with a laugh.

“Practice probably ran a little late.”

At thirty minutes, you checked your phone under the table, No message, at forty-five, your dad leaned toward you and asked quietly, “Everything okay, honey?”

You smiled so fast your cheeks hurt “Yeah. He’ll be here.” at an hour, the waiter asked if you wanted to wait a little longer before ordering dessert.

Your friends looked at you, your mother looked down at her lap, Maya looked angry enough to break something, you looked at Connor’s empty chair and felt something inside you go terribly still.

Because you weren’t surprised.

That was the moment, not the missed dinner, not the unanswered texts, not the fact that your birthday candles were waiting at your apartment and your boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

It was the quiet, devastating realization that some part of you had expected this.

Some part of you had known, from the second you put on the dress, from the moment you fixed your hair in the mirror, from the second you told everyone he would come, that there was always a chance Connor would forget to choose you.

And you hated how unsurprised you were, you hated that your heart didn’t even break loudly anymore, it just sank, like it was tired.

When dinner ended, everyone tried too hard to be cheerful, your friends sang loudly. Your dad hugged you longer than usual. Your mom kissed your forehead and whispered, “You deserve to feel special today.”

You almost cried then.

But you didn’t.

You waited until everyone left your apartment after cake. Waited until Maya lingered by the door, holding her coat in her arms, staring at you like she knew you were one soft word away from falling apart “Come stay with me tonight,” she said.

You shook your head. “I need to talk to him.” Maya’s mouth tightened. “He doesn’t deserve a conversation tonight.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I deserve one.”

She hugged you hard before she left, the apartment was quiet afterward, too quiet.

There were balloons tied to the backs of chairs. Half a cake sitting on the counter. A bottle of champagne unopened because you hadn’t been able to pretend that much. Gifts stacked neatly near the couch. Your shoes abandoned by the door after your feet started aching.

You sat on the sofa in your birthday dress and stared at the clock. 23:47. your birthday was almost over.

Connor arrived at 00:18.

You heard his key in the lock first, then the door opened slowly, carefully, like he already knew.

He stepped inside with his hair still damp from a shower, a black hoodie thrown over his shoulders, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Not gas station flowers. Not something thoughtless. They were your favorites. The exact ones. The kind you had once pointed out at a market two years ago, surprised he had remembered.

His face crumpled when he saw you sitting there “Baby.”

You didn’t move, Connor shut the door behind him, the flowers trembling slightly in his hand “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m so, so sorry. Practice ran late, and then media wanted extra stuff, and my phone died, and I swear I thought I could still make it. I was going to call you from someone else’s phone, but then—”

“Don’t.”

The word came out soft, that made it worse, Connor stopped like you had shouted, you looked at him then. Really looked at him.

He looked exhausted. Guilty. Panicked. Younger than he usually did under the harsh kitchen light. His eyes flicked around the apartment, taking in the decorations, the cake, the gifts, the proof of everything he had missed “I messed up,” he said. “I know I did. I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. Anything you want. We can go away on the next break. I’ll take you wherever you want. I’ll—”

“This isn’t about my birthday.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

You swallowed, your throat hurt “This isn’t about tonight. Not really.”

Connor took one step closer. “Then what is it about?”

You let out a shaky breath and finally said the thing you had been avoiding for months “I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.”

The flowers lowered slightly in his hand, the apartment felt colder “I choose you,” he said quickly. “Of course I choose you. I love you.”

“I know you love me.” Connor looked thrown by that, as if he had expected the fight to be about whether he loved you or not, you wished it were that simple.

“You love me,” you continued, voice trembling. “But you don’t show up for me. And I have spent so long telling myself that those are the same thing because I didn’t want to be unfair to you.”

His face went pale “I know hockey matters,” you said. “I know your career matters. I’ve never asked you to choose between me and the thing you’ve worked your whole life for. I would never do that to you.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But somewhere along the way, you started acting like because I understood, I didn’t need anything. Like because I’m patient, I don’t get hurt. Like because I’m always here, you don’t have to make sure I still feel loved.”

Connor’s eyes filled, he shook his head once, almost violently. “No. No, that’s not what I think.”

“But it’s how you act.” That silenced him, you looked down at your hands because looking at him made it harder.

“I kept waiting for it to get better. After the season. After the road trip. After the next game. After the next stressful week. But there’s always something next, Con. There’s always going to be hockey. There’s always going to be pressure. There’s always going to be someone who needs you.”

You forced yourself to look at him “And I can’t keep being the person who gets whatever is left.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out, the flowers slipped lower until they hung uselessly at his side “I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

You nodded, tears finally spilling over “That’s the problem.”

Connor flinched, you stood slowly. Your legs felt unsteady, but your voice stayed calm, and somehow that made his panic worse “I think we need to end this.”

“No.”

It came out instantly, he dropped the flowers on the table and crossed the room so quickly you stepped back on instinct. He noticed and stopped, hands lifting slightly like he wanted to reach for you but knew he had lost the right “No,” he said again, quieter. “Please don’t say that.”

“I’m tired, Connor.”

“I can fix it.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

Your laugh was tiny and broken. “I think you meant it every time.”

That hurt him, you saw it land, Connor dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard, eyes shining. “Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“I have been telling you,” you whispered. “For months. In every way I knew how without begging you to love me properly.”

His expression collapsed.

“I don’t want to beg,” you said. “I don’t want to compete with your career. I don’t want to spend every important day wondering if you’ll remember that I matter too.”

“You do matter.”

“But I don’t feel like I do.”

Connor’s tears finally spilled over, he wiped at them quickly, almost angrily, like he didn’t have the right to cry when he was the reason you were breaking.

You walked toward the bedroom, he followed one step behind, voice cracking “What are you doing?”

“Packing a bag.”

“No, baby, please. Please don’t leave tonight. We can talk. We’ll talk all night. I’ll call the guys, I’ll call Coach, I’ll—”

You turned around “Connor.”

He froze, the way you said his name destroyed him. Not Con. Not baby. Not the soft, familiar version of him that lived only in your mouth.

Connor.

“I’m going to Maya’s,” you said. “I need space.” He looked like he wanted to fall to his knees, maybe he almost did.

“Can I call you?” You wiped your cheeks. “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

His jaw trembled, you packed in silence while he stood in the doorway, helpless and shattered, watching you fold pieces of your life into a bag.

When you walked past him, he whispered, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone.”

You stopped for half a second, then you kept walking Connor didn’t try to stop you, but when the door closed behind you, you heard the broken sound he made through the wood.

And that almost made you turn back, almost.

But not enough.

The first night without you, Connor didn’t sleep, he sat on the floor of the apartment surrounded by birthday decorations and stared at the bouquet he had been too late to give you.

He kept replaying your words.

I don’t feel chosen by you anymore.

At first, his mind tried to defend him, practice had run late, his phone really had died, media had been unavoidable, he hadn’t meant to miss dinner.

He loved you.

He loved you so much that he had imagined every version of his future with you in it. He had saved money for a house one day and pictured where your shoes would go by the door. He had thought about rings more than once, quietly, nervously, scrolling through photos and then closing the browser because he was terrified he’d pick the wrong one. He had imagined kids with your eyes. He had imagined summers away from the city, mornings where hockey wasn’t screaming for his attention, a future where everything was calmer and he could finally give you all the time you deserved.

But then your voice cut through every excuse.

Love isn’t the same as showing up.

By three in the morning, Connor understood the ugliest part, he had been loving you in the future, someday, he would buy you the house.

Someday, he would propose, someday, when the schedule got easier, he would take you on the trips he had promised, someday, when the pressure settled, he would be more present.

Someday.

Someday.

Someday.

And while he was busy building a future in his head, he had left you alone in the present, the next morning, he texted you once.

Not a paragraph, not a desperate flood.

Just:

I know you asked for space. I’m going to respect that. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here when you’re ready.

Then he put his phone down and cried in the shower where no one could hear him, at practice, everyone knew.

Connor wasn’t the kind of person who could hide devastation well. He was quiet on normal days, but this was different. His face was hollow. His movements were sharp and mechanical. He missed a pass he could have made blindfolded and slammed his stick against the boards hard enough that Nick Foligno skated over and stared at him “What’s going on?”

Connor shook his head. “Nothing.” Nick’s expression didn’t change, Connor lasted three seconds.

“She left.”

Nick didn’t ask who, he already knew.

After practice, Connor sat in his stall with his gear half-off and told him everything, not dramatically. Not with excuses. Just the truth, stripped raw “I missed her birthday,” Connor said, voice low. “But it wasn’t just that. I’ve been missing everything.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees “You love her?”

Connor looked up, offended by the simplicity of the question “More than anything.”

“Then stop thinking love is something she’s supposed to just know.”

Connor looked down, Nick’s voice gentled. “You’re young, Bedsy. And you’ve had hockey demanding everything from you since you were a kid. But relationships don’t survive on intention. You don’t get credit for the version of yourself you planned to be later.”

Connor shut his eyes “She said she got whatever was left.”

Nick sighed “Then don’t try to win her back with big gestures. That’s not what she asked for.”

Connor swallowed hard. “What do I do?”

“You become someone who doesn’t make her ask twice.”

So Connor tried, at first, you didn’t answer him, he didn’t blame you, for one full week, he sent one message a day. Not begging. Not pressuring. Not asking when you were coming home.

Just small, accountable things.

I spoke to the team about adjusting my post-practice media when possible. I should’ve done that before.

I started using the shared calendar again. Not because it fixes anything, but because forgetting things that matter to you can’t happen anymore.

I passed the bakery you like today. I didn’t stop because I know showing up uninvited isn’t respecting your space. But I thought of you.

I’m sorry for all the nights I made you feel like you were waiting for me to remember you.

You read them, you didn’t respond, Maya hated him on principle for a while “He sounds miserable,” she said one night, sitting cross-legged beside you on her couch while you stared at your phone.

“He is.”

“Good.” You gave her a look, she shrugged. “What? I’m on your side.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But I miss him.” Maya softened, of course you did.

Missing Connor was the worst part. The apartment smelled like him when you went back to collect more clothes. Your favorite mug was still in his cabinet. The blanket on his couch still held the shape of every night you had curled into him after games. His hoodie sat in your overnight bag, packed by accident, and you cried into it so hard one night that Maya quietly took it and washed it because she couldn’t stand seeing you break over cotton.

You missed him but missing him didn’t erase the ache of being forgotten.

Two weeks after you left, Connor called your dad, your father told you because he had never lied to you, not even when you were little and asked if the family dog was going to die “He asked if he could come by,” your dad said carefully.

You stiffened. “What?”

“Not to see you. To talk to me and your mom.”

Your stomach twisted “What did he want?”

Your dad paused “To apologize.”

You almost laughed because it hurt too much “He apologized to you?”

“And your mother.”

“For what?”

“For making us watch you make excuses for him.” you went quiet, your dad’s voice softened “He cried, honey.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m not telling you that to make you feel bad,” he said. “I’m telling you because I think he finally understands that love doesn’t just hurt the two people in it when one of them stops showing up.”

Your mother told you later that Connor had stood in their living room with shaking hands and red eyes, looking nothing like the confident young man the world praised every night “He didn’t ask us to convince you,” she said. “He didn’t ask what he should say to get you back. He just said he was sorry for making your birthday a night you had to survive.”

That was the first crack in your resolve, not because it fixed anything, but because Connor had gone to the people who loved you and taken responsibility without making himself the victim.

The second crack came three days later, you had a terrible day at work.

The kind of day where nothing catastrophic happened but every small thing scraped against your already bruised heart. By the time you reached Maya’s apartment, you were exhausted and cold and trying very hard not to cry in the elevator.

There was a paper bag waiting outside the door, your favorite soup with your favorite bread next to a small container of the chocolate mousse from the restaurant Connor had missed.

No note asking you to call him, no dramatic apology, just one sticky note.

You forget to eat when you’re sad. No pressure. Just dinner.

You stood in the hallway and cried, Maya opened the door, saw the bag, and sighed “I still hate him,” she muttered.

But she took the soup inside and warmed it up for you, Connor kept showing up in careful ways, not loud ones.

Not ones designed to be seen.

When your car needed an oil change, he didn’t offer to take it in like he normally would have. Instead, he texted you the number of the place you trusted and said he had already checked they had an appointment open Saturday, but he wouldn’t book it unless you wanted him to.

When your younger cousin had a school play, Connor sent a message the morning of.

Good luck to Lily tonight. I know she was nervous about her solo.

You stared at that one for a long time, you had told him about Lily’s play weeks before your birthday back when you thought he wasn’t listening.

He had been listening, he just hadn’t acted like it mattered, that realization hurt in a different way because it meant the love had been there.

It meant the problem had never been absence of feeling, it had been absence of effort, a month after the breakup, you finally agreed to meet him.

Not at his apartment.

Not at yours.

A coffee shop in the middle of the city, during the afternoon, when there was no risk of the conversation getting blurred by nostalgia and soft lighting.

Connor was already there when you arrived, he stood too quickly, nearly knocking his knee against the table “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He looked thinner. Tired. Still beautiful in the unfair way that made your chest hurt. His hair was hidden under a beanie, his hoodie plain, his eyes fixed on you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

There was a cup waiting across from him, your order, he noticed you looking “I asked before ordering,” he said quickly. “They said they could remake it if you came later and it got cold. I didn’t want to assume.”

That almost undid you, you sat down, for a moment, neither of you spoke, then Connor said, “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded.

He took a breath. His hands were wrapped around his cup, knuckles pale “I wrote a whole speech,” he admitted. “Then I realized it sounded like I was trying to talk my way out of something I acted my way into.”

Your throat tightened “So I’m not going to do that,” he said. “I’m just going to tell you the truth.”

You looked at him, Connor’s eyes were wet, but steady “I thought loving you meant building something for us later. I kept telling myself the hard parts were temporary. That if I worked hard enough now, I could give you everything someday. A house. Stability. A life where you never had to worry. And I convinced myself that made the missed things okay because I was doing it for our future.”

He swallowed “But you were alone in the present. And I didn’t see it because seeing it would’ve meant admitting I was failing you.”

Your eyes burned.

“I don’t want to be the guy who only knows how to love you when it’s convenient,” he continued. “And I don’t want to be the guy who makes you grateful for crumbs because he’s busy.”

You looked down at your coffee, Connor’s voice cracked “I hate that I became that guy anyway.” A tear slipped down your cheek, he didn’t reach for you, that mattered.

“I’m not asking you to come back today,” he said. “I want you to. God, I want you to. But I know I broke something, and I know me being sorry doesn’t put it back the way it was.”

You wiped your cheek.

“What are you asking for?”

“A chance to earn your trust again.” He inhaled shakily. “Slowly. However you want. And if the answer is no, I’ll respect it. I’ll hate it, but I’ll respect it.”

You studied him for a long moment “I don’t know how to trust you anymore,” you whispered.

Connor nodded, tears falling freely now “I know.”

“I don’t want to be someone you schedule because you’re scared of losing me.”

“You’re not.”

“But how do I know that?”

His face twisted with pain “You don’t,” he admitted. “Not yet.” that honesty hurt more than a promise would have, he looked down at the table “I started talking to someone,” he said quietly.

Your brows pulled together. “Like a therapist?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “A sports psychologist, but also just… about life. About how I treat everything like if I work harder, I can fix it. But I can’t outwork hurting you. I have to actually change.”

You stared at him.

“I should’ve done it before,” he said. “I know that.”

You both sat there in the quiet noise of the coffee shop, surrounded by people living ordinary lives while yours felt split open on the table between you.

Finally, you said, “I can’t come home yet.”

Connor nodded immediately “Okay.”

“And I’m not promising we’ll get back together.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded again “Okay.”

“But…” You looked at him, heart pounding. “We can talk. Sometimes" for the first time in weeks, something like hope moved across his face, not joy, he knew better than to look joyful over the bare minimum, just hope.

“I can do sometimes,” he whispered, so that was where you began, soometimes.

Sometimes Connor called after practice, and when you didn’t answer, he didn’t spam your phone. He left one voicemail telling you about his day, asking about yours, and reminding you that you didn’t have to call back unless you wanted to.

Sometimes you met for coffee, sometimes you walked together through cold Chicago streets with space between your hands where there used to be instinct.

Sometimes it felt easy, and that scared you, sometimes it felt impossible, and that scared him.

Connor learned.

He learned to tell you when his schedule changed before you had to ask, he learned not to make promises until he had checked whether he could keep them, he learned that “I’ll try” meant nothing if it wasn’t followed by action.

He learned that flowers were nice, but remembering your presentation at work mattered more.

He learned that you didn’t need grand vacations as much as you needed him to sit across from you at dinner and not check his phone every five minutes, he learned that choosing you was not one dramatic decision.

It was hundreds of small ones, it was calling you before he watched game tape, not after he was too exhausted to speak, it was telling his trainer he had somewhere to be and leaving when practice actually ended.

It was showing up at your apartment with groceries and asking if he could cook for you, then leaving after dinner because you weren’t ready for him to stay, it was apologizing without making you comfort him.

It was accepting that some days, you were still angry, one night, two months after your birthday, you finally snapped.

He had come over to help you put together a bookshelf. It should have been simple. Domestic. Safe.

Instead, halfway through sorting screws, you looked at him sitting on your floor in sweatpants, tongue caught between his teeth as he frowned at the instructions, and you were suddenly furious.

“Why now?”

Connor looked up. “What?”

“Why now?” you repeated, voice shaking. “Why did it take me leaving for you to become this version of yourself?”

He set the screwdriver down slowly, you stood, pacing because if you stayed still, you would cry “I asked for you before. I needed you before. I was lonely before. And now you’re here, and you’re trying, and that’s good, but it also makes me so angry because you could have done this the whole time.”

Connor’s face crumpled “I know.”

“You could have loved me like this when I still felt safe with you.”

His eyes shone “I know.”

“And now I’m the one who has to figure out if I can trust you again. I’m the one who has to heal from what you didn’t notice.”

He nodded, wiping at his cheek with the heel of his hand “You’re right.”

“I hate that you’re agreeing with me.”

A broken laugh escaped him, wet and miserable. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Fight back,” you said, crying now. “Make an excuse. Tell me I’m being unfair. Give me a reason to stay mad.”

Connor stood, but kept distance “I can’t,” he whispered. “Because you’re not being unfair.”

Your face crumpled.

He looked destroyed by it “I wish I had a better answer,” he said. “I wish I could tell you I didn’t understand or that I was too young or too busy or too under pressure, but none of that changes what it felt like for you. I did have reasons. But I used them like excuses. And you paid for that.”

You covered your mouth.

Connor’s voice broke “I hate that I hurt you into needing proof that I love you.”

That was the first time you let him hold you again, you didn’t plan to, one second you were crying in the middle of your apartment, and the next Connor was there, arms around you, holding you like he was afraid to hold too tightly but more afraid to let go.

You sobbed into his hoodie, he cried into your hair “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for once, he was.

The first game you attended after the breakup was in January, you didn’t sit with the WAGs.

You bought your own ticket because you weren’t ready for the questions, the looks, the assumptions. Connor didn’t know you were coming. You told yourself it was better that way. Less pressure. Less expectation.

Chicago won in overtime and Connor scored the winner.

The arena exploded, you stood with everyone else, heart lodged in your throat, watching him get swallowed by his teammates against the glass.

Then his eyes found you, you didn’t know how, there were thousands of people there, all screaming, all moving, all wearing the same colors.

But Connor found you, for one suspended second, the entire arena seemed to blur, his face changed, not into surprise exactly.

Into something softer, something like gratitude, he didn’t make a scene. Didn’t point. Didn’t turn it into a moment for the cameras, he just pressed his glove against his chest once, small, private, yours.

You left before he could ask you to wait, by the time you got home, there was one message on your phone.

Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t come for me to know, but I’m really glad I saw you. Get home safe.

You stared at it for a long time, then you typed back.

Good goal.

His reply came almost instantly.

Thanks. I was trying to impress this girl.

You laughed, actually laughed, then cried because laughing with him still felt like coming home.

The night things truly changed wasn’t dramatic, no storm, no hospital scare, no grand confession in the rain.

It was a Tuesday, Connor had a rare evening off. Weeks earlier, he had asked if he could take you to dinner. Not somewhere expensive. Not somewhere that screamed apology. Just the little Italian place near your apartment where you used to go before everyone knew his name.

You agreed.

Part of you expected something to go wrong, a late meeting, a surprise interview, a call from the team.

Some reminder that hoping was dangerous, but at six exactly, there was a knock at your door, Connor stood on the other side in a dark coat, cheeks pink from the cold, hands empty, no flowers, no gifts.

Just him “I thought about bringing something,” he admitted when you opened the door. “Then I thought maybe being on time was the thing.”

Your lips parted, then you smiled, it was small but real “Good choice.”

Dinner was quiet at first, then less quiet, then almost normal He told you about a prank in the locker room. You told him about Maya’s disastrous date. He listened with his whole face, laughing in the right places, asking questions that proved he was paying attention.

Halfway through dessert, his phone buzzed.

You saw it, so did he.

His eyes flicked down,for one awful second, your body remembered, the waiting, the empty chair, the excuses.

Connor reached for the phone, your stomach dropped, then he silenced it without looking and turned it face down on the table “My agent,” he said. “I told him I’m unavailable tonight unless something’s on fire.”

You swallowed “You can answer if you need to.”

“I don’t need to.”

“But what if it’s important?”

Connor looked at you “You’re important.”

The words were simple, no drama, no speech, just the truth, your eyes filled with tears, Connor’s expression softened, but he didn’t reach across the table. He waited.

You were the one who slid your hand toward his, he stared at it like it was something sacred, then he took it, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and careful “I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m scared I’ll come back and everything will be good for a while, and then one day I’ll look around and realize I’m waiting again.”

Connor’s jaw tightened “That’s my biggest fear too.” You looked at him in surprise.

He nodded “Not because I think I’ll stop trying. But because I know I’m capable of hurting you when I’m not paying attention. I didn’t think I was before. I do now.” He took a shaky breath. “So I don’t want you to just trust me blindly. I want us to keep talking. I want you to call me out. I want to keep seeing someone. I want to make sure I don’t only change because I’m afraid of losing you.”

Your tears slipped over “I loved you so much,” you said.

Connor’s face crumpled “Loved?”

You squeezed his hand “Love,” you corrected softly. “I love you so much.”

His eyes shut, for a moment, he looked like the words physically hurt him, like relief could be painful when it came after starving “I love you too,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

“I know.”

This time, when you said it, it didn’t feel like an excuse, it felt like a beginning, you didn’t move back in immediately.

Connor didn’t ask you to.

That mattered too, you kept your apartment. Kept your space. Kept rebuilding a life where he was wanted, not required, but slowly, carefully, he became part of it again.

He came over on off nights and cooked badly until you took pity on him and taught him how not to burn garlic, he remembered your friend’s promotion party and arrived with you, not three hours later.

He called from the road before bed, sometimes tired, sometimes quiet, but always present, on nights when he couldn’t talk long, he told you that instead of disappearing.

On days when you felt old hurt rising, he sat with it, he didn’t punish you for needing reassurance, he didn’t rush you into being okay.

He loved you in the present.

And little by little, the future stopped feeling like a place where you had to wait to be happy, your next birthday came quietly.

You didn’t plan a party, part of you didn’t want to give the day that kind of power again, Connor didn’t push, he simply asked what you wanted.

“Something small,” you said. “No surprises.”

“No surprises,” he promised.

That morning, you woke up to a text.

Happy birthday, baby. I’m already grateful I get to show up for this one.

You stared at it in bed, heart aching, then came another message.

Door in ten minutes. Coffee first. Then breakfast. Then whatever you want. My phone is off unless you tell me to turn it on.

You opened the door ten minutes later in pajamas, hair messy, eyes suspiciously wet, Connor stood there holding two coffees and a paper bag from your favorite bakery.

He smiled softly “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He stepped inside and set everything on the counter, no balloons, no crowd, no overcorrection.

Just coffee. Warm pastries. Your favorite flowers already arranged in a vase he must have dropped off with Maya the night before because he knew showing up at your door with a bouquet might remind you too much of the night everything broke.

You noticed, of course you noticed, Connor watched you notice “I didn’t want them in my hands this time,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, you walked toward him and wrapped your arms around his waist, he froze for half a second before holding you back “I’m here,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes against his chest “I know.” he breathed out shakily “I’m going to keep being here.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, there were still things to heal. You both knew that. Love did not erase history just because it wanted to. Trust did not return fully grown. It had to be rebuilt, piece by piece, choice by choice, ordinary day by ordinary day.

But Connor had learned the thing he should have known all along, love was not just the future he imagined for you.

It was the morning coffee, in the answered call, in the kept promise, in the empty chair that would never be empty again if he had any power to reach it.

It was choosing you when no one was watching, it was showing up not because he almost lost you, but because you deserved to be loved by someone who came before the breaking point.

Connor brushed his thumb over your cheek “Happy birthday baby” he said softly, you smiled through your tears, and this time, when you looked at him, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for him to choose you.

You felt like he already had.

[wannabehockeygf]

got bored so i wrote cuck!mack with will & reader. basically mack who thinks he can handle watching will give you what he need but he gets so fucking jealous he cries

nsfw content below... obv

macklin sits on the edge of the bed at first, hands shaking as he runs gentle fingertips along your thigh. it’s with that same soft reverence he always brings—eyes wide and adoring, voice nothing more than a trembling murmur as he asks if you’re comfortable, if you’re happy, if there’s anything you need. his mouth is tender at your shoulder, lips pressing slow, careful kisses, and you love him for it, love the way he dotes on you, but your body aches for something rougher, sharper, a hunger that’s gone unquieted long enough that you can barely keep still.

macklin senses it in the way your hips buck, the way your hands slip restlessly from his hair to the sheets, searching for something he can’t give. his thumb brushes your cheek. “i love you,” he whispers, but the words are a question—am i enough?—and you answer with a kiss, soft and sad.

there’s a knock at the door and will steps in, a flicker of excitement and nerves crossing his features as he takes in the scene. he’s careful, asking with his eyes, but you nod and beckon him forward. mack’s whole body tenses, jaw clenched, but he shifts aside, always the boy desperate to please, even when it hurts.

will’s hands are firm, confident—the way he lifts your hips, the way he pulls you down onto his lap, not asking, just taking, giving you the sharp edge you’ve been starved for. you gasp, arching into him, and mack’s breath stutters out, a wounded sound. he tries to help, tries to stroke your arm, pepper your skin with hesitant kisses, but every time you moan for will—every shuddering gasp, every “please, more”—mack flinches, fingers tightening, eyes shining with jealousy he tries so hard to swallow.

“you okay, mack?” will asks, not unkind, never cruel, just steady, a hand bracing your back as he thrusts up into you. mack nods, swallowing hard, voice barely a whisper: “just—just want her happy.” you reach for mack’s hand, threading your fingers through his, letting him cling to you. it anchors him, calms the frantic beating of his heart, at least for a little while.

he’s so sweet, so desperate, nuzzling your knuckles, whispering, “love you, love you so much,” as if the words alone could keep you tethered to him instead of the new, dizzying pleasure will gives.

but will’s rhythm grows harsher, hips snapping up, the bed creaking under his force, and the pleasure is overwhelming. your head falls back, spine arching, and mack’s hand slips from yours as you clutch at will’s back, nails digging hard, scratching red lines into his skin as you cry out, “yes, right there, please!”

mack whimpers, left behind, falling to his knees on the floor beside the bed, looking up at you both with pleading, bewildered eyes. “please—can i—can i just hold your hand again?” he begs, voice cracking, but your hands are full of will, wrapped tight around his shoulders, lost in the sharp heat of being taken the way you need.

mack clings to the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, tears gathering in his eyes as he watches, every thrust of will’s hips a reminder of what he can’t give you, every moan from your lips a new ache in his chest. he whimpers, soft and helpless, “please, baby, please,” but you’re gone, swept up in will’s rhythm, body shuddering with every slap of skin on skin.

“she needs this,” will says gently, voice pitched low for mack’s ears alone, not taunting, just honest. “she’ll still love you after. let her have it.”

mack nods, biting his lip, trying to be brave. he presses his cheek to the mattress, reaching for your calf, stroking it with trembling fingers whenever you’re close enough, just needing some piece of you, any touch, as if it can ground him through the storm. “love you,” he chokes, not sure if you hear, but the words tumble out anyway, as essential as breath.

will slams into you, his hand fisting in your hair to tug your head back, mouth at your throat, biting and soothing in the same motion. you’re a mess, moaning, nails scoring his back, hips jerking as your orgasm builds fast and wild. “oh fuck, will, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop, please—” you cry, and mack sobs, forehead pressed to the bed frame, tears hot on his cheeks. “please, please, just—let me—” he can’t even finish, voice breaking apart.

the climax tears through you, body seizing, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream as will fucks you through it, relentless, grunting with the effort. mack watches, broken and worshipful, hands fisted in the sheets, loving you so much it hurts. when you finally collapse, spent, will pulls out, breathing hard, and mack is there immediately, crawling up onto the bed to gather you in his arms, clutching you to his chest as if he can protect you from the world.

he kisses your hair, your cheeks, your lips, whispering, “love you, love you, love you,” over and over, as if the repetition can fill the ache inside him. will lies on your other side, hand resting on your thigh, not pushing, not gloating, just a silent acknowledgment that he’s given you something you needed, and that’s all.

macklin’s jealousy simmers, raw and sharp, but he tries to swallow it down, tries to focus on the way you melt into his arms, the way you still reach for him, the way you let him hold you after. he’s just a sweet, anxious puppy, loving you with everything he has, even if it means watching someone else give you what he can’t.

[dirtylittlediary]

stab wounds - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : "Frank ? There's someone in the house.."

warnings : mentions of violence, blood, intruder, fear, angst, billy russo, protective!frank castle

word count : 7.5 k

a/n: not proofread !

The apartment is too quiet.

You don't notice it at first.

Not really.

It's just one of those long evenings where the city feels farther away than usual, where the traffic outside sounds muted beneath the steady rain tapping against the windows.

Frank should be home in an hour.

Maybe two.

You glance at the clock on the microwave for what feels like the hundredth time.

9:17 PM.

The pasta water bubbles lazily on the stove. His favorite. You smile despite yourself. The man could survive on military rations for six months straight, but put a bowl of pasta in front of him and suddenly he's acting like you've personally invented happiness. Your phone lights up. Frank. Immediately, you grab it.

FRANKIE Running late. Don't wait up for dinner.

You roll your eyes.

YOU Too late. Already made it.

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears. Appears again.

FRANKIE You're stubborn.

A smile tugs at your lips.

YOU Says Frank Castle.

Nothing for a moment.

Then:

FRANKIE Love you.

The words hit just as hard now as they did the first time he'd said them. Your chest warms.

YOU Love you too.

The typing bubble appears again.

FRANKIE Lock the door.

You snort. You glance toward the front door. Locked. Deadbolt engaged. Chain on. Exactly the way Frank likes it.

YOU Done.

A few seconds pass.

FRANKIE Good girl.

Heat blooms instantly across your cheeks.

"Asshole," you mutter. The smile never leaves your face. You set the phone down and return to the stove. Outside, thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. The apartment creaks softly around you. Old building. Nothing unusual. You stir the sauce. Check the clock again.

9:24 PM.

Still too quiet. The realization prickles at the back of your neck. Normally, you don't notice sounds here. The pipes. The neighbors. The elevator. Tonight, it's like the building is holding its breath.

You frown. Then shake it off. Rain. That's all. The rain is drowning everything out. You reach for a glass from the cabinet. And freeze. A sound. Very faint. Metal. A tiny scrape. Your head turns toward the front door. Nothing. Silence. You stand there for several seconds, listening.

The apartment settles. The refrigerator hums. The rain continues.

You're about to laugh at yourself when— Scrape. Again. This time louder. Coming from the front door. Every muscle in your body locks. The glass slips slightly in your grip. You stare down the hallway. The deadbolt is locked. The chain is on.

Frank is still an hour away.

Another scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Like somebody is trying very, very carefully not to make noise. Your heart drops into your stomach. And then the doorknob moves. Just once. A tiny test. Someone is on the other side. Someone who definitely isn't Frank. Fear strikes your chest so hard, and you back up slowly, your chest heaving. What follows next makes you want to gag. You hear a gun cock.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

A gun shot echoes through the walls, and the deadbolt comes flying clean off. You dive for the cutlery cupboard, you hand wrapping around the handle of the biggest kitchen knife you can find, before spinning on your heel and running as quietly as you can to the bedroom.

Your socks slide against the hardwood as you sprint down the hallway.

Behind you— A crash. The front door slamming into the wall.

Someone is inside. Your stomach drops. You reach the bedroom and throw yourself inside, shutting the door as quietly as you can.

Don't lock it. Frank taught you better than that. A locked door tells them exactly where you are.

Instead, you duck into the closet, dropping low to the floor, and locking that door.

Your phone. Where's your phone? Kitchen counter.

Of course. Of fucking course. Tears sting your eyes. The knife shakes in your grip. You force yourself to breathe.

Think.

Think.

Frank. You need Frank.

The apartment falls silent. Then— Heavy footsteps. Not rushed. Not panicked. Slow. Methodical.Whoever it is isn't worried. Which means they either know you're alone— Or they don't care. The footsteps move through the living room. You hear drawers opening. Cabinets. The sound of something crashing onto the floor. Your pulse pounds so hard you can hear it. The bedroom door remains half-open. From where you're crouched, you can see only a sliver of the hallway. Nothing else.

Another crash.

Then silence. A long silence. Too long. The kind that makes your imagination do terrible things. You grip the knife tighter. Your palms are slick with sweat.

And then-- A voice. Male. Deep. Close.

"Come out, Frankie !" Your blood turns to ice. "I know you're here, scumbag ! Come out." Your whole body is shaking, your hand clamped over your mouth. "What ? Don't wanna come say Hi to your good pal Billy Russo ?"

Billy Russo.

The name means nothing to you.

But the way he says it— Like a joke. Like a grudge. Like he genuinely expects Frank to answer— Makes your stomach turn. You clamp your hand harder over your mouth.

Don't make a sound.

Don't.

The apartment creaks. Rain taps against the windows. And Billy laughs. It's a terrible sound. Warm. Friendly. The kind of laugh that belongs at a bar between old friends. Not inside a stranger's apartment with a gun.

Your foot hits something soft, and you look down.

A duffel bag ?

Oh thank god, a duffel bag.

Shifting your weight side to side, you maneuver the bag into your lap, clammy palm still clutching the knife as you open in, wincing at the loud noise the zipper makes.

Your eyes scan the contents, your chest heaving.

Emopy gun, no bullets. His vest with the skull on it. Boots, a few shirts and-

Oh thank god.

A burner phone.

Your hands shake so badly you almost drop it. The burner phone slips against your sweaty fingers.

"Oh my God." The words never actually leave your mouth. You don't dare. Outside the closet, Billy keeps moving. You hear the bedroom door creak open. Then footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. The sound makes your stomach roll. He's looking. Searching. The burner phone feels like salvation in your hands. Please work. Please.

You fumble the power button. Nothing. Your heart stops.

No no no—

Then the screen flickers. A dim blue glow illuminates the darkness around you. You nearly cry from relief.

Your thumb shakes as you scroll through the contacts. There aren't many. Just numbers.

Micro. Curtis. A handful of names. Then— FRANK. You almost sob. Outside, a drawer slams. Billy whistles softly.

"C'mon, Frankie." The footsteps move closer. Your pulse skyrockets. You press call. The phone begins ringing. Once. Twice. Three times.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

The ringing stops. Your heart leaps.

"…Yeah?" Frank's voice. Low. Distracted. Alive. For one terrible second you can't speak. You just sit there clutching the phone with both hands. Breathing hard.

"Hello?" His voice sharpens immediately. Because he hears it. The panic. The fear.

"Who is this?" The knife nearly falls from your fingers.

"Frankie." The whisper breaks. A sob escapes before you can stop it. The change on Frank's end is instantaneous.

"Baby?" No distraction anymore. No softness. Pure focus. "What happened?" You hear movement. Fast movement. A car door slamming. The roar of an engine. Your throat closes. "Why are you whispering, baby ?" You whine out a silent breath, gulping.

"F-Frank." You gasp, looking at the gaps of light shift as Billy traipses across the room.

"Baby, fuckin' talk to me."

"Someone's here."

"What ?"

"Frank, someone's in the house."

"C'mon, Frankie." His footsteps move again. Slow. Casual. You can hear drawers opening in the bedroom now. The scrape of wood. The rustle of clothes. Your clothes. Tears sting your eyes. Frank's voice is gravelly when he answers.

"What ?"

"Someone's here. B-Billy Russo. He shot the deadbolt off the door. Frankie, i'm scared." You whine, sobbing quietly. Another thud echoes so hard you flinch.

"Thought you'd have a better hideout than this." Another drawer. Another laugh. "Though I gotta admit…" A pause. "This is cute." Never expected you to wear a lacy red thong. Your blood freezes. Cute. He's looking at your things. The photographs. The blankets. The life you've built together. You bite down on your fist to stop a whimper. The mattress shifts. Billy is sitting on the bed. "Oh, wow." A low whistle. "You really went domestic, huh?" The knife nearly slips from your sweaty hand. He's close. Too close. Only a few feet away. You can hear the springs of the mattress creaking under his weight.

"Baby, you need to breathe."

"I-I'm in the closet. Frank, he's in our room." You choke. "Hes in our room." For a second, all you hear is the engine. Then—

"Okay." Frank's voice changes. Not softer. Not calmer. Focused.

The way a knife gets focused.

"Listen to me, sweetheart." Another creak from the mattress. Billy is still sitting there. Like he owns the place. Like he's got all the time in the world.

"I need you to keep breathing." Your chest heaves. You nod even though he can't see it.

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." The response is immediate. Absolute. "You can." Outside the closet, Billy chuckles to himself.

"Never would've guessed it." Silence. Then— The bedroom door clicks shut. Your heart jumps. Why did he— The closet handle rattles. You stop breathing. Once. Twice. A testing movement. The lock holds. The silence afterward is so complete it hurts.

"I'm on my way, mama." Frank huffs. "I need you to hang up."

"No, Frank-"

"Baby, if he finds you with a phone, he'll hurt you." He gulps. "More than he already might."

"Please, Frank—"

"Baby, listen to me." The engine on his end roars louder. You can hear him driving far too fast. Can hear the strain in his breathing. The fear. Frank Castle is afraid. Not for himself. For you. The realization makes your throat close. "Sweetheart." His voice drops lower. Steadier. The way he talks when he needs you to listen. Really listen. "I need you to put the phone on silent." Your hands shake.

"Okay."

"I need you to keep whatever weapon i know you got on you." You look down at it. The blade trembles violently in your grip.

"Okay."

"And I need you to stay hidden." The closet handle rattles again. Harder. You choke on a sob.

"Frank—"

"I know." His voice cracks. Just for a second. Then it's gone. Covered by steel. "I'm coming." Outside the closet, Billy sighs dramatically.

"Y'know, Frankie." His voice carries through the room. Casual. Amused. "I always hated these closets." The blood drains from your face. The handle rattles again. This time accompanied by a soft chuckle.

"Too obvious." Your pulse thunders. Frank goes deadly quiet. The engine revs. Tires scream somewhere on his end. Then—

"Baby." The word comes out rough. "Hang up." You squeeze your eyes shut.

"No."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't wanna be alone." The confession slips out before you can stop it. Raw. Terrified. Honest. For a second, neither of you speak. Then Frank exhales. Long. Slow. The kind of breath someone takes before jumping into freezing water.

"You aren't." Your eyes sting.

"Frank—"

"You hear me?" The closet door shudders. Billy testing it. Playing with it. Like a cat. "You're not alone."

Another shake. Wood groans. Your eyes dart toward the sliver of light beneath the closet door.

Nothing moves.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then— A soft knock. Three taps. Right beside your head. You nearly scream.

"Oh, sweetheart." Billy's voice is right outside the door. Warm. Friendly. Terrifying. "Frankie's not home." Your heart stops. Another tap. "But I know somebody is." The engine on Frank's end suddenly cuts. A car door slams. Hard. Frank's breathing changes.

No longer driving.

Running.

Fast.

"Baby." His voice is a command now. "Do not answer him." The closet door creaks. Billy leaning against it. Close enough that you can hear him breathe.

"Y'know." His voice lowers. "I've always wondered what kind of woman could convince Frank Castle to play house." You bite down on your fist. Hard. The taste of blood fills your mouth.

"Now I get it." A pause. Then— "You're exactly his type." Frank makes a sound on the phone. A sound you've never heard before.

Please. Please walk away. Please— Another rattle. Harder this time. Your pulse explodes. Billy goes quiet. On the other side of the door. Thinking. Listening. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can practically feel him standing there.

Then— A soft chuckle.

"Well." The voice is right outside. "Who do we have hiding in here ? " Terror floods every nerve in your body.

He knows. Of course he knows. Frank would've kicked the door off its hinges by now. Would've put a bullet through the wall. Would've done something. You are not Frank. And Billy Russo knows it. The closet door suddenly shudders beneath a heavy impact. You gasp. The phone slips. Clatters against the floor.

"Oh." Billy laughs again. "There you are." The sound tears through you. Another slam. The entire closet shakes. Wood splinters somewhere near the frame. You scramble backward on your hands and knees, pressing yourself into the farthest corner.

"Please—" The word escapes before you can stop it. Silence. Billy stops moving. On the other side of the door. For one horrible second, neither of you breathe. Then his voice comes. Different now. Softer. Almost curious.

"You're his girl." Not a question. A statement. The realization in his voice is worse than the threats. Because suddenly you matter. Not because of who you are. Because of who Frank is. Another long pause. Then-

"Well." The gun cocks. Slowly. Deliberately. "I bet that'll get his attention."

"Baby ? What the fuck's going on ? Baby, answer me !" You can hear Frank yell over the phone. You're clinging the knife to your chest, your eyes blown wide, trying not to cry as the closet door shatters inward. A boot comes crashing through the wood, landing right on the burner phone, shattering it.

"Well. There you are." Your chest squeezes pathetically when a face peeks through the shattered closet. "Wow. You're prettier than on the picture."

You don't answer. You can't. Your entire body is locked up with terror.

The knife shakes so hard in your grip it rattles against your wrist. Billy notices. Of course he does. His gaze drops.

"Aw." He sounds almost amused. "She's got a knife." Your breathing comes fast and shallow. The closet suddenly feels impossibly small. Too small. Too hot. Too close. Billy grips the ruined door and yanks. The remaining wood tears away with a horrible screech.

Light floods the space. You scramble backward instinctively. There's nowhere to go. The wall presses against your spine. Billy crouches slightly. Studying you. Like you're an animal he found under the porch.

"Easy." You nearly laugh.

Easy? Easy?

The man who shot your front door off its hinges is telling you to relax. Your fingers tighten around the knife. Billy's eyes flick to it again. Then back to your face.

"Frank tell you to grab that?" You don't answer. "Yeah." He nods to himself. "That sounds like Frank." A step forward. You jerk the knife up immediately.

"Stay back." The words come out shaky. But they're words. Billy actually pauses.

Then— He smiles wider.

"There she is." Another step. Your heart hammers.

"Don't."

"Or what?" His tone isn't mocking. That's somehow worse. Like he genuinely wants to know. You swallow hard.

The knife trembles between you. Billy looks at it. Looks at you. Then sighs.

"I really don't wanna hurt you." The lie lands like poison. Because he's already hurt you. He's standing in your home. He's terrified you half to death. He's holding a gun. And somehow he still sounds reasonable. Like you're the difficult one.

"Stay back." Your voice cracks. Billy takes another step. Your survival instinct finally snaps. You lunge. It's sloppy. Panicked. Nothing like Frank would've taught you. But it's enough to surprise him. Billy jerks sideways. The knife flashes through empty air.

"Oh, shit."He actually sounds impressed. Your shoulder slams into him. Both of you stumble. You try to pull back. Try to run. Billy catches your wrist. Instantly. The knife hand. Strong fingers clamping down. You cry out. The blade falls. Clatters across the hardwood.

"No!" You wrench against him. Adrenaline flooding every muscle. Billy's grip tightens.

"Easy—"

"Get off me!" You slam your free hand into his face. Not hard. Not enough. But enough. His head snaps back. Enough to make him lose balance for half a second. Enough.

You twist violently. Your wrist slips free. You don't think. You run. Bursting out of the closet. Billy swears behind you. The bedroom blurs. The shattered door. The overturned drawers. The ruined phone.

And there— The knife. Lying on the floor. A few feet away. You throw yourself toward it. Fingers stretching. Billy lunges. His hand catches the back of your shirt.

Fabric tears.

You hit the floor hard. Pain explodes through your shoulder. But your fingers skim near the knife. Relief crashes through you. Billy sees it. His expression changes. The amusement disappears. His hand wraps around your ankle, and he drags you forward before you even have the chance to grab a hold of the knife.

"Oh, no you don't." The world jerks. Your stomach slams against the hardwood as Billy drags you backward by the ankle. You scream.

Not from pain. From panic.

The knife is right there. Right there.

And getting farther away.

"No!" You claw at the floorboards, nails scraping uselessly against the wood. Billy laughs. Not warm anymore. Not amused.

Mean. Cruel.

Like he's enjoying every second of this.

"Jesus Christ, Castle really picked a live one." He yanks harder. Your body skids across the floor. You twist violently, kicking with your free leg. Your heel catches him somewhere in the ribs. Billy swears. His grip loosens. Just for a second. You wrench forward.

The knife is inches away. You dive. Your fingertips brush the handle— And then a hand buries itself in your hair. Agony explodes across your scalp. You shriek. Billy hauls you backward so hard your shoulders slam into his chest.

"Gotcha." His arm locks around your waist. The knife slips away again.

"No!" You elbow backward blindly. Connect with something. Billy grunts. Not enough. His grip tightens.

"You know," he pants into your ear, "Frank always had terrible taste in apartments." You thrash harder. Every survival instinct screaming. His hand leaves your waist. For one horrifying second you think he's reaching for a weapon. Instead he grabs your jaw. Forces your head forward. Makes you look at the knife lying a few feet away.

"So close." Your stomach turns. Billy shoves you forward. Hard. You hit the floor again. Your cheek slams into the hardwood. Stars burst behind your eyes.

Then he's on top of you. Not fully. Just enough weight to keep you trapped. His hand catches your wrist before you can crawl away. Pain shoots up your arm. You cry out.

"Stop moving."

"No!" You twist. Kick. Fight. Billy's patience snaps. His hand slams against the floor beside your head. The sound cracks through the room.

"Stop." The friendliness is gone now. Completely gone. You see it in his eyes. Cold. Violent. Unstable. The look of somebody who might genuinely enjoy hurting you. Fear hits so hard it steals your breath. Billy sees it. Smiles.

"There it is." You hate him. You hate him so much. And somehow that hatred gives you strength. You jerk sideways. Hard. Unexpected. Billy shifts to compensate. His grip slips. Just enough. You tear your wrist free. Scramble. Crawl.

The knife.

The knife.

The knife.

Your fingers close around the handle. Relief floods you. For half a second. Then Billy's hand crashes into your forearm. The knife doesn't leave your grip. But suddenly both of you have it. His hand over yours. Your hand clinging desperately to the handle. The blade wavering between you.

"No!" You pull. Billy pulls harder. Your shoulder screams. The knife jerks upward. Downward. Sideways. Neither of you has control anymore. The struggle becomes frantic. Wild. Your hands are slipping. His hands are slipping. Everything is sweat and panic and desperation.

"Let go."

"No!" The blade twists. Billy grabs your wrist with his other hand. Tries to wrench it away. You fight harder. The knife swings between your bodies. A dangerous blur of steel. For one second both of you pull in opposite directions. Then Billy suddenly shoves forward. At the exact moment you yank back. Everything happens at once. A stumble.

A slip. A collision of momentum.

And then— Both of you freeze. The knife has stopped moving. Billy's eyes widen. Not much. Just enough. You don't understand why. Then you realize. The blade isn't between you anymore. It's buried.

In his chest.

Silence. Complete silence.

The room seems to stop breathing. Billy looks down. Then back up at you.

For the first time all night— He looks genuinely surprised. Your fingers release the handle instantly. You scramble backward on hands and knees. Horrified. Billy presses a hand against the wound. Stares at the blood on his palm. Then slowly lifts his eyes to yours. The look there makes your blood run cold.

Not pain. Not fear. Anger.

Pure, terrifying anger. The kind that promises consequences.

"Well." His voice is very quiet. Very calm. Which somehow makes it worse. He stumbles to his feet, coughing up blood. You push yourself back on your hands and heels, gasping in fear.

You have no more weapons.

Nothing to protect yourself with.

"P-Please." You gasp, shaking your head. "Please. Don't." Russo coughs up more blood, clearly actively dying- but still coming for you.

"You..." He heaves through the blood in his lungs, "Little... slut." He falls forward. Right in front of you. His heavy body thuds on the hardwood, blood pooling around him like some sick blossoming flower.

For a second, you can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think. Billy's body lies sprawled across the hardwood between you and the bedroom door. Blood spreads beneath him. Too much blood. Way too much.

"Oh my God." Your voice sounds far away. Like someone else's. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely see them.

"I didn't—" The words die in your throat. You choke on a sob, staring down at your hands.

Your blood covered hands.

You stumble away from the pool of blood you realise has reached you, covering most of your lower body and clothes in deep crimson red.

You curl up into a ball, sobbing into your knees as you try not to stare at the dead body in your bedroom.

The dead body you left there.

The apartment falls silent. Not normal silent. Not the kind of silence that exists when nobody's talking. This silence is wrong. Heavy. Like the entire world has stopped to stare at what just happened. You curl tighter around yourself. Your forehead pressed against your knees. Your body shaking so violently your teeth chatter. The blood on your hands is drying.

Sticky. Real. Every time you look at it, another wave of nausea crashes through you.

"Oh God." The words come out broken. A whisper. A prayer. A plea. You don't know how much time passes. Ten. An hour. It all feels the same. You sit there on the floor while rain taps against the windows and blood spreads slowly across the hardwood.

Waiting. Listening. Certain every sound is Billy getting back up.

Certain every creak means he's standing behind you. Certain if you look up you'll see him staring.

You never look. You can't.

Then— A noise. Far away. The front door. Your entire body locks.

No.

No no no.

Your heart launches into your throat. You scramble backward until your spine slams into the wall. Another sound. Heavy footsteps. Fast. Running. A man's voice. Muffled. Distant. Then louder.

"Baby!" Your breath catches. The voice sounds wrong. Far away. Like you're underwater. "Fuck, sweetheart- Where the fuck are you !"

Frank. It's Frank.

He's home. Relief should come. Instead panic hits.

Fresh and sharp. Because now he has to see. The ruined apartment. The blood.

Billy. You.

Covered in all of it. Footsteps thunder down the hallway. Closer. Closer. Then stop. The bedroom doorway fills with a silhouette. For one terrible second nobody moves. Frank stands frozen. Taking it all in. The shattered furniture.

The closet. The blood.

Billy. And then finally— You. Curled into a ball in the corner. His face changes. You watch it happen. Confusion. Shock. Fear. Pure, naked fear.

"Baby." The word barely leaves his mouth. You burst into tears. Not crying. Not sobbing. Breaking. Completely.

"Frank." He crosses the room so fast you barely see him move. Suddenly he's kneeling in front of you. His hands on your face. Your shoulders. Your arms.

Checking. Searching.

Making sure you're real. Making sure you're alive.

"Look at me." You can't. You physically can't. "Baby." You shake your head. A fresh sob tears loose.

"I didn't mean to." The words tumble out immediately. Over and over. Like you've been holding them in for hours. "I didn't mean to, Frank. I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I just—"

"Hey." His hands tighten. Not hard. Just enough to ground you. "Hey." Your eyes finally lift. The second they do, Frank's expression shatters.

Because he sees you. Really sees you. The blood. The terror. The guilt. The fact that you're still shaking. "Shit, sweetheart. I need you to fucking listen to me." His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "Are you hurt ? Did he hurt you ?" And that somehow makes everything worse.

"I killed him." Frank immediately shakes his head.

"Baby."

"I did."

"Stop that." The response comes harder. Sharper. "You hear me?" You stare at him. Tears running freely down your face.

"He was gonna kill me." Your voice is tiny. Childlike. Lost. "He was gonna kill me." Frank closes his eyes. Just for a second. When they open again they're shining. Not with tears. With rage. The kind you've only seen a handful of times. The kind reserved for people who've hurt someone he loves. His gaze flicks briefly toward Billy's body. Then immediately back to you. Like Billy doesn't matter. Like nothing matters except you.

"You defended yourself." You shake your head.

"It doesn't feel like it." Frank's jaw tightens. Then he reaches forward and pulls you into his lap. You go willingly. Boneless. Exhausted. He wraps both arms around you. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades. Holding you together.

"I got you." You bury your face in his neck. The familiar scent of him finally breaking through the nightmare. Soap. Rain. Gun oil. Frank. Home. And for the first time since the gunshot blew the lock off the door— You believe you might survive this.

"I was so scared." The confession dissolves against his skin. Frank's arms tighten immediately. Painfully tight.

"I know." His voice is rough. Raw. "I know, baby." Another shudder wracks your body. He huffs out a heavy breath. "He can't hurt you anymore, my love. He can't." You sob into his shoulder.

He-He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. Frank's entire body stiffens. He pulls back, cupping your cheeks.

"What was that, baby ?"

"He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. "D-Dragged me across the floor." Frank goes very still. Not the calm stillness from before. Something sharper. Dangerous in a different way. His hands stay on your face, but his thumbs stop moving. The air around him seems to change—like the temperature drops a few degrees.

“Say that again,” he says quietly. You flinch.

“I—he—” Your voice breaks. “He dragged me. Across the floor. Frank, I tried— I tried to get away, I swear—”

“I know.” His voice cuts through yours immediately. Firm. Controlled. “I know you did.” But his eyes have gone dark. Not at you. Never at you. Over your shoulder. Toward the body on the floor. Billy. Frank exhales slowly through his nose. One hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you back into him like a reflex—like he can’t stand the idea of you being even an inch away right now.

“Did he touch you anywhere else?” he asks. The question is careful. Measured. But there’s something underneath it that makes your stomach twist. You shake your head quickly.

“No. No—just that. I swear.” Frank nods once. Once. Like he’s filing it away somewhere very far away from you.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. Good.” His arms tighten again around you, almost protective to the point of pain.

“You did good,” he says, softer now. “You hear me? You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“I killed him,” you whisper again, like if you say it enough times it might turn into something else. Frank’s hand slides up your spine, steadying you.

“No,” he says immediately. “You stopped him.” Your breath stutters.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean— I just— it happened—”

“Hey.” Frank tilts your face back to his again, forcing you to look at him. “Look at me.” You do. You don’t have a choice. His expression is still intense, still burning with something you don’t fully understand—but his voice is gentle when he speaks again.

“This is not on you,” he says. “You understand me?” Your lips tremble.

“But he’s—he’s—”

“He’s done,” Frank says flatly. A beat. Then, quieter:

“He’s done touching you. Done looking at you. Done everything.” Your throat tightens. Frank glances past you again for half a second, jaw flexing like he’s physically holding himself in place. Then he focuses back on you instantly. Like it’s effort. Like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored. You choke on a sob.

"Where were you ?" You wail. You hate the fact that it sounds like you're putting the blame on him, but your chest aches. "You were supposed to be home. You were supposed to be here." His grip on you tightens instinctively, then immediately softens again, like he’s afraid of holding you too hard in this state.

"I know- Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." His lips are everywhere, pressing them wherever he can reach, his hands smoothing over your sides. "But you did so good. You did so fucking good." You hiccup on a sob and he sighs, pushing your hair away from your neck before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. "Can you walk ?"

"Hmm- What ?" You sniffle.

"Can you walk, mama ?" He asks again. "I need to get you out of here." You choke on a sob.

"Please, please, get me out of here." Without second guessing it, Frank stands up with you still clinging to him like a baby monkey, side stepping around Billy.

"I called Madani the second the call dropped." He hums. "Homeland'll be here soon. With NYPD." You nod, burying your face in his neck, refusing to look up from him. You hear the sirens getting closer, the sound of the street, the sound of people shouting and Frank telling them to go upstairs. You don't even realise you're somewhere else until Frank is lowering himself into his car and the door closes behind him.

The sudden quiet feels wrong. Not peaceful. Just… muffled. Like the world has been wrapped in thick blankets. You blink slowly.

The interior of Frank's car comes into focus piece by piece. The worn dashboard. The scent of leather and gun oil. The rain streaking down the windows. Frank. You're practically folded into his lap in the driver's seat, still clinging to him with both hands. Neither of you says anything for a moment. You can hear the distant chaos outside.

Sirens. Radios. Doors slamming. People moving around your apartment building. But it sounds far away now. Like it belongs to another world. Frank reaches up and carefully brushes blood-matted hair away from your face.

Not his blood. Not yours.

Billy's.

The realization makes your stomach lurch. Immediately, Frank notices. His hand cups the side of your neck.

"Hey." Your eyes squeeze shut.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make me think about it." The words come out broken. Small. Frank's face softens instantly.

"Okay." No argument. No lecture. Just okay. His thumb strokes slowly beneath your ear. You realize he's checking you again. For bruises. Cuts. Anything he missed. The realization almost makes you cry. Again.

Frank notices that too. Of course he does.

"You hurt anywhere?" You shake your head. Then pause.

"My shoulder." His jaw tightens. "From when I fell." A beat. "And my wrist." Another beat. "And my—"

"Sweetheart." His voice is gentle. You stop immediately. Frank exhales slowly. "You don't gotta apologize for bein' hurt." Fresh tears spill over. Because somehow that's worse. The kindness. The concern. The fact that he isn't angry. Isn't disappointed. Isn't looking at you differently.

"I killed somebody." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Frank goes quiet. Not cold. Not distant. Just careful. Outside, red and blue lights flash across the windshield. He studies you for a long second. Then reaches up and cups your face.

"You didn't." You choke on a sob.

"I did, Frank. I pushed that knife into his chest, I-"

"Baby." He rasps, his voice low and dangerous. "He signed off on his own death the second he went into our apartment. If you hadn't done it, I sure would have- and trust me when I tell you it wouldn't have been a slip of a hand." His hand reaches up into your hair and slolwy massages your scalp. "You wanna know what I see?" You don't answer. Frank continues anyway.

"I see my girl." Your breath catches. "I see somebody who was alone." His thumb brushes away a tear. "Somebody who was scared." Another tear. "Somebody who fought like hell to stay alive." Your lower lip trembles. Frank's forehead touches yours. "And somebody I almost lost." The last words come out rough. Raw. Like they hurt him to say. For the first time since he arrived, you realize something. Frank is shaking too. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you're pressed against him. You can feel it. The tiny tremor running through the hand holding your face. The slight unevenness in his breathing. The way he keeps touching you. Like if he stops, you'll disappear.

"Frank…" His eyes close. Just for a second.

"You scared the fuck outta me." The confession slips out before he can stop it. When his eyes open again, they're shining. Not tears. Close. But not tears. "I got there and all I could think was…" He swallows hard. His voice drops lower. "I was too late." Your chest caves in.

"Frank…"

"I thought he killed you." The words are barely audible. Honest in a way Frank rarely allows himself to be. You make a broken sound and immediately reach for him. His arms lock around you so fast it's almost desperate. Like he was waiting for permission. "I thought Billy Russo took away my family again."

The words hit you harder than everything else.

Harder than the blood. Harder than the fear. Harder than Billy.

Because Frank doesn't say things like that. Not easily. Not often.

Your face crumples immediately.

"Oh, Frankie…" The nickname breaks apart halfway through. His eyes squeeze shut. Just for a second. Then he's pulling you closer. Closer. Like he can't physically get enough of you against him.

"I walked into that apartment," he says quietly, his voice rough against your hair, "and I saw all that blood…" His hand slides up the back of your neck. "You weren't answerin'." A pause. "I couldn't find you." Another pause. His breathing goes uneven. For the briefest moment. The kind of crack only somebody holding themselves together by sheer force of will would make.

"And I thought…" He swallows hard. You feel it. "I thought I was gonna have to live through that again. I thought I was going to have to pick your cold body off the floor like I did with Maria. And my babies." Your chest caves in completely.

"Frank." His arms tighten.

"No." The word comes out instantly. Like he doesn't want comfort. Like he doesn't want you apologizing for something that isn't your fault. "You don't gotta fix it. You don't gotta fix me." His hand cups the back of your head. "You don't gotta do anything right now." Another kiss presses into your hair.

Then another. And another. Small. Absent-minded. Like he can't stop himself.

"I'm just glad you're here." The confession is barely audible. You start crying again. Not the violent sobbing from before. Just tears. Quiet ones. The kind that come when the danger's over and your body finally realizes it survived.

Frank lets you. Doesn't rush you. Doesn't try to stop it. He just holds you. One hand slowly working through your hair. Massaging your scalp in slow circles. Patient. Grounding. The way you'd do for somebody after a nightmare. After a long while, you feel him press his cheek against the top of your head. His beard scratches softly against your hair.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that. He was in there, looking for me." He sighs. You sniffle.

"It's not your fault."You mutter. He groans, running his hands down his face.

"I should've protected you more. I should've- fuck." You lift your head enough to look at him. Frank rarely looks lost.

Angry? Sure.

Tired? Constantly.

Haunted? Every day.

But lost? Almost never.

And right now he looks like a man standing in the wreckage of something he can't fix with his fists.

"Frank." His eyes stay fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

"I knew this was a possibility." The words come out rough. Like he's confessing something. "I knew anybody close to me became a target." Your chest tightens.

"Frank—"

"No." His jaw clenches. "I should've moved you." A bitter laugh escapes him. "I should've put you somewhere safer." His hands flex uselessly. "I should've—"

"Frank." Stronger this time. Enough to make him finally look at you. You reach up and grab his face. Both hands. Forcing him to focus. The same way he'd done to you earlier. Immediately, his eyes soften.

"Baby."

"No." Your voice wobbles. But you keep going. "If you keep talking like that, I'm gonna get mad at you." A tiny huff escapes him.mNot quite a laugh. Close.

"You gonna get mad at me?"

"Yes." His mouth twitches.

"That's scary." You glare at him through your tears.

"Frank."

"Okay. Okay." One of his hands settles over yours. Big. Warm. Steady. But you can still feel the tension in him. Still feel the guilt. Like a living thing.

"I mean it." His gaze drops briefly. Then comes back.

"I know."

"No, you don't." You sniffle. "Wanna know what would've happened if you'd been there?" Frank raises an eyebrow.

You point vaguely toward the apartment building.

"You would've gotten shot." His expression actually softens a little.

"Maybe."

"No."

"Maybe."

"Frank." Another tiny twitch of his mouth. You know he's doing it on purpose. Trying to get you to argue. Trying to get you out of your own head. You know all his tricks. Unfortunately.

"You absolutely would've gotten shot."

"Well." His shoulders lift. "I do that sometimes." Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Frank immediately latches onto it. A real smile appears this time.

Small. Tired. Beautiful.

"You got a cute laugh."

"Oh my God."

"There it is again." You shove weakly at his chest. Frank catches your hand before it gets very far. Brings it to his mouth. Presses a kiss against your knuckles. Then another. Then just holds it there. For a long moment neither of you speaks. Rain continues tapping softly against the roof. The flashing lights outside paint brief streaks of red and blue across Frank's face. Eventually his thumb brushes across your wrist.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he's reassuring himself you're still here.

"I don't know what I would've done." The words are so quiet you almost miss them. Your breath catches. Frank stares at your joined hands.

"If I'd gotten there and…" He swallows. Doesn't finish. Can't finish. You don't make him. Instead you slide closer. Until you're moulded to him. Frank immediately wraps both arms around you. Like breathing. Like instinct. Like he can't help it. You tuck your face into his neck. Feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Still too fast. Still scared. Just like yours.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, baby?" You close your eyes.

"I'm really glad you're here." For a second, he doesn't answer. Then you feel his arms tighten. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say everything he can't quite get out loud. A kiss lands against your hair. Then another. Then another. And when he finally speaks, his voice is thick. Warm. Full of something fierce and aching.

"Yeah." His nose brushes your temple. "Me too, sweetheart." Another kiss. "So fucking much." You look up at him, kissing your way up his throat and jaw, sniffling.

"You're a good man, Frank Castle. You came to save me. Even if you were a little late." You mutter. He snorts, shaking his head at your attempt to loosen the mood, his hand softly squeezing your ass. Frank snorts. A real one this time. Low and rough. The sound vibrates through his chest beneath your cheek.

"Oh, is that right?" You nod solemnly against his jaw.

"Absolutely." His hand gives your hip a squeeze.

"Little late, huh?"

"A little."

"A little." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Maybe if somebody wasn't workin' himself into an early grave—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody answered his texts faster—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody actually listened when I told him to take a day off—" Frank's mouth finally twitches into a proper smile. Small. But there. You haven't seen one all night. The sight of it makes your chest ache.

"There she is," he murmurs. You blink.

"What?"

"My girl." His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching another tear. "The one that bosses me around." You roll your eyes.

"I do not boss you around." Frank actually laughs. The nerve of him. The absolute nerve.

"Baby."

"I don't."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do." You poke him in the chest.

"You carry military-grade weaponry."

"Mmhm."

"You break into buildings."

"Sometimes."

"You have approximately seventeen concussions."

"Probably more."

"And somehow I'm the problem?" That earns you another laugh. Warmer this time. The kind that makes the tension in his shoulders finally ease. Just a little.

"You know," he says, pulling you closer again, "you stabbed a guy tonight." Your eyes widen.

"Frank!"

"What?"

"You can't just say that!" A grin flashes across his face. Gone almost immediately. But it's there. For a second. And somehow that's enough.

"Pretty sure I can."

"Oh my God."

"I'm just sayin'." You hide your face in his shoulder. Mortified. Traumatized. Exhausted. And somehow still arguing with him. Frank presses a kiss into your hair. Then another.

"You know what else?"

"No."

"You were scary." You let out an offended noise.

"I was not."

"Baby."

"I wasn't."

"I found a dead Billy Russo." Your mouth falls open. Frank raises an eyebrow. "I think that qualifies." Despite yourself— Despite everything— A laugh escapes you. Small. Broken. But real. Frank immediately closes his eyes. Like hearing it physically relieves something inside him.

"There it is." You smack his shoulder weakly. He catches your hand. Kisses your palm. Then laces his fingers through yours. Holding on. Like he's been doing ever since he found you. Like he can't quite stop. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit there. Curled against him. The sirens outside quieter now. The nightmare finally beginning to feel distant. Not gone. Never gone. But farther away.

Frank rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half-lidded. Tired. Relieved. Still a little scared. You can see it now. The fear he keeps trying to hide. The one he felt when he thought he might have lost you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly. The question is ridiculous. You both know it. But you understand what he means.

Are you here? Are you safe? Are you still with me?

You look at him. Really look at him. At the man who drove like hell to get back to you. The man who's been holding you together for the last hour. The man who still looks like he might break if you let go of him. And your heart softens.

"Getting there." Frank nods. Accepting that answer. Then he presses one last kiss to your forehead.

"Good." His arm wraps tighter around your waist. Keeping you tucked against him. Exactly where he wants you.

"And sweetheart…" His voice drops lower. Softer. " It's okay, if you're not. Because i'm not." You sniffle agaonst his chest.

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with my husband ?" You mutter. He laughs, shaking his head.

"You wanna know why it's okay ?" He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You nod, your eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Because as long as I'm holdin' you, I can deal with the rest."

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid, @nanni197, @goawayplease95 , @yesshewrites1, @carolinaxvz , @sofianotvergara , @bearisbored , @jbrownta , @cafieeee, @hardnightmarekitten, @kikibear33, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @rainyapricotcreatorparty , @gingin3-blog , @pinkypiezzz, @mayawainfleet

[martinipanini]

i need to call you back // mc71 x reader

pairing: macklin celebrini x reader

summary: you and macklin decide to play a prank you saw on tiktik on will... his reaction is very unexpected.

warning(s): established relationship, pranks, silly fluff, interpreted implications of cheating.

words: 1.3k

as soon as i showed mack the video, he was bouncing off the walls with anticipation. 

i’d come across the trend of calling your boyfriend’s friends to see if they lie or not about him being with them. 

now, with macklin’s friends in particular, this idea happens to be a little more complicated. when your boyfriend is constantly traveling around the country for work with his best friends, you really don’t have many opportunities to build good relationships with them. 

especially when you —and your boyfriend —both happen to be chronic introverts. 

mack lays beside me on the couch, already giggling like a little kid pulling a prank on his parents. “hurry up! i’ve been waiting all day,” he whines while tilting my phone toward him to see if I have a contact pulled up yet. 

our first victim, will smith (hockey), is showcased on my screen, ready to call. his contact name causing me many teases since it was first discovered. 

sue me for not wanting people to think i’m calling will smith... (actor). 

laughing at macklin, i roll my eyes before looking at him seriously. “okay, you have to be quiet though. you know he’ll hang up as soon as he thinks it’s a prank.” 

he immediately goes dead silent, nodding quickly. 

smiling softly at his antics, i brush his hair out of his face and press a quick kiss to his forehead. in return, he snatches my phone and presses the call icon. 

shaking my head, i scoff.  

the phone barely rings before will’s panicked voice sounds through my phone speakers. “hey, are you okay?” 

instantly channeling a stressed tone, i sigh quietly, convincingly. “uh... actually, not really. i’m sorry, i just have to ask you something.” 

his response is immediate, relieved. “oh, so you’re okay then?” 

mack raises a brow next to me, staring at the phone like it’ll personally answer his unasked questions. 

i realize that my unprompted call —and the fact that macklin isn’t with him right now —probably caused him to think something physically happened to one of us. 

“oh, yeah, sorry. i didn’t mean to worry you. i just- is macklin with you?” 

i rush the question out with conviction, forcing my voice to sound more worried than it’s ever been in regards to mack’s whereabouts.  

there’s a pause... then a simple question, not giving anything up yet. 

“why?” 

he’s suspicious. macklin is covering his mouth. i kick him. 

“well...” i sniffle to make it sound more believable, “he hasn’t answered me for hours, and he said he was going to be with you all evening.” 

i don’t say what i’m thinking exactly, letting will put the pieces together by himself. macklin laughs quietly next to me. 

my foot makes contact with his ribs this time. 

i hear will’s footsteps on the other side of the line, clearly pacing now, connecting the dots. “he’s not answering you?” 

i have to pause, pressing my hand to my mouth to stop myself from laughing, before i answer him. “no. i assumed you guys were doing something and he just hadn’t seen it, but now i’m getting worried.” 

i don’t hear will’s voice for a hefty minute after that. i’d have thought he figured it out and hung up on me if it weren’t for his loud pacing in the background. 

“um... i need to call you back.” 

he doesn’t wait for a response. the sound of his steps cut off suddenly. gasping, i whip my head to macklin. he looks at me equally surprised —both of us unsure of what just happened. 

then his phone starts ringing. 

his eyes go wide, freaking out. “what do i do?!” 

“answer it!” 

he fumbles with his phone as he answers, immediately falling into character. his voice coming out chill... too chill. 

“hey man, what’s up?” 

“where the fuck are you?” 

will’s voice comes out more serious than i’ve heard it before. from the look on mack’s face, he relates. “woah, dude, what’s wro-” 

he doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, will interrupting with a particular protectiveness i wasn’t aware i'd earned from him. 

“stop. i’m not in the mood to deal with some bullshit right now, macklin. why the hell is your girlfriend asking me where you are? you better have the best fucking excuse —especially after lying to her by telling her you’re with me.” 

he leaves no room for mack to turn this into a joke, clearly not willing to mess around with a situation like this. something tells me that mack has never been acquainted with this side of his best friend before. a good thing i suppose. 

mack, trying not to burst out laughing, tries to redirect the question. “fuck, she texted you? why didn’t she just wait for me to respond?” 

this doesn’t do anything to deter will. “no, she called me. and she didn’t wait because she sounded worried as fuck about you, while you’re doing God knows what. she said it’s been hours. where are you?” 

answering his question isn’t optional anymore. his patience is wearing thin. 

“i- well... funny stor-” 

the phone call ends. 

we both stare at each other in awe. the giggles having cleared out at the intensity of will’s voice. “i did not think he’d get that ma-” 

cutting mack off for the third time —this time unintentionally —my phone rings again. 

i don’t have to check it to know who’s calling. 

will smith (hockey) 

clicking the accept button, i rush to put it on speaker. “hello?” 

he doesn’t wait to rat out his best friend. “he’s not with me.” 

covering my mouth with my hand, i rush to put my phone on mute. whispering to mack, “what do i say?” 

he whispers back, as if talking louder would cause will to hear our plotting. 

“act distraught. ask where i am.” 

taking a deep breath, i unmute my mic, breathing a little unevenly. “what? where is he?” my voice coming out pitchier than i intended.  

it does the job. 

a sigh sounds from my phone speakers. “i- i’m not sure. i’m so sorry. i called him...” i wait for him to continue. he scoffs, thinking of his conversation with mack. “fuck, i’m so sorry, i think he’s with someone, y/n.”  

the words escape him too quickly. the concept of his best friend doing something like this pains him. he’s upset with macklin. he’s upset for me. 

macklin mouths something to me. he knows i can’t read lips for shit. 

i press mute again and tilt my head at him. “what?” 

“we have to tell him that it’s a prank. he’s going to kill me.” 

i nod quickly, knowing that neither of us expected will to take it this seriously. 

unmuting, i clear my throat. opening my mouth to admit to our antics, will speaks up again. “i’m so so sorry. i swear i didn’t know anything about this. if i did, i would’ve- God, i don’t know. i would’ve done something though.” 

macklin, like the little asshole that he is, bursts out laughing. sudden, loud, and irritatingly infectuous. i chastise myself for laughing along with him. 

i can see tears in his eyes, sending me further into my hysterics. my state only has a ripple effect on him. 

“uh... hello?” 

i’m not even kidding, will’s voice makes me start crying. by the time we collect ourselves, tears are streaming down both of our faces. 

“oh my gosh, will...” i pause to laugh again. “will, i’m so sorry!” 

beep beep beep. 

the phone call ended again.  

my neck hurts from how fast i turn to look at mack. both of us are calm for a second before a text comes through. 

will smith (hockey)       i hate you both. tell mack to watch out at practice tomorrow. 

and just like that, we’re bent over in laughter again. 

[w1nter-fairy]

⋆˚.⋆room for three⋆˚࿔

series masterlist

pairing: rockstar!bucky barnes x reader x rockstar!steve

summary: two weeks into tour, Bucky suggests to invite Steve to join you in bed—just like they've done with other girls before. It's supposed to prove that you're nothing special. The problem is, Bucky might be lying to himself.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: explicit sexual content+18 MDNI! threesome (Bucky/reader/Steve), rough sex, pussy slapping, anal, spanking, light choking, possessive Bucky, praise/degradation dynamics, emotionally messy situationship, Bucky is a jerk who won't admit his feelings. english is not my first language so sorry in advance for any mistypos or grammatical errors-

a/n: so, today is my b-day! this is my birthday gift from me to you 𑣲 when I got this request I definitely got sooo excited because it was my first request ever, and also, kinda make sense while writing it, you know? I hope it does for the rest of you. I have two more requests for this couple and I hope to bring it over to you soon. I hope you like it♡ also bucky's band is called red star bruise! (y'know, for the metal arm and the star ★) | dividers by @thecutestgrotto & beta read by my lovely @herejustforbuckybarnes

read it in AO3 ★

Week 2 on Tour

Durant, OK

"So," Steve says, leaning against the dressing room wall while Bucky tunes his guitar. "That girl, she sticking around?"

Bucky's fingers still on the strings for just a second. "For now."

"For now?" Steve grins. "Come on, man. It's been what, two weeks? That's basically a record for you."

"It's casual," Bucky says it too quickly. "Just convenient. She's here, I'm here, why not?"

"Right, casual." Steve doesn't sound convinced. "That why you look at her like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like she matters."

Bucky's jaw tightens. "She doesn't, it's just sex."

"Sure it is." Steve is quiet for a moment, watching him. Then: "She's hot though, I'll give you that."

Bucky's grip tightens on his guitar. "Yeah, she is."

"You gonna share your new toy, or is this one different?"

The question lands like a punch. New toy. That's all she is, right? Just another girl, just fun, nothing serious. That is the test. This is where Bucky proves it's not different, that she's just another girl, that he's not in too deep.

"Why?" Bucky forces his voice to stay casual. "You interested?"

"I mean, if you're offering…" Steve shrugs. "We've done it before, always worked out fine. Unless she's special or something?"

Bucky should say yes, should tell Steve to fuck off, that this one's different, that the thought of anyone else touching you makes him want to break things. Instead, he hears himself say: "She's not special, just a good time." The words taste like ash. "Yeah, sure, like old times."

"Yeah?" Steve looks surprised. "You sure? Because if she's more than just casual I can step back."

"She's not." Bucky cuts him off, going back to tuning his guitar. "She's just—she's fun, that's it. No point being possessive over something that's not serious, right?"

"Alright then." Steve grins. "Tonight?"

"Tonight." Bucky's fingers move mechanically over the strings. "I'll set it up."

Steve leaves and Bucky sits there, staring at his guitar, telling himself this is fine. This is proof he's not getting attached, proof you're just another girl, proof he's still in control.

The sick feeling in his stomach says otherwise, but he's already say yes. And backing out now would mean admitting you matter more than he's willing to say. So he doesn't back out.

You should've known something was different when Bucky suggested getting drinks after the show instead of going straight back to the hotel.

"Steve's coming," he says casually, too casually, and you look up from your laptop at the booth table.

"Okay?"

"Just thought it'd be nice. The three of us." He's scrolling through his phone, not meeting your eyes. "We haven' really hung out, you know? Outside of the bus."

You don't paint out that you and Steve hang out plenty—you beat him at Mario Kart sometimes, and you make him coffee, you've had full conversations about his childhood in Brooklyn. What Bucky means is: the three of us haven't hung out with the sexual tension acknowledged.

"Sure," you say because you don't know how to say no to him. "Sounds fun."

The bar is low-key, divey, the kind of place where rockstars can blend in if they try. You're squeezed into a booth—Bucky on one side, you in the middle, Steve in the other. You can't help but feel like it's deliberate.

The conversation flows easier after the second round. Steve is charming, funny, easier to talk to than Bucky in some ways. He asks you more questions about your life, your work, actually listens to the answers. Bucky's hand stays on your thigh the whole time, occasionally sliding higher.

By the third round of beers, you notice the glances between Steve and Bucky. Brief, communicating something you're not privy to, like they've had a conversation you weren't part of… because they have.

When Steve opens his fourth beer, his hand comes to rest on your other thigh, and you flinch at that, looking at Bucky with wide eyes.

"So," Bucky says, leaning in close to your ear. "You trust me?"

"Yes," you say automatically.

"Good." His band squeezes your thigh. "Because Steve and I have done this before, on previous tours."

Your stomach flips. "Done what?"

"Shared." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "We've got a system we're good at… and I think you'd like it."

You look at Steve, whose hand has slide higher. "You two have—"

"A few times," Steve confirms. "With girls who were into it, it's always been good. Fun. No drama."

"And you want to—" You can't quite finish the sentence.

"I want to watch Steve make you feel good," Bucky says bluntly, hand sliding higher on your thigh. "And then I want to make you feel even better… together, the both of us." His thumb brushes over you trough your jeans. "He's a bit different than me. I think you'd enjoy it."

Your breath catches. This isn't spontaneous, this was planned. They've talked about this, coordinated this, decided you'd be into it.

"We don't have to if you're not interested." Steve says quickly. "No pressure, we can just finish our drinks and forget about it."

But Bucky's hand is between your legs now, and Steve is looking at you with those kind eyes, and you're desperately turned on by the idea of both of them.

"I want to," you hear yourself say.

Bucky grins. "Yeah?

"Yeah."

"Well, if you're sure, then let's get out of here." Bucky says, already pulling out his wallet.

The hotel room feels different with three people in it.

You're standing near the bed, suddenly nervous, while Bucky pours whiskey from the minibar. Steve is more relaxed than you expected, but after all, this wasn't new for either of them.

"First time doing this?" Steve asks gently.

"Yeah."

"We'll take care of you," he promises, and something about the way he says it makes you believe him.

Bucky hands you a glass, his eyes dark with intent. He takes a sip of his own whiskey, then sets it downs and cups your face. "You trust us?"

"Yes."

He kisses you, and you melt into it like you always do. When he pulls back, he looks at Steve. "Let's get her ready."

They move with practiced ease, like they've done this choreography before, Bucky behind you, Steve in front, four hands undressing you carefully, two sets of lips on your skin.

"So beautiful," Steve murmurs, kissing your shoulder as Bucky unclasps your bra. "Look at you."

Your bra falls away and both men pause, staring at your breasts.

"Yeah, look at you," Bucky breathes. "Told you her tits were perfect."

"You weren't lying." Steve says, his hands come up to cup them gently. "God you're gorgeous."

"Such perfect tits," Bucky says, hands joining Steve's, rougher. "Love these, could play with them for hours."

Having both of them focused on your breasts, touching them, praising them, makes your knees weak. Steve leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth, gentle and teasing, while Bucky's fingers pinch and roll the other one, harder, bordering in pain.

"Oh god—"

Steve's mouth is warm, sucking softly, tongue circling. Bucky's fingers twist, pinch, pull. Pleasure and pain, gentle and rough, all at once. They trade sides—Steve's gentle mouth on the nipple Bucky was tormenting, soothing it, while Bucky's rough fingers attack the other one. The contrast makes your head spin.

Steve's hands slide down to your jeans, removing them carefully while his mouth stays on your breast. Bucky's hand slides into your panties from behind, fingers finding you already wet.

"She's soaked," Bucky says, two fingers pushing inside you roughly while Steve's teeth graze your nipple gently. You gasp, caught between the dueling sensations.

They get you fully naked and on the bed, both of them still clothed, and the power dynamic makes you throb. Bucky strips off his shirt, then Steve does the same. They're both muscular, covered in tattoos, but different—Steve broader, Bucky leaner.

"On your back," Bucky says.

You obey and they flank you on the bed. Steve's hand cups your face, turning you toward him for a kiss. While his tongue explores your mouth gently, Bucky's hand comes down in a sharp slap on your pussy, making you cry out into Steve's mouth.

"Shh," Steve soothes, still kissing you. "You're okay, you're doing so well."

Another slap from Bucky, then his fingers rubbing roughly where he just struck. Steve kisses down your neck, while Bucky's rough fingers work between your legs.

"Spread wider," Bucky demands.

You do, and Steve rewards you with soft kisses on your collarbone. "That's it, good girl, so perfect…"

Bucky spreads your folds, exposing you completely, and delivers another sharp slap directly to your clit. You arch off the bed, but Steve's there, mouth closing around your nipple softly, grounding you with sweetness while Bucky delivers pain and pleasure in equal measure.

"Look how wet she gets when I slap this pussy," Bucky says. "Such a dirty girl."

Steve pulls off your nipple with a soft sound. "You're not dirty, you're beautiful." His hand strokes your hair while Bucky's fingers push inside you roughly, three at once.

"She's both," Bucky says, curling his fingers hard.

Steve's mouth travels down your body—soft kisses on your ribs, your stomach, your hip bones. Meanwhile, Bucky's fingers are punishing, fucking into you hard and fast, his other hand coming down in periodic slaps in your inner thigh.

"Want to taste her?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," Steve mumbles.

Bucky pulls his fingers out and moves aside. Steve settles between your legs, and the first touch of his tongue is so gentle after Bucky's roughness that you nearly sob. Bucky moves up to your breasts, and while Steve's mouth works softly between your legs, Bucky's teeth bite down your nipple hard enough to make you gasp.

"That's it," Bucky murmurs, soothing the bite with his tongue before biting again. "Take it."

Steve adds his fingers, curling them gently while his tongue circles your clit with the lightest pressure. Bucky alternates between biting and soothing, his hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. The combination is overwhelming.

"She's close," Bucky observes. "Can always tell."

Steve doesn't answer, just adds a second finger and increases the pressure of his tongue slightly, and that's all it takes. You come with a cry, Steve working you through it gently while Bucky's hand tightens just slightly on your throat.

"Beautiful," Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

"My turn." Bucky switches places with Steve.

Steve moves up to kiss you—soft, sweet, you can taste yourself on his lips—while Bucky settles between yor legs. His first touch is completely different. He devours you, rough and intense, three fingers pushing inside you immediately while his tongue attacks your oversensitive clit.

You moan into Steve's mouth and he swallows the sound, kissing you deeper, his hands gentle in your hair, while Bucky is absolutely ruthless, adding a fourth finger, stretching you, finger-fucking you hard. Steve's mouth moves to your neck, kissing you tenderly while Bucky bites your inner thigh hard enough to bruise, his fingers relentless.

"Please, it's too much—"

"Shh," Steve soothes, lips brushing your temple. "You can take it, you're doing so well sweetheart."

Bucky slaps your pussy, then goes right back to devouring you. Steve's hands are soft on your breasts, gentle touches and caresses, while Bucky's free hand grips your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. You come again, harder, and Bucky works you through it roughly before pulling back.

"Delicious," Bucky says with a grin.

"Now," Steve says. "We'll take care of you properly."

They both stand and strip completely. You're on your knees at the edge of the bed, eye level with both their cocks.

Steve's hand cups your face gently. "Take your time, sweetheart. No rush."

You take him in your mouth first, and he's patient—lets you set the pace, his hand gentle in your hair.

"That's perfect. God, your mouth feels amazing."

While you work Steve, Bucky's hand tangles in your hair from the other side. After a minute, he pulls you off Steve—not gently, a firm tug—and guides you to his cock instead.

"Open wider," he demands, and when you do, he pushes in deep, fucking your mouth while Steve watches. The hand in your hair controls the pace, rough on demanding.

They trade you back and forth—Steve letting you control it, praising you softly, while Bucky fucks your mouth and talks dirty.

"Such a good cocksucker. Love watching you choke on it."

"You look gorgeous," Steve counters, cupping your face. "So perfect."

After a few minutes, Bucky pulls you off. "Time to prep you properly. Now I'm going to claim your ass."

Steve lies down on bed. "Come here, sweetheart."

You straddle him, and he guides himself inside slowly, so slowly. His hands are gentle on your waist and he kisses you softly as you sink down into him. "Perfect, you feel perfect."

Behind you, you hear the click of lube. Then Bucky's slick fingers are pressing against your ass. One finger, slowly, while Steve distracts you with gentle kisses and soft praise. Bucky adds a second finger, rougher now, and you gasp into Steve's mouth. Steve soothes you with soft sounds, his hands stroking your sides gently, but Bucky's fingers are relentless, scissoring, stretching.

Steve's hands find your breasts, palming them gently, thumbs brushing your nipples with feather light touches. Bucky adds a third finger and the stretch burns, but Steve's there, kissing your neck. "You're doing so well for us."

Bucky's free hand comes down in a sharp smack on your ass, and you jolt forward against Steve, who catches you with gentle hands. Another smack, harder this time, while Bucky's fingers work your ass open. Steve kisses you through it, his hands tender on your face.

"Almost ready," Bucky says, adding more lube. "Gonna feel so good with both of us inside you."

"Wait," Steve says softly, looking up at Bucky. "Come here first."

Bucky pauses, fingers still working you open. "What?"

"Just—come here." Steve's hand cups the back of your head gently. "Before we do this."

Bucky leans forward over you, and suddenly all three of you close—faces, inches apart. Steve's hand is gentle on your face, Bucky's is in your hair, and then Steve's pulling you both in.

Your mouths meet—all three of you—messy, intense, tongues sliding together. It's overwhelming, being kisses by both of them at once while Bucky's fingers are still inside you and Steve's cock is buried in you. When you break apart, gasping, Bucky immediately yanks your hair back roughly.

Bucky finally presses his cock against your ass, Steve's hands are on your hips, steadying. "Breathe, sweetheart. We've got you."

Bucky pushes in slowly—the only gentle thing he's done all night—and the burn is intense. Once he's fully seated, you're completely full, stretched beyond what you thought possible.

"How do you feel?" Steve asks softly, lips brushing yours.

You get lost in it for a moment, in the sweetness of Steve's kiss, and then suddenly Bucky's hand is in your hair, yanking your head back, breaking the kiss roughly.

"Mine," Bucky growls against your ear, hand tightening in your hair. His other hand wraps around your throat from behind—not squeezing, just claiming. "Don't forget who you belong to."

He forces your head to turn toward him and kisses you—possessive, brutal, all teeth and tongue, completely different from Steve's sweetness. When he releases you, you're breathless.

"Both of us, Buck," Steve says mildly. "Tonight she's both of ours."

"Tonight," Bucky concedes. His hand is still around your throat. "But she knows who she really belongs to. Don't you, baby?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl." He releases your throat and pushes you back town toward Steve. "Now let's make her scream."

They start to move—alternating, so you're never empty. And the contrast is overwhelming. Steve's hands are gentle on your hips, his thrusts measured and controlled. Bucky's grip is bruising, his thrusts harder, punctuated by occasional slaps to your ass.

Steve's hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling gently. Bucky's hand in your hair yanks your head back roughly, exposing your throat. Steve leans up to kiss your exposed throat gently while Bucky bites the other side hard.

The dual sensations push you over the edge. You come with a scream, clenching around both of them.

"That's it," Steve encourages softly. "So beautiful when you come."

"Fuck—squeezing me so tight—" Bucky's rhythm falters. "Gonna fill this ass up."

They both come within seconds of each other—Steve with a soft groan, Bucky with a harsh curse. You feel them pulsing inside you, and it's overwhelming.

Carefully, they pull out, and you collapse between them.

Steve immediately gathers you close, gentle hands stroking your hair. "You were incredible, so perfect. Did so well."

Bucky's hand grips your hip possessively from the other side, then slides up to cup your breast. "You're fucking amazing, knew you could take us both."

You're bracketed between them, both still touching you like they can't help themselves. Bucky leans in to kiss you—not as rough as during sex, almost tender. Then he pauses and looks at Steve, something passes between them, and then Bucky's pulling Steve in for a kiss over your shoulder.

It's something brief but familiar, comfortable—like they've done this a hundred times before. When they break apart, Bucky grins. "Just like old times," he says.

And you realize: they've done this before. Multiple times. This is their thing—this practiced choreography, this good cop/bad cop routine, this perfect contrast… and you're just the latest girl between them.

The thought should bother you more than it does, but you're too blissed out, too wrecked, too satisfied to care right now.

Steve holds you gently, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, Bucky's grip is possessive, his thumb still absently stroking your breast. Both of them touching you, claiming you in different ways.

And you let them. Let them clean you up with soft touches and rough efficiency, let Steve whisper sweet things while Bucky says filthy ones. Let yourself exist in this space between them, caught between two different kinds of desire.

Try not to wonder if this is all you'll ever be to Bucky—something to share, something to use, something that exists only in the space between rough and gentle. Try not to think about him calling you his, but not his girlfriend.

Just try not to think about anything at all.

After, in the shower, it's just you and Bucky. Steve excused himself, said something about giving you two space.

"You okay?" Bucky asks, surprisingly gentle as he washes your hair.

"Yeah, that was…"

"Intense?"

"Yeah."

"You were perfect," he kisses your shoulder. "So fucking perfect."

You want to ask him what this means. Want to ask if this proves you're just casual, just a body to share. Want to ask if he feels anything for you beyond the physical.

Instead, you just say, "Did you like it?"

"Watching Steve fuck you?" He considers. "Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"I liked seeing you feel good. Didn't like seeing someone else make you feel that way." His arm wrap around you from behind. "Realized I'm more possessive than I thought."

Your heart jumps at that. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." But then he adds, "But it was fun. We could do it again sometime if you want."

And just like that, the moment of vulnerability closes. It's back to casual, back to fun, back to undefined.

"Sure," you say, because what else can you say?

That night, he falls asleep holding you tighter than usual. Like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You don't sleep at all.

Steve's waiting at the bus the next morning, coffee in hand. He hands one to you as you climb aboard.

"You good?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah, you?"

"Yeah." He pauses. "That was… that was a lot."

"You know—" He stops, like he's deciding whether to say something. "You know you don't have to do things like that to keep him interested, right?"

Your stomach drops. "I wanted to."

"I know, I just—" He runs, his hand, through his hair. "I've known Buck a long time. And I've seen him do this before. Keep things casual, keep things fun, never let it get real."

"We are casual," you say, even though it hurts.

"Are you?" Steve looks at you. "Because from where I'm standing, you're in love with him. And he's using that to get what he wants without giving you what you need."

"That's not—"

"I'm not judging, I'm just saying—you deserve better than scraps. He's my friend, and I love him like a brother, but you're also a good woman. Nothing like the other girls we've slept with."

Bucky climbs on the bus then, interrupting. "What are we talking about?"

"Coffee," Steve says smoothly. "How she makes it better than you."

"Everyone makes it better than me," Bucky says, and just like that, the moment passes.

But Steve's words stay with you: You deserve better than scraps.

Do you?

You're not sure anymore.

[lhughsey43-girly]

!!!THIS IS PART 1 OF 2!!! Find part 2 here -> Part 2

I split this into two posts, but both are up now!! I know I said no angst for the foreseeable future buuuuutttt I'm a goddamn liar! I was reading an angsty fic, and this was trapped in my brain afterwards, sooo sorry for the goddamn train ride you're about to go on!

Word Count: 4346

Warnings: Use of (Y/N), AFAB! Reader, serious injury, car accident, mentions of death but no actual character death, drunk driving, critical injuries, traumatic brain injury (TBI), medically induced coma, hospital setting, graphic injury descriptions, emotional distress, panic, anxiety, grief, life-threatening injuries, themes of mortality.

Summary: Luke and Jack learn during practice that Y/N has been in a horrific car accident caused by a drunk driver. At the hospital, doctors tell them she's in critical condition. The brothers are devastated, and Quinn immediately flies in to be with them. Luke eventually breaks down beside her hospital bed, begging her to wake up and talking about the future they were supposed to have together.

-------------

It happened halfway through practice. The scrimmage had been going hard for nearly an hour, everyone dripping sweat beneath their gear as they pushed through another drill.

Luke was circling through the neutral zone waiting for the next line change when he noticed movement near the bench.

One of the Devils staff members was jogging towards coach Keefe. The guy looked pale.

Luke frowned. Something about it felt wrong.

The staff member reached the bench and leaned toward Coach Keefe, whispering something into his ear.

At first Keefe just listened. Then his face drained of color. Keefe looked up sharply. "HUGHES!" The shout echoed through the rink.

Both brothers looked over immediately. Jack pushed off first. Luke followed. Neither of them spoke as they skated toward the bench, but the closer they got, the worse Luke felt.

Keefe wasn't angry. He looked sick.

The second they stopped in front of him, Jack pulled his helmet off. "What's up, Coach?"

Keefe rubbed a hand over his face.

"Coach?" Jack repeated.

Keefe looked between them. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. "Boys..."

The word alone made Luke's heart start hammering. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Keefe exhaled heavily. "I have to tell you something."

Luke felt his stomach drop.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

He hesitated, shaking his head. "Y/N was in a serious car accident."

Everything stopped.

Luke stared at him, the words registered, but they didn't make sense. A serious car accident. Y/N. No. No. No. That wasn't right. That couldn't be right.

Luke laughed once, a short, confused sound. "What?"

Keefe's face didn't change. "She's at the hospital."

Silence.

Jack's face had gone completely white. Luke couldn't hear anything anymore, just the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"What hospital?" Luke asked. His voice didn't even sound like his own.

Keefe told him.

Luke was already skating toward the tunnel, Jack right behind him.

"How bad?" Jack shouted.

Keefe's answer stopped both of them cold. "They wouldn't tell us much over the phone."

Luke's chest tightened painfully.

"But they said it was serious."

Luke felt like he was going to throw up.

Jack grabbed his arm. "Luke."

He looked over. His older brother looked just as terrified as he felt. Which just made everything worse because he can’t remember one time Jack ever looked scared.

Neither of them spoke as they rushed toward the locker room. His hands shook so badly he struggled getting his gloves off.

His phone. Where was his phone? He needed his phone. He needed to call you. He needed to hear your voice. He needed someone to tell him this wasn't real.

“Hey you’ve reached Y/N! Leave a message, or text me. I never listen to these, unless it’s Lukey! Bye!”

His stomach dropped. He called again, same thing. 

"No."

He called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Jack was trying too. Same result. The room felt like it was spinning.

"Luke—"

"No." Luke shoved his gear off so hard his shoulder pads hit the floor. "No. No. No." He grabbed his hoodie, his keys. Anything and everything he could fit into his too small pockets.

Jack was already moving toward the door. "Let's go."

Luke followed.

The drive to the hospital was the longest drive of his life. Every second felt unbearable. Jack was white-knuckling the steering wheel. Luke sat in the passenger seat staring at his phone waiting for what? A text? A call? He wasn’t sure.

All he could do was stare at the 14 missed calls from what he could only assume was the hospital, and he was pissed that he wasn’t there to answer it the first time.

His mind kept showing him flashes of you.

Your laugh. Your smile. The way you stole his hoodies. The way you curled against him at night. The way you kissed his cheek when you thought he wasn't paying attention. The way you'd told him you loved him that morning before leaving for that one fucking OR shift a week you insisted on keeping when you took the admin position.

His chest physically hurt. "What if we're too late?" Luke whispered. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Jack immediately looked over. "Don't."

Luke swallowed hard. "What if–"

"Luke." His brother's voice cracked, and Luke realized Jack was barely holding himself together too.

You weren't just Luke's girlfriend. You were family. You were their best friend. Jack’s little sister in everything except blood.

Jack looked back at the road. "We're not thinking like that. We’re getting to the hospital and she’s gonna be alive when we get there."

Luke nodded, but his eyes burned, and all he could think was: Please be okay. Please. Please let her be okay.

The emergency department waiting room felt too bright, loud, and crowded. Luke hated every second of it.

The automatic doors slid open and he was already moving before they had fully opened, Jack right behind him.

"I need Y/N L/N," Luke blurted out to the woman at the front desk. "She was brought in after a car accident."

The receptionist's expression changed. "Oh." The woman quickly stood. "Are you family?"

"Boyfriend."

"Brother," Jack added immediately.

The receptionist nodded, grabbing the phone. "Someone will come get you."

Luke didn't like that answer, not one bit, people only got escorted back when things were bad.

The next few minutes felt like hours. Luke paced. Jack could only sit for thirty seconds before standing again.

Then a nurse appeared through the double doors. A clipboard tucked against her chest.

"Y/N Y/L/N?"

Both of them stood and walked over.

The nurse's expression softened, and Luke hated that too, because nurses only looked at people like that when they felt sorry for them.

"Come with me."

The walk through the hospital corridors felt endless. The smell of antiseptic filled the air, monitors beeped somewhere nearby, stretchers rolled past, and Doctors moved quickly through hallways.

Everything was happening, and yet it felt like the entire world had frozen.

The nurse finally guided them into a small consultation room, a box of tissues sat in the center of the table.

Luke wanted to throw the table through a wall. Nobody put tissues in rooms for good news.

The nurse closed the door behind them. For a moment she just looked down at her clipboard, then she sighed.

"What happened?" Jack asked.

"The police have already started their investigation," She said looking down at her clipboard. ”The driver who hit her was sixteen years old, driving approximately eighty miles per hour."

Luke felt his hands clench while he stared at the nurse. "What?"

The nurse sighed as she continued, "He ran a red light." The nurse swallowed. “He was intoxicated."

Luke felt something inside him snap. Jack looked sick to his stomach.

"His blood alcohol level was significantly above the legal limit."

"He was drunk?" Jack asked quietly. "At three o'clock in the afternoon."

Luke turned away. His vision blurred because all he could picture was you driving home from that stupid fucking hospital that you insisted on going to. You were probably listening to music, and singing completely unaware that some idiot kid was about to destroy your life.

You were never going back to that hospital ever again if he had something to say about it. He didn’t care if you loved it so much in that OR he was locking you in the house and throwing away the damn key.

"The impact occurred on the driver's side, and the vehicle spun multiple times before striking a utility pole. The fact that he hit the back of her car is what most likely saved her life today."

Nobody spoke. Nobody could because there was nothing to say.

The nurse finally looked at them. "She's in critical condition in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit."

Luke felt his chest tighten. "Why?"

The nurse took a breath. "She has been placed into a medically induced coma."

Luke couldn't breathe. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means we've given medications to keep her unconscious while her body stabilizes." The nurse's voice remained gentle. "Her injuries are extensive."

The door opened behind them, and a doctor entered wearing blood-speckled surgical scrubs.

"My name is Dr. Reynolds." The doctor folded his hands. "I was part of the trauma team that treated Y/N when she arrived."

Luke felt sick.

"How bad is it?" Jack asked.

Dr. Reynolds exhaled slowly. "When EMS arrived on scene, she was unconscious."

Luke's stomach dropped.

"Her Glasgow Coma Scale score was six."

Jack looked confused. Luke wasn't, a six was bad. He remembered it from you talking about the worst cases you’d scanned in the OR back when you were just a little baby tech up in Connecticut.

The doctor nodded slightly. "She was experiencing respiratory distress and significant internal injuries."

Luke felt his heart pounding.

"When she arrived here, imaging revealed multiple traumatic injuries." The doctor opened a chart. "The most serious immediate concern was a punctured left lung. The impact fractured several ribs." He pointed toward a scan on the computer he pulled up. "Ribs four through eight on the left side."

Jack looked away. Luke felt nauseous.

"The broken ribs punctured the lung, and a chest tube was inserted to treat the pneumothorax."

"The what?" Jack asked.

"Her collapsed lung." The doctor spoke gently. "The chest tube allows the lung to re-expand while draining blood and air from the chest cavity."

Luke felt like he might throw up.

The doctor continued. "She also sustained pulmonary contusions."

"What's that?"

"Bruising of the lung tissue. We identified several areas of bleeding."

Luke gripped the back of a chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

"There was also significant orthopedic trauma." The doctor flipped another page. "Her left femur is fractured."

Jack closed his eyes. "The femur?"

"The thigh bone." Luke said and felt his stomach turn.

The doctor nodded. "It required emergency stabilization." Another page. "Her left foot suffered multiple fractures." Another page. "Her left hand is broken in three places."

Luke stared blankly. Broken hand. Broken foot. Broken leg. Punctured lung, and the list went on.

The doctor took a deeper breath. "The head injury is our biggest concern. Her CT scan showed evidence of a traumatic brain injury."

Luke's vision blurred instantly. "What kind?" he whispered.

The doctor remained calm. "She sustained a cerebral contusion."

Bruising of the brain. Luke knew enough medical terminology from your ramblings to understand that. Jack looked like he was about to collapse.

The doctor continued. "There is swelling, but we are monitoring intracranial pressure very closely."

Luke felt cold. "Is she going to wake up?" The question escaped before he could stop it.

Dr. Reynolds didn't answer immediately. "We hope so."

Luke wanted and needed certainty. "Will she be okay?"

The doctor looked down briefly. "I honestly don't know yet."

Luke felt that everything inside him broke, because nobody had said she would be okay. Nobody. Not once.

Dr. Reynolds continued quietly. "The next forty-eight to seventy-two hours are critical."

Critical. Luke hated that word.

"If the brain swelling worsens, we may need additional intervention."

"What kind of intervention?" Jack asked.

"Surgery, but we're hoping it doesn't come to that."

Luke stared at the floor. Unable to think, process, or understand how this morning you'd been alive and laughing and texting him memes, and now doctors were discussing brain surgery.

Finally the doctor stood. "You can see her, but she's heavily sedated, and hooked to a lot of machines."

Machines. Tubes. Monitors. Ventilator support. Luke didn't care. He just needed to see you to prove you were still here.

The walk to the ICU was the longest walk of Luke's life. He couldn't stop thinking that any second now someone would tell them there had been a mistake.

Wrong patient. Wrong chart. Wrong call. Anything.

Jack was walking beside him but looked nothing like himself, his face was pale, his eyes were red, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Luke had never seen his brother like this.

The nurse stopped outside room 414.

She looked at them gently. "You can go in." Then she left.

Neither of them moved; they just stood there staring at the door terrified.

Finally Jack reached for the handle.

The room was quiet except for the machines, the steady beeping of a heart monitor, the hiss of a ventilator.

Luke walked in first. The air left his lungs.

No. No. No. No.

That wasn't you. That couldn't be you. You were always moving, talking, laughing, doing something. The girl lying in that hospital bed looked small, fragile, broken.

Your face was bruised, one side swollen from the impact, with cuts across your forehead. The purple bruising stretched down your neck.

Your left arm was wrapped in a cast, and your left leg was elevated and heavily bandaged.

A ventilator tube disappeared between your lips, IV lines ran from both arms, and a chest tube emerged from beneath thick dressings on your side.

Machines surrounded you from every direction.

Luke couldn't breathe.

Jack made a  horrible sound that was half sob, half gasp. Then he turned away with both hands covering his face.

"No." His voice cracked. "No, no, no..."

Luke couldn't move, he couldn't think because this wasn't real. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

You'd texted him this morning. You'd sent him a picture of some ugly mug your coworker had because it reminded you of Jack. You'd told him to remember to eat lunch. You'd said you loved him.

People didn't go from that–To this.

Jack stumbled toward the bed. "Oh my God..." His voice broke.

Luke had never heard his brother cry like this before.

Jack grabbed the rail of the hospital bed like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Hey." His voice shook violently. "Hey, Bug." Jack's shoulders started shaking. "Oh my God."

Luke couldn't take his eyes off your chest.

Watching it rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. All thanks to the machine breathing for you. His stomach twisted.

The denial wrapped around him tighter. He couldn’t accept what he was looking at, or he'd fall apart too. So his brain simply refused. You'll wake up. You'll be fine. That was all he could think.

When you do you'll yell at everyone for making a fuss, complain about hospital food, make jokes.

You'll be okay. You have to be.

Jack sat carefully beside the bed, his hand found yours. The one that wasn't broken anyway and he started crying harder because your hand didn't squeeze back. It just rested limp in his.

Luke finally forced himself closer. His legs felt numb.

He reached out, and brushed your hair back carefully trying not to touch the bruises.

"You look terrible." His voice sounded strangely normal. "You'd hate this."

Jack let out a watery laugh and started crying again.

Luke sat beside the bed. Waiting for you to open your eyes, or for someone to tell him this wasn't happening. Instead all he got was the monitor, and the sound was becoming unbearable.

Jack stood. "I need to call Quinn."

Luke nodded, and Jack hastily stumbled from the room.

Luke stayed. "Come on, baby." The words slipped out quietly. "Wake up." Luke swallowed hard. "Please."

Outside the room, Jack leaned against the wall. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his phone. It took three attempts to unlock it.

Finally he hit Quinn's contact.

The phone rang three times.

"What's up?" Quinn sounded normal.

Jack broke tsecond he heard his brother's voice.

"Quinn."

"Jack?" Quinn sounded confused

Jack couldn't get the words out. His throat closed.

"Jack." Now Quinn sounded scared. "What happened?"

Jack wiped at his eyes. "It's Y/N."

"What happened?" The fear in Quinn's voice was palpable.

Jack swallowed. "She was hit by a drunk driver."

"What?"

"She was in a wreck." Jack's voice cracked. "She's in critical condition."

The silence on the other end lasted several seconds.

When Quinn finally spoke his voice sounded hollow. "Is she alive?"

Jack looked through the ICU window at Luke sitting beside your bed.

"Yeah." The word barely came out. "She's alive."

"How bad?"

Jack closed his eyes. "Really bad."

Quinn didn't speak, Jack could practically hear him processing it.

"I'm coming."

"Quinn—"

"I'm coming." His voice was firm. "I'll get on the next flight."

"Okay."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"I'll be there."

Jack nodded even though Quinn couldn't see him. "Okay."

Quinn was silent for a moment. "How's Luke?"

Jack looked through the glass again where Luke just sat holding your hand staring at you hoping that if he stared long enough you'd wake up.

Jack's chest tightened. "Not good."

Luke wasn't crying, he was looking at the love of his life hooked up to machines, and he wasn't yelling, breaking things, he wasn't doing anything. Jack knew his brain still hadn't accepted it. He knew Luke believed she'd wake up any minute and that everything would be okay. Jack knew better.

----

At some point evening had turned into night, but neither Luke nor Jack had noticed. The only light came from the monitors surrounding your bed.

Jack had stepped out briefly to talk to Quinn again, to update their parents and hers, and to try and answer questions he didn't have answers for.

Luke hadn't left your side once. The chair beside your bed had become his entire world.

The denial had held him together for hours. A fragile wall keeping everything contained.

A fragile lie.

He stared at your hand resting beneath his. Usually your fingers never stayed still, you always tapped things, played with your ring, traced patterns on his skin, stole his hoodie strings. Now there was nothing.

The wall cracked.

Luke stared at your hand, and finally reality hit him.

You might never wake up.

The thought slammed into him so hard he doubled over a strangled sound escaped his throat, and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

"No." His voice cracked and he shook his head. "No." His fingers tightened around yours. "You need to wake up." The tears came hot and fast. "No." He stood so suddenly the chair rolled backward. "You can't do this."

His breathing became uneven. "This isn't funny. You hear me?" His voice broke.

"This isn't funny anymore."

Not that it was ever funny to begin with.

Luke felt himself shatter. "We had plans." The sob tore out of him. "We had plans."

His hand covered his mouth as though he could somehow stop himself from falling apart.

"We were supposed to go back to Michigan this summer." His voice shook violently and tears streamed down his face. "We'd take the boat out."

Luke shook his head frantically. "We were supposed to get married." The words nearly killed him because they were true. 

You'd talked about it constantly.

Late at night on road trips during FaceTimes when it was just the two of you. You'd shown him rings you loved. Not a single diamond in sight because you thought they were ‘tacky.’ You knew what kind of venue you wanted. You had pinterest boards.

Luke pressed your hand against his forehead. "We were gonna get married." A sob escaped him. "You said you wanted a stupid giant wedding." His shoulders shook. "You said Jack was supposed to cry." A broken laugh slipped out and it turned into another sob. "And I know I said I wanted a small wedding, but I’ll give you the biggest, most expensive wedding if it means that you’ll come back to me."

Luke couldn't see through his tears. "You wanted kids." His voice cracked again. "You wanted a little boy." The tears wouldn't stop. "You already had names picked out." His chest hurt and every breath felt like glass. "You can't leave me." The words barely came out. "You can't. You don't get to."

His forehead rested against the side of the bed. "I'm scared." The confession was painful. "I'm so scared."

The door opened and Jack stepped inside. He'd never seen Luke cry like this. Not once in twenty-five years.

Luke looked up. His face was soaked with tears.

"Jack." His voice sounded like a child. "She has to wake up."

Jack crossed the room.

Luke was still crying. "She has to."

Jack wrapped both arms around him trying to hold his little brother together because he was falling apart.

"I know." Jack's voice cracked. "I know."

Luke buried his face against his shoulder. The sob that escaped him sounded painful. "We had everything planned."

Jack closed his eyes. His own tears falling again. "I know."

"We were supposed to get engaged."

"I know."

"We were supposed to–" His voice disappeared completely. "This isn't real."

Jack tightened his grip.

Luke's words came muffled against his shoulder. "This isn't real."

Jack swallowed hard, this was the hardest truth he'd ever had to face because it was real.

"I know it feels that way."

Luke shook his head violently. His breathing hitched. "No."

Jack held the back of his head like he had when Luke was little. "Listen to me."

Luke looked up, tears still streaming down his face.

Jack's own eyes were red, and his voice was shaking, "We're gonna stay."

Luke stared.

"We're not leaving." Jack squeezed his shoulder. "Okay?"

More tears slipped down Luke's face. "We stay."

Jack nodded. "Every day."

Luke swallowed hard. "Every day."

"Until she wakes up."

----

The night was endless, neither Luke nor Jack slept.

Luke stayed in the chair beside your bed until sometime around four in the morning when a nurse practically forced him to at least stand up and stretch. While Jack spent most of the night pacing the ICU hallways.

By sunrise they were exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally.

Luke hadn't changed clothes, eaten, he’d barely spoken. His hand remained wrapped around yours, he refused to let go.

Outside your room the ICU was slowly coming alive. Doctors were doing rounds. The nurses were changing shifts.

Luke watched a nurse carefully check your ventilator settings while another adjusted the medications hanging from IV pumps.

The nurse explained quietly. "We're keeping her heavily sedated."

Luke nodded, he barely understood half of what they were saying anymore every medical term blended together. All he cared about was one thing: was she getting better? And nobody seemed willing to answer that question yet.

Around seven in the morning there was a commotion outside the room. Luke looked up, Jack turned towards the door, and the next second Quinn appeared in the doorway still carrying his duffel bag. They could tell he came straight from the airport.

For a moment nobody moved.

When Quinn saw you the color drained from his face, and his eyes scanned your body going from the ventilator, to the casts, over the bruises, and all the machines you were attached to.

"Oh my God." The words came out barely above a whisper as Quinn slowly stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving you. "Jesus Christ."

Jack looked away. Luke swallowed hard. Now he could see exactly why neither of them had been able to explain it over the phone.

Quinn dropped his bag and walked slowly over to the bed.

"Hey, Bug." His voice cracked.

Luke closed his eyes because everybody called you that. His mom, dad, Jack, Quinn, and even his teammates called you that. You'd somehow become the Hughes family's unofficial fourth child.

Quinn reached out carefully and brushed some hair away from your forehead. "What happened to you?" He asked, his eyes filled with tears.

Luke stood and hugged him. The second he did, Quinn wrapped both arms around him holding him tightly, and neither brother said anything they didn’t need to because they were both terrified.

A few hours later another team of doctors arrived. Neurology. Trauma surgery. Critical care. The whole room seemed to be filled with people.

The lead neurologist glanced at the chart. Then smiled slightly. "We're taking her for repeat imaging this morning."

Luke's stomach dropped. "Why?"

The doctor answered calmly, "We need another CT scan of her brain. We want to monitor the swelling."

Luke felt sick again. The swelling, the thing everyone seemed most worried about.

About thirty minutes later they watched ICU staff carefully prepare you for transport.

It was surreal you had multiple nurses carrying portable monitors, the ventilator, all your IV pumps and lines. The amount of equipment needed just to move you down the hallway was staggering.

Luke stood. "I'm coming."

The nurse smiled sadly. "You can walk with us."

He walked the entire way refusing to leave your side.

The CT scan itself didn't take long yet the waiting afterward was torture. All three brothers sat together in the ICU waiting area. Nobody spoke much. Luke stared at the floor. Jack bounced his knee. Quinn kept checking his phone even though there was nothing on it.

An hour passed. Then another. Finally the neurologist returned.

Luke stood before the doctor even opened his mouth. "What happened?"

The doctor smiled gently. "The scan looks stable."

"What does that mean?" Quinn asked immediately.

The neurologist nodded. "It means the swelling has remained relatively unchanged." The doctor continued. "It has not significantly increased or decreased."

For a second nobody processed it because they'd spent nearly thirty hours preparing for bad news, not good news. Luke felt his knees nearly give out.

"The swelling didn't get worse?" Jack asked.

The doctor shook his head. "No, it didn’t." The neurologist continued. "We're very happy with that."

A small laugh escaped Quinn that was half relief, half disbelief.

The doctor nodded. "Brain injuries are unpredictable. The first few days are often when we see worsening cerebral edema, but right now," the doctor continued, "her scans appear stable."

Stable. The first good thing anyone had said.

The doctor looked between all three brothers. "She’s not out of the woods, yet."

All three nodded, they knew that.

"We still have a long road ahead, but today is a good day."

[honeyroots]

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+

mikey and his controversially younger girlfriend who has a crazy size kink and he plays into it because he knows how wet it gets her. “look, baby, i can see the outline of my cock in your tummy. you want me to take a picture? wanna see?” he’s hovering his phone over your belly to snap a picture, turning the screen to show you the bulge of his length pressing in your belly.

“it’s too big for me to thrust, huh? gonna split you right open. maybe i can just…” his warm hand rests on top of your pelvic bone, jerking himself off by rubbing your belly. speechless, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, you can only babble incoherently as your core tightens around his shaft. you’ve never had someone who gets your size kink— who gets that you need this.

“mmm, uhh—” you mutter the sounds while gripping the bedsheets. despite trying to tell him how good it feels, the words just won’t come out.

“it’s okay, baby, you’ll learn your first word soon. say it with me, ‘dada.’ can you say ‘dada?’”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

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

Word Count: 13.6k

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

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

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

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

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

Then comes the keys.

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

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

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

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

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

And then, his bedroom door.

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

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

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

But then comes the moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that finally makes the tears flow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are alone in your grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what is the point?

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

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

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

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

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

And then, him standing there and watching you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you are certain, he won’t.

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

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

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

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you keep walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t look back.

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

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

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

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

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

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

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

“To Nat’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

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

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

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

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

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

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

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t move.

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

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

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

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

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

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

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

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

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

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

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

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

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

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

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

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

“No, you-”

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

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

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

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

You could run.

You should.

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

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

“Okay,” you say weakly.

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

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

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

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

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

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

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

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

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

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

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

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

So you stay.

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

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

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

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

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

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

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

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

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

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

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

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

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

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

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

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

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

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

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

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

“I-”

You try. You really try.

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

Because this time it’s her walking out.

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

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

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

But it’s not yours either.

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

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

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

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

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

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

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

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

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

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

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

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

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

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

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

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

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

And Bucky watches all of that.

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

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

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

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

“See, that’s bullshit.”

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

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

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

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

But he won’t.

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

And you break.

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

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

You feel so pathetic.

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

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

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

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

You let him.

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

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

Like your pain is his own.

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

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

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

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

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

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

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

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

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

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

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

It’s too hard. too cruel.

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

But it does.

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

So you cry harder.

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

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

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

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

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

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

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

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

You won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Because none of this makes it any easier.

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

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

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

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

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

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

He looks wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

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

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

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

But Bucky just shrugs.

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

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

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

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

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

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

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

There is something uncertain in there.

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

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

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

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

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

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

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

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

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

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

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[sexy-monster-fucker]

You Know Just How to Get to Me

Richie Jerimovich x Carmy’s Childhood Friend!Reader

Summary: After a disagreement went a little too far, Richie told you not to come back. When he realized you really weren’t coming back, he had to come change your mind. Even if it meant knocking on your apartment door in the early hours of the morning.

CW: f!reader, probably off canon, takes place early season one, reader was carmy’s childhood friend, age gap, pre established relationship (not dating), flash back sequences, mentions of abuse, suicide mention, fighting, self deprecating, confessions, makeout, hickeys, makeup sex, nipple play, fingering, p in v, confessions, creampie

a/n: okay I’m barely three episodes in so be easy on me… I would have watched more by now but Disney+ is being a bitch and won’t let me password share

title track 🎶🚬

~~~

That stupid fucking leather jacket.

Over another jacket to beat the Chicago cold. Cigarettes and cheap cologne wafting in as you opened the door. Tight fitted t-shirt hugging his torso. Hands tucked into his pockets of the track pants he always wore to work. Eyebrows laying flatly across his eyes as he scanned you.

Locking your jaw as you shifted on your feet. Hip cocking to the side as you looked up at him. Rolling your shoulders and stretching your neck. A game of chicken to see who would speak first. Both your egos not allowing you to be the one to start the conversation.

Two in the morning. Richie Jerimovich had the nerve to knock on your door at two in the goddamn morning! After having said some of the most unflattering things to you not even forty-eight hours prior. Taking shots the way only someone you had known for years could. Beating you down to the point of tears. Yet still having the nerve to show up at your apartment during the late hours of the night. Early hours of the morning? Whatever.

You had met back when you were still a teenager. Coming home with Carmy after school one day. Having taken some stupid science fair assignment together. Both of you needing the extra grade. Remembering walking into their home to loud voices shouting over each other in the kitchen. Fire alarm blaring every second. Mikey had accidentally lit something on fire over their gas powered stove. His lanky friend whipping a towel at it while cussing him over and over. Richie was Mikey’s best friend. Late college age. Back when his hair was shaggy and he always wore a wife-beater under his opened button downs. His eyebrows had been harshly arched and his mouth hanging open as he looked over his shoulder to the two of you. Yelling at Carmy, who he lovingly called ‘cousin’, to grab the bag of flour from the cabinet. Throwing it haphazardly across the open flames. Leaving their kitchen in a state of snowy white. Slapping Mikey on the back of the head with another chastising grunt. Mocking him for the scene that you, their newest guest, had to walk in on. Something about making them look bad. His first impression leaving a momentous memory in your developing mind.

Carmy had remained one of your closest friends throughout your lives. Growing up together. Going to every party together. Helping him ask out his first girlfriend. Late night runs around town just to so you did not have to go home. Attending almost every family function the Berzatto’s had to offer. Earning your place as an honorary member. Even when he went off to culinary school and left everyone behind, you still found yourselves texting. More than he gave his own family. Which was telltale of your relationship. The brother you never had.

So when you got the call from Sugar a few months ago about Mikey, you did not hesitate to come lend a hand. However they needed, you would be there. Even when it meant working at The Beef as it fell apart under Carmy’s new leadership.

Things were more than tense in the overly-crowded-underpaid restaurant. No one wanting to take Carmy’s direction. Constantly referring to ‘the system’ they had before this. Not welcoming change.

“Obviously that system doesn’t work!” you remembered shouting in his face.

Richie was towering over you, lips pushed tightly together as his nostrils flared, “Worked just fine ‘til you two fuckers showed up and decided to change everything!”

And that was just the start of it all.

Richie looked to the side and huffed, “You gonna make me stand out in the cold?”

Rolling your eyes and scoffing, you stepped out of the doorway to allow him inside. Locking it behind him. Crossing your arms over your chest as you turned to face him. Leaning back into the door and keeping your lips sealed. Waiting whatever bullshit reason he had for being here at this hour.

Richie’s hand cupped the back of his neck. Rubbing it nervously. Pacing in your living room. Clicking his tongue as he spoke, “We sold out of meat tonight.”

You nodded, raising a brow.

“Well, actually we ran out. Carmy’s hell bent on some new way of cooking it. So we didn’t have enough prepped. And the vendors have quit… cause y’know we’re overdue or whatever,” Richie tapped his foot as he rambled.

You poked your tongue into your cheek. Wondering where the hell this could be going. There had to be a better reason he was here.

“Usually, it’s all hands on deck when things like this happen. It’s how we keep it together. But… there was some hands missing tonight,” Richie finally looked to you again.

You scoffed, “Richie—“

“Let me finish,” he held his hand up to you, “Look, things only work when everyone is on the same goddamn page. I can’t help that you and cousin came in and decided things didn’t work anymore. And I know things got a little heated the other night, but you left us high and dry tonight.”

You widened your eyes at him. Breathing out a shocked laugh. Flattening a hand against your chest and rolling your eyes. Shaking your head because you could not believe this putz had the nerve to say something like that to you. Squinting at him, “I left you high and dry?”

“Pretty fucking much,” Richie shrugged.

“Oh. That’s fucking rich. Coming from you, asshole—“

“Christ, Y/N! You’ve been around long enough to know that’s how we talk. We fight, we scream, we name call; but at the end of it we’re still family. Ain’t that what you always wanted? Feel like part of this fucking family? You’re Carmy’s little friend and all,” Richie gestured up and down.

Carmy’s little…

“Carmy’s little wannabe girlfriend,” Richie had shouted at you the other night, “News flash, dipshit: if he doesn’t want you by now, he isn’t gonna!”

Your palms were burning with frustration. Striking a nerve with that remark. The one he knew always made you so angry. Using it against you in this moment. Everyone around gasping at the comment. You looked to Carmy who had just entered the kitchen. Eyes wide, shock and confusion tugging his brows down. It only made it worse.

“Real good stuff, Richie. And who didn’t Mikey leave the restaurant to, huh? Guess he saw how your marriage worked out and knew better. Can’t even keep a fucking family together. What would you know about running a restaurant?” you pushed up on your toes for a moment, getting back in Richie’s face.

Remembering how your stomach dropped at his expression. Regretting the words as soon as they left your lips. But having to stand your ground. Richie’s jaw flexed as he swallowed. Silence filling the normally hectic space. His eyes darting between yours. Clearly holding his tongue from saying more.

Pointing a finger in your face, “You… You’re being a bitch right now.”

Disrespecting you further. You ground your teeth together. Fighting back the tears that pricked the corners of your eyes. All the years of complicated feelings bubbling in your throat. Lip quivering as you tried to keep a mean face. Nodding as you prepped to say more, but getting cold feet.

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen,” he had said steadily.

“No— NO! Don’t give me that shit,” you pointed with every word, “Don’t act like you and I have some unspoken agreement about being family. Showing up here as if I owe you an apology. You’re the one who told me not to come back. Remember that? Eh?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Richie rolled his eyes, “I told you to get out last night. Not to fucking jump ship!”

You chuckled in disbelief. Lip arching as you took a step closer to him, finger still pointed at his face. Sharp eyes meeting his, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to say whatever the hell you want them show up here and act like I did something wrong, Jerimovich.”

“Ahhh, don’t ’Jerimovich’ me—“

“You knew better than saying that shit. Especially in front of everyone!” you clapped your hands together.

“Oh. Come on, Y/N! One fucking slip—“

“SLIP? Don’t you even dare. You know damn good and well how that makes me feel. How fucking angry I used to get when people in school would say that shit,” you barked in his face.

Richie got closer, practically pressing his nose to yours, “Stop playing victim, princess. You’re the one who had the nerve to bring my divorce into it. Let alone talking on Mikey’s name.”

Both of you huffing like bulls about to charge. The air between you running entirely too hot. Both your faces flushed.

“Why’re you acting like we’re strangers or something? Like you don’t even know me anymore?! I thought we were friends!” Richie spoke with his hands.

“I thought so too!” you held your arms out at your sides. Furrowing your eyebrows tightly together as your nostrils flared. Stepping back to rest against the door once more. Sniffling a little, “Thought things were different with us.”

Richie blinked. Things were different between you. Not like your relationship with Mikey or even Carmy. Richie always had a certain protective nature for you. Taking you under his wing as the only other none blood relative of the family. Something you had once bonded over when you were a young adult. Finding a comfort in him that no one else had ever given you. Hanging out with him and Mikey more once you were finally eighteen. And though he did not like to admit it, Richie was fond of you. More than he should have been. Laughing hard at some stupid joke in some movie you watched together. Sometimes letting you rest your body against his after a long day. Driving around late at night and just talking. It was all natural and easy. So, of course, he wanted to protect you. Needing to keep you on track when you teetered off the rails.

Carmy had went off to college just a few months prior. You were not taking it well. Not sure how to even function without your best friend, and things at your home had gotten bad. Your dad was drunk more often than not, and your mom could not take it anymore. Often taking his drunken frustrations out on you instead. It’s not like you could afford rent on your own, and you didn’t know anyone you could stay with.

Drinking helped you forget. The fake I.D. you had bought off some sleazy middle aged guy helped you get into bars and clubs. Drunk more nights than not. It helped you sleep. Helped you forget. It was the best distraction you had.

That night, you had been invited to a party by some older guys at a bar. Frat bros no doubt. Barely able to remember how you ended up at this house in the middle of no where. Surrounded by people you did not know. Music blaring so loud that you could not focus. A red solo cup that someone else had poured for you. Unable to taste it, really. Faces of strangers misshaping in your drunken haze. Some older girls stood around you chatting about life at their office. Mixture of groups confusing you further. Thinking this had to be a college party, but the way they talked about mundane work life made you question it. But the alcohol had you carefree. Bobbing your head to the over the top music. Eyes closed and smile beaming. Not sure what hour it was. Not sure where you were. Not caring either.

A firm hand on your shoulder had you spinning around before you could register the touch. Richie’s voice barely cut through the alcohol raging in your system, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hey! Richie!” you slurred, eyes lighting up when you finally realized it was him.

His eyebrows pinched the skin between them. Blue eyes wide and jaw hanging open. Shock written as clear as day across his face. Frustrated at you. Shrugging his arms to the side and shaking his head as he looked you up and down. Revealing clothes with ripped tights. Not enough layers to even begin protecting you from the cold air this time of year. Makeup smudged under your eyes. Cheeks glowing with alcohol.

“What the fuck is that? You’re not even old enough to have that in your hand,” Richie spoke through locked teeth, gesturing towards the cup in your hand. Aggressively snatching it from you and dropping it onto the ground. Earning a late protested ‘hey!’ once you saw the liquid pooling next to your feet.

You crossed your arms and shifted away from him, “Why do you care?”

Richie sighed. Pinching the top of his nose, “You know why. And if cousin isn’t here to keep you straight, looks like I’ve gotta be the fucking one. Now come on!”

That was the moment something shifted inside you. Richie’s hand on your forearm burned. Seeing him in an entirely new light. Rushing you out the door while curses rolled from his tongue. Giving any guy with a wandering eye a look that could kill. Feeling your stomach warm up when his blue eyes looked over his shoulder to you. For so long, he had been Carmy’s older brother’s friend. A guy who was always around the same way you were. Tagging along with the family antics. But now his image was changing. Protective of you. Guarding you from every body you passed.

The cold air wafting against your skin sobered you momentarily. Squinting your eyes into a harsh blink. Shivering instantly. Furrowing your brow at Richie, “Where are we going?”

“My car,” he bluntly responded.

You pulled your arm from his grasp. Firmly planting both your feet into the cold ground outside. Breath clouding in front of your face as you huffed.

Richie turned, arms falling loosely at his sides with a smack. Shoulders dropping as he tilted his head, waiting for whatever stupid thing you were going to drunkenly rattle off. Losing patience as you both silently stared, “What is it? You’ve gotta be freezing, come on—“

Without hesitating, he pulled his leather jacket off his body. Wrapping it around you, his hand met the small of your back. Tingling along your skin. You pulled it tighter against your body as you continued forward. The heat in your face was blurring between alcohol and blush. It smelt so strongly of him. Cigarettes and some cologne. Natural musk. Your heart was pounding as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Glancing over to him. Had Richie always looked so handsome?

No— fuck! Even drunk clean off your ass you knew better. There was no point in thinking something like that. Richie was way older than you, plus there’s no way he would be interested in someone like you. Carmy’s little friend.

The wedged heels you wore were beginning to burn. Walking more than you had anticipated. Especially on your wobbly legs. Relieved when Richie’s old-beater blurred in your sight. Opening the door, he helped you in. Holding your hand in his as he guided you into the passenger seat. Keeping you steady until you flopped backward against the cracking leather. Pointing at you and instructing you to buckle yourself in. Nodding mindlessly as your eyes grew heavier by the second.

Jumping when he slammed his own door. Taking his place behind the wheel, throwing his own advice to the wind. Putting the key in the ignition, the car barked to life. Puffing out a cloud of black smoke. He’d been driving this thing since he was a teenager. The life inside the engine was wavering. Looking over to make sure you were set, but you had not moved an inch. Tilting side to side in your drunk state. It made him smile a little.

Beginning to head back towards home, the car ride was silent to begin with. Until you groaned and had to sit straight up. Blinking slow then widening your eyes. Fighting your natural urge to sleep.

“Don’t barf in my car,” Richie warned.

“‘m not,” you sighed, swallowing the large amount of spit that gathered in your mouth.

Richie’s arm was propped up on his window sill. Fingers pressed firmly into his temple rubbing circles, “Your folks are gonna kill you.”

“They’d have to notice I’m gone first,” you slurred. Breathing a deep breath through your nose. Eyes staying opened without struggle now. Streetlights reflecting across your face every few feet.

It made Richie’s heart sink. He knew things were not good for you at home. It was the reason you spent so much time away from there. But he did not know it had gotten that bad. To a point that your parents were not even noticing their only child. Their only daughter who had dropped out of college before half way through the first nine weeks and started drinking as a way to forget her failures.

“I don’t wanna go back there, Richie,” you sighed, looking over to him. His eyes still locked onto the road ahead. Anxious that something would happen on the drive home and it would be his fault. Chewing on the tip of his finger. Slowly, you leaned over the middle console. Resting your head on his shoulder, nuzzling into his body, “Please… don’t make me.”

Richie let out a broken breath. Swallowing the lump overtaking his throat loudly. Eyes darting anxiously to the side as he thought. Shifting his hands on the wheel so he could drape one over your shoulders. Wanting to make you comfortable.

“O-Okay, fuck. You can come stay with me tonight,” Richie blinked as fast as he talked, “But no more running off to parties alone. I don’t wanna know what could’ve happened tonight. You hear me?”

You nodded. Listening intently to every word. Happy to be in his presence. Happy to be leaned against him. Feeling safe for the first time in months.

Richie clicked his teeth together, whispering, “Mikey’s gonna kill me.”

Your head hung low. Holding yourself tightly as you bit your tongue. Trying not to cry. The lack of sleep not helping. Dewey eyes peering up at him. Breaking his heart right where he stood. Hating when you cried, especially when it was his fault. No one ever got under his skin like you. Like you had his heart wrapped around a string. Tugging it whenever you pleased. Even after all these years. After all the different directions your lives went in. He was always coming back to you.

“Y-You know how I am,” Richie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You know better than anyone, okay?”

Which was arguable. Maybe not as much since Mikey was gone. But there had to be other people who knew him better.

You shook your head slowly. Tucking your chin further into your shoulder. Embarrassment burning into anger. Ready to continue the screaming match. Ready to kick him out of your apartment. Back into the cold with that damn attitude of his.

“You made me mad, alright? Shit’s been hard the last few months. And it was easy to take it out on you. That’s why I said what I said. I’ve got a short fucking fuse, you know that,” Richie over exaggerated with his hands. Taking a single step closer, but your harsh eyes stopped him. Shooting daggers clean through him. Reminding him of the expression you gave when he made an offhanded comment. Just with a new layer of disgust underneath it.

Richie remembered how his arm had snaked around your waist. One hand holding yours as to lead. Stabilizing you with every step you ascended, “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll get you a comforter and some pillows. Don’t go whining about being cold or nothing.”

Cold air cutting through him like a knife. Short sleeves the wrong choice of underwear. But atleast you stopped shivering with his jacket around you. Keeping his arm around you as he fumbled with the keys in his hand. Unlocking the door with a loud click. Kicking it open, having completely forgotten about the guest already passed out on his couch. Mikey’s unconscious body slumped across the cheap sofa he got from some guy. Stained and smelling of cigarettes, but he could not pass up on such a deal.

“Shit,” Richie mumbled. How could he have forgot that Mikey was here?! Taking up the only spare space he had to offer. Supposing his brain had went into over protective panic mode when he saw those boys circling you like sharks at the party. It was only a one bedroom, it’s not like there was some spare room he could cram you in. Closing his eyes and groaning lowly.

Beginning to guide you down the short hallway. Needing to talk what was happening out loud, “Change of plans.”

Clicking the dull yellow overhead light in the bathroom on, Richie guided your hands gently onto the stained countertop. Taking a step behind you and helping his jacket off your shoulders. Tossing it over his arm and looking at you in the mirror. Stress apparent on his expression. He pulled one of the drawers open and handed you a wash cloth, “Wash your face. I’ll try and find something for you to sleep in.”

Swiftly rushing across the hall into his wrecked bedroom. Piles of dirty and clean clothes merging together everywhere. Forgetting the last time he had done laundry. That damned laundromat had increased their prices. Running a hand through his hair as he scanned around the space. Begging for something he could offer you. Eyes reaching the small dresser he had tucked in the corner. Blue fabric hanging out of one of the half closed drawers. Finally. That shirt he won at one of the bars he went with Mikey to. Throwing a bullseye first try. Remembering how the room had erupted in applause and the blonde bartender had threw it at him. A dartboard in the center, oversized so that the bar didn’t have to keep extra sizing depending on who won. It sagged around his knees. Too big to wear out, but perfect for bed. Perfect for you.

When he came back to the bathroom, you had abandoned all layers besides your bra and panties. Rubbing your finger across your teeth with a glob of toothpaste that followed. Looking over to him with hooded eyes. His face bled red immediately. The matching lace set perfectly fitting your body was the last thing he expected to see tonight. Realizing how bad your clothes scattered across his bathroom floor would look to anyone else. Especially Mikey in the morning when he inevitably waddled into the singular bathroom to piss. Unable to stop himself from following the arch of your ass as you leaned down to rinse the toothpaste from your mouth. Muttering a curse as he strained to look at the ceiling. Offering out the barely worn t-shirt, “Put this on.”

Sliding it over your head, you lost your balance. Wobbling momentarily before catching yourself on the countertop. Giggling as you tried to keep quiet. Richie had jerked to catch you out of instinct. His hand held you at the elbow, concerned eyes peering at you. Body blocking the doorway, Richie hunched just enough to keep eye level with you. Standing together awkwardly, neither of you saying a word. This silence unlike previous ones. Tension webbing itself into it. His deep blue eyes making you blush.

“Guess I’m… uh, guess I’ll sleep in the tub?” you gestured behind you with your thumb.

Richie’s forehead wrinkled, “Fuck, no. You can, um, sleep in my bed.”

Shaking your head in disagreement, “Where will you sleep?”

“Floor’s fine,” Richie avoided the strong eye contact you attempted to hold. Stopping himself from making a decision he would live to regret. Even if everything in him begged to scoop you up in his arms and take you to bed. His eyes darted up, “You’ll have the whole thing to yourself.”

You flattened a hand against his shoulder. Shifting so that your weight pressed into him, hands loosely holding you. Richie closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Even when your lips pressed into his ear, “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight, Richie.”

A genuine plea. Not some forward move to get him to fuck you. Just a need to feel the touch of someone else. It made him sick. Shaking his head. Refusing to do this. Not with you. Not with Mikey in the other room. Not while you were drunk.

“Please,” it came out broken. Hiding your face in his neck when tears welled at your eyes. Grasping at his t-shirt with shaking hands.

Richie’s tongue wetted his lip. Taking a deep breath as he leaned his head back. Closing his eyes, “Okay.”

Walking together into his bedroom, Richie kept ahold of you. Pulling down the disheveled blanket to allow you to lay down. Draping it back across your body once you got comfortable against the pillow. The soft glow from the streetlights reflected in your eyes. Looking as beautiful as ever, Richie could have stared for hours. But that’s not what this was. So he rounded the bed and took his usual spot. Under the same covers as you. Bodies pressed tightly together on the full sized mattress. He turned his head to look at you, “No funny business. You hear me?”

You smiled. Closing whatever gap existed between you. Tossing your arm across his chest and snuggling into him. Closing your eyes and savoring this feeling. Whispering, “Thank you, Richie.”

His arm rested under you. Hand petting at your shoulder for just a moment before he rested his mouth to the top of your head. Nose nestled into your hair as he nodded, “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

Probably the softest moment either of you could remember. Unsure the exact moment that had pivoted to change that dynamic. To make both of you cruel and hateful. How had you gone down such different paths? When things between you had been so obviously intertwined for so long. Feeling now as if nothing had been before. Only anger and disdain.

Fingernails digging into your arms attempted to calm you. Something you had done since you were a kid. Hugging yourself when things seemed uncertain. Making up for the lack of sympathy and compassion your parents had. It made you stubborn, no doubt. You squinted at him, “Why are you really here, Richie?”

“I came to get you back,” he shrugged, raising his eyebrows with his breathless words.

“Why? So we can fight more? Or so you could get Carmy off your back?” you let your head fall to the side. Earning a loud scoff from Richie. Who was pacing once more. Contorting his face as he thought of a comeback. Hands digging into his pockets as he stepped. His inability to tell you the truth hurt worse than the fight.

Pushing off the door, you headed into your kitchen. Ignoring the noise that escaped Richie when you walked past like he wasn’t even there. Bringing his thumb up to his lips and chewing at it. Tapping his foot as he stared down at the floor. Blocking him out as you grabbed a bottle of water from the case you had laying on your floor.

“Carmy didn’t send me,” he finally said, “Everyone’s counting on you. We need you. I-I—“ He stopped himself when your head whipped upward. Waiting for the next part. For that simple admission. The thing that would change all of this.

“I’m not coming back,” you stated under your breath.

Richie sighed again. Swallowing the lump in his throat. Running a hand down his face and cupping his jaw. Nodding with the thoughts running rampant behind his eyes. Beginning to step closer to you. Resting his hand on the short island countertop. Leaning his weight as he looked at you, “I need you to.”

It shocked you. Eyes widening at the simple phrase that you don’t know you’ve ever heard him utter. It had to pain him. The look on his face told you that. All you could do was shake your head, whispering ‘no’ like it was breathing.

Richie stepped in front of you. Grabbing both your shoulders in his large palms. Staring at you with those intense blue eyes, “Come on. Tell me what I gotta do. Whatever, I don’t care, just— just tell me what it’s gonna take.”

You stared up at him. Jaw clinched as you thought. Taking a deep breath as your eyes darted to the side. Rejoining his with a softening of your expression. Blinking rapidly as you spoke, “Tell me why you’re here.”

Confusion tugged at his expression. Denying the truth. Even when it was clawing its way from his ribcage and into the back of his throat. Practically strangling him. He hated this. Hated how soft you made him. How easy you let him inside. How right it felt to have his hands on you again. No matter how he tried to deny it, you were what he wanted.

His forehead pressed to yours. Tightening the grip he had on your shoulders. Working up the courage to admit, “I came to say sorry.”

Your heart pounded. Feeling your mouth run dry at that. Richie never apologized, even when he had offended some of the most important people. Tending to stand his ground for whatever thing he had used as an insult. Getting punched? Slapped? Cussed? Didn’t matter. Richie was always right.

His hand came up to cup your cheek. Flattening against the side of your face as his fingers ran through your hair. His tongue wetted his lip, “I hate when I care about people. Makes me want to push until they won’t come back. No matter how bad I get hurt. When you came back, it was like this cut reopened. And I had to make it stop. I… I’m sorry I said those things to you.”

“I’m sorry, Richie…” was all you could muster. While it meant the world, you were not sure you could jump back into the job. Wanting to help Carmy, but not worth sacrificing whatever thread held you and Richie’s complicated relationship together.

He released his hold on you and stepped back. Looking up at your ceiling and flattening the back of his hand to his forehead. Nostrils flaring as his adam’s apple bobbed.

“F-For all of it. I-I’m sorry that I brought up your divorce. I’m really sorry that I even mentioned Mikey. I should’ve just stayed away, a-and let you guys handle this. Instead of inserting myself where I don’t belong. As usual,” you cupped your hand around your mouth, feeling your throat start to burn with the words, “I just wanted to help. I guess I still thought that things could’ve been how they used to be. When we used to… I dunno. Feel like a family or something. I’m so fucking stupid.”

You hit your fist to your forehead. Tears finally passing the threshold. Burning down your flushed cheeks. Words overflowing like vomit from your lips, “Carmy will know some people. Someone can take my place. Help you guys out in a productive way. Better than I ever could, Rich. And you guys can go back to being a family without me dragging on your coattails. I’ll stop being ‘Carmy’s little’ whatever and I can… we can stop whatever this is—“

Richie rushed back over to you, both hands grasping the sides of your face. Lips taking yours between them. Taken completely off guard, but slowly melting into him. One of your hands joining his on your face. Sparks jolted every inch of your body. Feeling the thing deep inside you bloom. What you had been starving for air all these years. Finally getting its life breathed back into it.

“Shut up,” Richie breathed barely above a whisper, “Please. Just shut up and come back.”

“Richie,” you swallowed.

His hand tangled in your hair. Keeping you close to him. Noses bumping one another. Your hands flat against his chest. Lips not even an inch apart. Struggling to breathe. Air thick and hot between you.

“I can’t lose someone else,” Richie pressed his lips to yours again, “I just got you back.”

Hands traveling down your body, Richie squeezed your hips. Holding you tightly to him like you were going to run away. Stepping until your back met the countertop. Breathing lowly as his hooded eyes scanned you. Flattening his palms against the cold granite, caging you between them. Tilting his head before interlocking lips once more. You draped your arms over his shoulders. Letting him kiss you however he wanted. His taste overwhelmed your pallet. Scent filling your nostrils. Weight pressed into you. Entirely him.

Steadily growing more and more heated with every movement. Tongues tasting the other. Teeth bumping occasionally. One of your hands gripping the back of his head. His stabilizing against your spine. Both of you pretending to ignore the bulge that rose in his pants.

Lips began to venture down your throat. “You’re one of the most important people in my life,” kissing against your pulse, “I’ll make this up to you however I need to.”

And you could not help but smile. Still apologizing as his mouth left a trail on your skin. Even when his cock was already half-hard and his mind had ventured to far darker places than he usually let it, he was still apologizing. Mouth always running. Over explaining everything.

His lips felt like heaven against your neck. Flattening his tongue and sinking his teeth in. Certainly leaving some purple marks that you would have to explain. But how could you care about that when you felt so good.

Richie was slowly losing his composure. The hunger in him creeping its way out. Hands growing a little more greedy as he cupped your ass. Pulling your lower half to his. Grinding against you as he sloppily put his lips back to yours. Broken breaths rolling through him. Chasing this feeling like it would disappear any second now. Causing your legs to press together, needing to feel some relief for the ache between them.

One of your hands flattened against his lower stomach. Toying with the hem of his shirt until your fingers met his skin. Feeling the soft happy trail that led down to the band of his pants. Dipping your fingertips beneath to rim along the elastic. Meeting the hair that decorated along his pubic bone. Richie’s air caught in his throat. His own hands cupping the sides of your face once more. Guiding you to meet his eyes.

You exhaled as your head fell to the side. Biting your lip as your eyes darted around his face. Taking in the way his cheeks flushed red and his eyes laid heavy. Lips swollen from kissing you. Dying to get him out of his clothes. Taking his hands in yours, you pulled away from the counter. Stepping backwards slowly, trying to make sure you did not bump any furniture. He followed you with ease. Leading him across your apartment to the hall where your bedroom lied. Stopping in front of the partially opened door and looking up at him again.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Tongue wetted his lips as he looked into your room then back to you. Eyebrows raising ever so. Which made you smile right back at him. Blushing as you giggled. Leaning your head against the doorframe. One of his hands held onto your hip.

“This how you want me to make it up to you?” Richie’s voice had dropped an octave, smug tone adorning it.

You grabbed his jacket between both your hands, pulling him down to you. Furthering into your bedroom. Stopping beside your mattress. Smiling with a laugh, “Maybe.”

Richie shedded his jacket into the floor. It’s weight thumping loudly. Arms flexing against his tight t-shirt. Swiftly removing his shirt as well before taking you back in his hands. Kissing you once more. Tongue lapping against your pallet. Hands ghosting down your sides to pull your t-shirt over your head. Dropping it into the pile with his clothes. Taking a moment to stare at your breasts spilling over your bra.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Richie said it with a low groan.

“Don’t flatter me, Jerimovich,” you quipped. Playing with him. A tease that came as natural as breathing between you.

“Not flattery when it’s true,” he cocked a brow, shaking his head as he spoke to emphasize his point. One hand cupping your breast. Thumbing at your nipple that had perked beneath the thin cup. A moan escaped the back of your throat. Small and barely noticeable. But it caught Richie’s attention. Reaching around to unclasp your bra, his breath fanned against your ear, “And don’t tell me what to do.”

You laughed. Bra sliding off your shoulders as Richie pulled back. Letting to drop in the floor, you flattened your hands to his bare chest. Exploring across the hair along it until your fingers met the cold metal around his necklace. Hooking a finger around it with a smile. Fluttering your lashes up at him. You pushed up so your lips could kiss against his throat. Nipping and sucking the skin. His head fell back with a low moan. Making sure you left a purple mark for tomorrow, it would only be fair. No one would ever put the two together. Even if the two of you had matching marks proclaiming your newfound relationship. After the events of the other night, it would be impossible to believe.

You sat back onto the mattress. Scooting yourself back to make room for him. Spreading your legs as an invitation. One Richie happily accepted. Crawling onto the soft covers and over you. Both of you slowly lowering until your head met a pillow. Lips meeting once more in a tender moment.

Richie’s hands met the band of your sleepwear. Tugging them and your underwear down in one swift pull. Throwing them behind him somewhere. Leaving you entirely nude before him. Vulnerable in a way you had never been with him. Feeling suddenly conscious of your body, you tucked your face into one of the pillows beside your head. Cheeks flushing when you could feel his strong gaze on you. He leaned down and placed a kiss against your clavicle. Kissing a path down to your breast, taking your nipple between his lips. Sucking and flicking it with his tongue. His other hand pinching the other one between tight fingers. Rolling it to match how his tongue moved. Your hands gripped the back of his head, moaning as your back arched. Forcing your chest closer to his mouth.

One hand traveled to your core. Calloused fingertips meeting your sensitive clit. Making your entire body jump, and Richie to pull off your breast. Looking up at you with a wicked grin. Laughing as he widened his eyes at you, “What? Those boys you’ve been with not know where it is?”

You scowled at him, “Fuck you. It’s just been a while.”

Stretching up to kiss at your jaw, Richie tried to hide how he chuckled at that. Utterly amused by everything your body had to offer. The strum of your heart racing at your pulse. How your eyes rolled back in your head. How red you were in the face right now. He was enthralled by it all.

“Yeah?” Richie slowly slid a finger into you, “Well, ole Richie will go nice and slow for you. How’s that sound, baby?”

Your mouth fell open. Eyes forcing themself shut as you threw your head back. Exhaling harshly, his name mixing itself into the sound. His finger pumped slowly into you. Curling and hitting the spot that made you see stars. His thumb pressing into your nub now. Adding fuel to the flames already raging on inside you.

Richie watched your every move. Admiring you as you slowly lost yourself to pleasure. Moaning and rolling your hips to meet his hand. His cock was throbbing between his legs. If you were like this from his finger alone, he could not wait to see how you acted with his cock inside. Chewing his lip for a moment until he could wait no longer.

Removing himself from your entrance, you whined at the loss of sensation. Eyes flying open to see him kicking off his pants. Giving you a full view of him in all his glory. Springing up to smack himself in the stomach, swollen and leaking. Red with his need. Absolutely living up to every fantasy you had ever had about him. Gawking now.

His eyes darted to your face. Catching you in the act, feeding his ego a bit. Smirking at you now, hovering his lanky body above you. Kissing from your cheek to your lips. His head fell to the side as he questioned you, “What’s that face about?”

You got a little flustered at his cocky attitude. Absolutely knowing the effect he was having on you. Making sure to use it to his advantage. Hands came to cup his face, “I just like looking at you, Rich.”

Lips interlocked once more. His cock gliding between your folds, making both of you grunt in satisfaction. More turned on than either of you had been in a long time. Richie pressed his lips to your ear, “Can I fuck you now, pretty girl?”

You sighed with a wide smile, “Please.”

Richie grasped himself at the base, lining up with your entrance. Taking his time to press the head between your folds. Shallowly thrusting to let your body adjust to him. Living for the view of your face contorting in ecstasy. Jaw hanging open as you panted. Sinking in inch by inch until your cores were pressed together. Dipping down so that your foreheads were flush. Heaving deep breaths.

There was a part of you that told you how perfect this was. How maybe this is how things were always supposed to be. And maybe if you and Richie had tried sooner, you’d both be living very different lives. This connection between you had always been different. Perhaps you should have explored it before now. But there was no changing the past. Only the choices you made going forward.

“I love you,” Richie breathed as quiet as he could. Words he swore he would never give another woman. Ones he never thought he could give someone again. Not after all the heartbreak and loss.

It made tears prick at your eyes. Shocked. Wanting to question him. Wanting to deny it. But it felt so right. You smiled, “I love you too, Richie.”

A wide smile taking over his face. Quickly kissing you once more to hide how flushed he got from that. Beginning to pull back before thrusting back into you. Finding a slow and steady rhythm that had you gripping tightly against his back. Nails scratching him. Never had you felt something so good in your life. He was perfect.

Richie’s hand traveled down your figure. Finding your clit once more and circling it with two fingers. Earning a rather loud moan from you. Hips arching at his touch. Giving him a new angle to fuck into you.

“Ri-Richie—“

“Yeah? Tell me, sweetheart.”

“It’s so— so good,” you whined, swallowing harshly.

He smirked, “I know. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

Moaning in response. Feeling the way the familiar coil in your belly was tightening. Warmth blossoming along your skin a warning of how close you were. If he continued like this you would be unraveling any second now. Walls squeezing him tightly as your body prepared.

“You gonna cum?” his tone naturally teased.

All you could do was nod and call out his name. Words not forming in your mind. Only the feeling of his cock stretching you over and over. The pressure of his fingers sending you to your finish. Wrapping your arms tightly around him as your insides began contorting. White hot blooming all throughout you. Swearing you had never finished so hard.

Richie’s lip quivered at the sensation. Holding you close as his cock began to twitch. Barely thrusting forward a few times before he was spilling inside you. Coating your sensitive walls with his release. Taking your lips between his to hide the moan that ripped from the back of his throat. Grunting with each rope of cum.

As your bodies came down from their highs, the two of you stared at one another. Eyes blown wide with a carnal pleasure. Feeling closer than ever. Faces sharing in their glow. Panting in unison.

Richie rolled off you. Both of you wincing at the sensation of loss. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to his side. Cuddling together in the post orgasm haze. Smiles written on both your faces. Lingering in the silence of the late hours.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” you whispered holding his eyes.

“Good,” he returned. Running a hand along the side of your head. Simply to feel you in his grasp. Loving how your body fit perfectly against his side as it always had. This intimacy between you entirely new, yet somehow familiar.

The early hours of morning were beginning to creep under your skin. Yawning then nuzzling your head against his shoulder. Sleepily kissing his cheek before tucking your face under his jaw. Bodies pressed together. Arms wrapped around one another. Lingering in the comfort. A promise of new beginnings.

“Goodnight, Richie,” you mumbled against his skin.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” punctuating it with a kiss.

~

Richie’s body woke him up bright and early. Still in your bed. Your body still snuggled against him. Warm and comfortable. Light from the window basking you both in its morning glow. He admired you. Even asleep, you were stunning.

Then he heard a little buzz from his clothes discarded on the floor. His phone still in the pocket of his jacket. Cursing softly under his breath as he looked into the floor. There was no way he could reach it from the bed. Besides, he did not want to disturb you with a phone call. So he ever so slowly began to remove himself from you. The chill of the room sending goosebumps across his skin, only making him more frustrated.

“Rich…” you mumbled still mostly asleep. Chasing after his body as he slipped from the blanket. Eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“I’ll be right back,” Richie pressed a kiss to your head, keeping his voice to a whisper, “Phone keeps going off. I’m gonna see what’s going on.”

You grunted in response. Instantly falling back asleep. Richie threw his pants and jacket on. Digging in the pocket for his phone as he walked out of your bedroom and to the front door. Pulling out the box of cigarettes with his phone. Placing one between his lips as he unlocked his screen.

It was Carmy.

Eight times. Calling him over and over like the little shit he was. It was probably something that could have waited until later, but Carmy did not have a relaxed bone in his body. He flicked the lighter he had tucked in the box and took a drawl of the cigarette before another call came through.

“Hey, cousin—“

“Look who decided to finally answer. Hey, yeah, Rich. I need you to go apologize to Y/N today. Last night was a fucking wash. I don’t care what you gotta do, just go say you’re sorry,” Carmy speedily said on the other line.

Richie smiled. Resting his head against the brick outside your apartment. Cigarette loosely dangling from his lips. Watching the way the sky shifted colors across the city. Feeling a warmth in his chest. Knowing you were just a door away. That you were probably still waiting for him to come back into bed.

“You hear me? I fucking mean it,” Carmy’s tone shifted when Richie did not answer.

“Yeah. Watch your attitude, kid. I’ll take care of it,” Richie muttered into the phone. Eyebrows knitting momentarily before his posture calmed.

“Thanks, cousin.”

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! This is my first time writing for Richie, and I think I’m in love with this guy. I love how brash and sarcastic he is. What a dream boat. A very fun addition to my roster. As always, my inbox is always open. Requests are welcome. Likes and Reblogs are appreciated. I love you :) //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @person-005 ~ @hargrovehoe ~ @its-a-show-stoppin-number ~

[ierofrnkk]

my beautiful princess with a disorder

[em1i2a3]

Every time this scene comes up on my page my finger is magically magnetized to the reblog button.

[baobeishark]

Hello! Can I request a Will imagine please?

You two get into the biggest fight right before the playoffs for the Stanley Cup but you still show up to support him?

mad (will smith x reader)

word count: 1,500+ words

a/n: post number ten! 🩵 dragging out the ache a bit more per your request. from now on i'll be posting 2 requests a day, enjoy reading!

now is im yelling over her, she yelling over me/ all that means is neither of us is listening/ and what's even worse is we don't even remember why we're fighting

the silence in the kitchen wasn't peaceful; it was a battlefield.

the clock on the microwave glowed a harsh, blinding 1:47 a.m. the air in the house was thick, suffocating, and entirely charged with the remnants of the loudest, most volatile argument you and will had ever had in your entire relationship. the stanley cup playoffs had officially arrived in san jose, and the sheer pressure of it had been a ticking time bomb. will was a rookie carrying the weight of an entire franchise's postseason hopes on his broad shoulders. he was exhausted, operating on pure adrenaline and zero sleep, and his fuse had grown dangerously short.

the fight had started over something completely stupid—a misplaced set of keys, a forgotten dinner—but it had quickly snowballed into a brutal release of months of built-up stress. words were thrown like heavy hits against the boards. cruel, unfiltered words born out of pure exhaustion. will had stood by the kitchen island, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle leaped violently under his skin, his dark eyes flashing with a harsh, defensive anger you had never seen from him before.

"if you're going to constantly doubt whether i'm present enough for this relationship right now, then maybe you shouldn't be here!" he had snapped, his voice a low, dangerous growl that completely shattered the quiet house.

the words had sliced straight through your chest. you had slammed your glass down on the counter, your hands shaking violently, tears of pure frustration and hurt stinging your eyes. "i don't doubt you, will! i'm trying to support you, but you're treating me like the enemy!"

"then stop crowding me!" he had yelled back, his chest heaving under his grey sharks heather t-shirt.

and that was it. the final blow. you had turned on your heel, walking straight down the hallway and locking yourself in the guest bedroom, leaving him standing entirely alone in the dark kitchen. neither of you slept. you lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled thud of his heavy footsteps pacing the living room floor until the sun came up.

when morning arrived, the house was silent. you heard the heavy click of the front door closing at 8:00 a.m. as will left for morning skate. he hadn't knocked on your door. he hadn't texted. the silence between you was a concrete wall, thick and utterly miserable.

it was game one of the western conference finals. the biggest night of his career.

every single part of your pride told you to stay home. you were hurt, emotionally drained, and furious. but as the hours ticked closer to puck drop, the image of will's exhausted, stressed face from the night before kept flashing in your mind. you loved him too much to let a stupid, stubborn fight dictate your loyalty.

so, you put on his black jersey. the one with smith and the number two stitched across the back.

when you arrived at the sap center, the energy was absolute madness. a sea of teal, deafening chants, and flashing stadium lights. you took your usual seat in the family section behind the sharks bench, your heart doing a slow, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

during warmups, will skated out onto the ice. he looked intense, his eyes completely locked into game-mode, his jaw tight. but as he ran through his usual drills, his gaze instinctively flicked up toward your usual seats.

the exact second his eyes found you sitting there, wearing his jersey, his entire posture visibly faltered.

he didn't smile, and neither did you. the tension from the kitchen was still lingering heavily in the air across the glass divide, but the raw relief that washed over his pale face was completely undeniable. you showed up.

the game was a brutal, physical battle. will played like a man possessed, throwing his body into every play, his movements sharp, aggressive, and fueled by a terrifying amount of suppressed emotion. you watched with your breath caught in your throat as he took a heavy hit into the boards, pushing through the pain to secure a massive, tie-breaking assist in the third period.

when the final horn sounded, the sharks walked away with a hard-fought 3-2 victory. the arena exploded into pure chaos, the crowd screaming, but your chest just felt entirely heavy. the initial anger had faded, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache that made you feel completely small.

you didn't wait around for the post-game celebrations. you quietly slipped out of the arena, driving back to the quiet house in the absolute dark.

—

when you got home, the house felt too big, too empty. you walked to the guest room, but the cold sheet felt uninviting. instead, you dragged a heavy throw blanket out to the living room sectional, collapsing onto the cushions. the emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours finally caught up to you. your chest heaved, hot tears silently spilling over your eyelashes and soaking into the fabric of the couch until your eyes burned. eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted into a heavy miserable sleep, the tracks of your tears drying tight against your cheeks.

at 11:30, the front door clicked open.

will walked into the house, but he wasn't empty-handed. despite the late hour and the exhaustion radiating off his large frame, his arms were absolutely overloaded. he had spent the drive home frantically tracking down everything he knew you loved. in one hand, he clutched a massive, slightly crumpled bouquet of your favorite fresh flowers. tucked under his arm was a warm brown takeout bag from your favorite late-night food spot, and a convenience store bag full of your specific, go-to gummy candies was dangling from his fingers.

his mind was racing, a mix of a playoff victory and the guilt of how he had left things with you.

he immediately set the bags and flowers quietly down on the kitchen counter, his heart hammering against his ribs. he walked down the hallway, checking the guest room door. it was unlocked, the bed empty and untouched.

panic shot straight through his chest, a cold, sharp dread making his breath hitch. did you leave?

will turned on his heel, practically sprinting back toward the living room. the second he stepped into the dim space, his shoulders instantly dropped in relief.

there you were.

you were curled into a tight ball on the center of the sectional, your knees pulled up to your chest, tightly wrapped in the blanket. the room was only lit by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across your face. will took a slow, quiet step closer, his eyes scanning your sleeping form until his gaze locked onto your cheeks. even in the dim light, he could see the faint, glistening lines of dry tears staining your skin.

his heart violently broke right there in the middle of the room.

he looked down at the small glass coffee table right beside the couch. resting there was a tiny, bakery-box lid flipped open. inside was a petite, beautifully frosted cake you must have picked up before the fight. written across the top in delicate script were the words: congratulations, smitty.

will stared at the cake, and then back at your tear-stained face, and the sheer weight of what he had done completely crushed him. you were hurting, you were crying, and yet you had still gone out of your way to buy him a celebratory cake. you had still worn his jersey.

he dropped down to his knees on the carpet right beside the couch, his long frame sinking low as he leaned over your sleeping form.

"hey baby," will whispered, his voice incredibly rough, and completely cracking with a sudden flood of emotion.

your eyelashes fluttered, a soft frown crossing your face before your eyes slowly opened. the moment you saw him hovering over you, your gaze guarded over instantly, the hurt from the kitchen rushing right back into your chest. you didn't move toward him. you just stared, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders.

"will," you murmured, your voice small, tired, and entirely flat.

he didn't try to force you into a hug. he knew he hadn't earned it yet. instead, his large hand definitionally came up, trembling slightly as his knuckles gently, brushed against the edge of your jawline, his thumb smoothing over the dry tear tracks on your cheek.

"i- i saw the cake, thank you" he choked out, his eyes glittering with heavy, unshed tears as he looked down at you, his chest heaving under his shirt. "and i saw you at the game.... i don't deserve you. i am incredibly sorry baby. i was so stressed and so tired, and i took everything out on the only person who actually protects me."

you looked at his bloodshot eyes, the absolute, crushing remorse written across his face, but the ache in your chest didn't just disappear. you let out a slow, shaky breath, a single fresh tear leaking out and catching on his thumb.

"you really hurt me, will," you whispered, your voice breaking as you finally admitted it out loud. "i was just trying to be there for you, and you made me feel like i was a burden."

"i know. i know, and i hate myself for it," will breathed out, a low, broken sound tearing from his throat. he leaned his forehead against the edge of the couch cushions, right next to your arm, his shoulders shaking as he finally let his own tears fall into the fabric. "i don't ever want to make you feel like that again. please forgive me, i'm sorry baby."

the stubborn pride you had been holding onto for twenty-four hours finally began to fracture, the vulnerability in his voice making it impossible to stay completely distant.

you slowly uncurled one of your arms from beneath the blanket, your hand trembling as you reached out, your fingers gently sliding into his damp, messy hair. you didn't pull him in for a passionate kiss, and you didn't pretend everything was completely fixed, but as you slowly stroked his hair, letting him feel the quiet warmth of your touch, will let out a shuddering sigh of pure relief.

you shifted your eyes past his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the kitchen counter where the massive bouquet of flowers and the plastic convenience store bags were sitting in the dim light.

a tiny, involuntary smile finally tugged at the corner of your lips, the heavy tension in your chest lifting just a bit. you looked back down at his worried, flustered face.

"tell me you at least bought my usual after-fight snacks," you murmured, a soft, teasing little laugh bubbling past your lips.

will let out a sudden, breathless laugh of his own, the absolute relief making his shoulders sag as he buried his face into your side for a second. he looked up at you, his eyes finally crinkling at the corners with that boyish, charming smile.

"the food, the flowers, and two bags of the sour gummies," he promised softly, his voice thick with affection as he leaned up to press a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead. "everything you like. i swear."

"okay," you softly chuckled, moving your legs back just a fraction to make space on the wide cushions. "come here then."

will didn't waste a single second, climbing onto the sectional and pulling you securely against his chest, the storm officially starting to clear.

(but honestly i really don't see him shouting at anyone except the refs for a wrong call on the ice lmfao)

[lhughsey43-girly]

I read a fic about Jack getting pissed off on the ice when some rookie talked some serious shit about his girl on the ice. I think it was called “The Code,” but ofc I can’t find it to credit the author for the idea, so if anyone knows the fic or comes across it in their travels, please tell me so I can credit the idea! I kinda just wanted one like it for Luke, soooooo here we are! Enjoy.

Edit: The author of "The Code" (where I got this idea from) is @pucksandpower go read it its absolutely phenomenal!

Warnings: Use of (Y/N), AFAB! Reader, swearing, fighting, suggestive-ish but no smut

Word Count: 4020

Summary: During the game, a Bruins player insults her and implies Luke and Jack share her, which makes Luke snap and punch him, earning a game misconduct. Later that night, Y/N discovers the real reason for the fight when a mic’d-up video goes viral online, leaving her embarrassed while Luke and Jack reassure her that the player crossed a line.

____

Luke glided in a slow circle near center ice during warmups, the familiar scrape of blades and the echo of pucks hitting boards filling the arena. The lights were bright, the stands mostly full as fans trickled in, but his attention kept drifting upward, toward the WAG box.

Y/N was tucked into one of the seats with the other girlfriends and wives, leaning forward as she laughed at something one of the women said. She had Luke’s jersey on, and the sight of it alone was enough to make something warm bloom in his chest.

He couldn’t stop smiling. It was stupid, really. He knew it was stupid, but he kept glancing up there anyway, pretending to stretch or loop another warmup lap just so he could look again.

She looked so comfortable up there, and maybe the thing that made him happiest was knowing that she was wearing his number.

For the longest time, she’d bounced between jerseys; one night she’d be in Jack’s number 86, cheering loudly from the glass like she had known him forever. The next she’d show up in Luke’s 43, sleeves pulled over her hands as she leaned against the railing of the suite, smiling down at the ice whenever he looked up.

Luke had tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. He was really bad at it because it absolutely did, and it was completely obvious. 

Jack, of course, thought the whole situation was hilarious. “Sharing is caring,” he’d said with a smug grin. Luke had nearly thrown a roll of tape at his head.

Still, Y/N never meant anything by it. To her, it was simple: Jack was her best friend first, Luke was her friend too, and she supported both of them equally.

Except for very specific games, whenever the Devils played the Sharks. Those nights, she walks into the arena wearing teal.

Luke remembered spotting her in warmups and doing a full double-take when he realized the name on the back of the jersey didn’t say Hughes at all.

It said Celebrini. Number 71. Macklin Celebrini, because despite being best friends with him and his star center brother… Y/N had been a Sharks fan since she was a kid.

Jack had laughed so hard he nearly fell over on the bench. “Dude,” Jack had said, nudging Luke with his elbow. “Our best friend is literally wearing the other team’s jersey.”

Luke had just stared up at the stands in disbelief while she waved cheerfully at him like nothing about the situation was weird.

After the game, Jack wouldn’t let it go. “So let me get this straight,” Jack had said in the locker room, still grinning. “You still can’t get the girl… and she shows up wearing another guy’s jersey?”

Luke had glared at him while unlacing his skates. “She’s a Sharks fan.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, smirking. “A Sharks fan with a Devil who’s in love with her. Tragic.”

Eventually, the rotation stopped somewhere along the way after they got together, Luke wasn’t even sure when exactly, she stopped wearing Jack’s number, and now whenever she came to games, she showed up in 43.

Luke’s jersey. Every time.

Which was exactly why, as he circled the ice during warmups tonight, he couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot when he looked up at the WAG box and saw her wearing it again. It had driven Luke absolutely insane.

Tonight’s game was against Boston. The Bruins were always a pain in the ass to play against, physical and relentless, and the Devils needed the win. Luke had already decided before he even stepped onto the ice that he was going to play the best game of his season.

He flicked a puck toward the net during a passing drill, then casually drifted backward, lifting his head again toward the suite.

Right on cue, Y/N looked down toward the ice. Their eyes met for a split second, she smiled, and Luke nearly skated directly into the boards.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice said beside him.

Luke blinked, snapping his attention back to the ice just as Jack coasted up next to him, stick resting across his gloves as he watched Luke with a knowing look.

“What’s goin’ on, Lukey?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.

Luke tried, and failed, to wipe the grin off his face.

“Nothing,” he said quickly.

Jack slowly followed Luke’s gaze up toward the WAG box.

He snorted. “Oh,” Jack said. “I see.”

Luke shoved him lightly with his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Jack laughed, skating a lazy circle around him before leaning in again.

“You’re all smiley because you stole my best friend,” Jack said.

“I didn’t steal her.” Luke scoffed, though the grin stayed plastered on his face.

Jack gave him a look. “You absolutely did.”

Luke tapped his stick against the ice and shrugged. “She chose me.”

“Oh my god,” Jack groaned dramatically, throwing his head back.

Luke just smirked, glancing up toward the box again. Y/N was still talking with the other women, completely unaware of the conversation happening on the ice about her.

“Dude,” Jack continued, nudging him with his stick. “You’ve looked up there like twelve times in the last two minutes she’s not going anywhere, calm down.”

Luke shot him a glare.

Jack leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You realize if you play like garbage tonight she’s gonna switch back, right?”

Luke whipped his head toward him. “She would not.”

“Better score then, Lukey boy.” Jack just shrugged, pushing off the ice again.

Luke watched him skate away before glancing up one more time.

___

The game had been going almost perfectly.

The Devils were up 3–1, the crowd at Prudential Center was loud, and the energy on the ice felt electric. Luke took felt sharp, his edges were clean, his passes were landing, and the Bruins were clearly getting frustrated trying to keep up.

From the corner of his vision during one whistle earlier in the period, he’d even glanced up at the WAG box again.

Y/N was watching him with a huge smile on her face and even sent him a little wave he wished he could return. It had put a little extra fire in his chest.

Now the puck was back in play late in the period, and Luke chased it into the corner along the boards. A Bruins forward, some kid Luke didn’t recognize, came barreling in a second later.

The hit was hard shoulder straight into Luke’s side.

Luke slammed into the boards with a loud crack, the glass rattling behind him as the puck skittered away down the ice. He pushed himself upright, annoyance already rising.

Most guys finished a check and skated off. This one stayed close enough just to keep chirping at him.

Luke turned slightly, squinting at the jersey. He didn’t even recognize the number. He definitely wasn’t one of Boston’s regular guys. Probably some AHL call-up trying to make a name for himself.

The kid smirked. “You distracted, Hughsey?” he said, dragging the nickname out mockingly.

Luke frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The Bruin leaned a little closer, clearly enjoying himself. “That girl,” he said casually. “Y/N, right?”

Luke’s jaw tightened almost painfully. “Don’t talk about her.”

“The one all over your Instagram. Yours and Jack’s.” The kid laughed. “You’re obsessed,” the Bruin continued, his tone dripping with fake amusement.

Luke stared at him several emotions passing through him.

“Or,” the kid added with a shrug, “maybe she’s just easy.”

Luke’s head snapped toward him. “Easy?” he repeated.

The Bruin’s grin widened, clearly proud he got a reaction. “What, you and Jack pass her back and forth or something?” he said loudly. “That the deal? Probably the only reason you keep her around, huh?”

Luke’s hands clenched around his stick.

“For the good pu–”

The guy never finished the sentence. One second he was smirking. The next Luke’s bare fist was smashing straight into his face.

The impact snapped the kid’s head sideways and both of them went down hard, skates tangling as they crashed onto the ice.

Luke didn’t even remember dropping his gloves. He just knew suddenly he was on top of the guy, fist gripping the front of his jersey while his other hand drove another punch forward.

The arena erupted, players rushed in from every direction.

“HEY–HEY–HEY!”

“LUKE!”

“BREAK IT UP!”

Luke wouldn’t heard any of it. All he could see was red. The Bruin underneath him tried to shove him away, but Luke just grabbed the front of his helmet and shoved him back against the ice.

Somewhere behind him he heard Jack.

“LUKE–DUDE–” Jack was grabbing his shoulders, trying to haul him off. “LET GO!”

A referee dove in from the side, another Bruin player trying to pull their teammate away, but Luke fought against all of them for a second longer, still seething.

Luke’s chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. His helmet had come loose, hair falling into his eyes as he glared across the ice at the kid being restrained by his own teammates.

Jack was still gripping his arm. “Luke!” Jack snapped.

Luke jerked against the hold again, trying to get free.

Jack shoved him back. “Dude, stop.”

Luke’s breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling hard as the referees finally forced space between him and the Bruins player. The rush of adrenaline was still going through his body, making his hands shake as the officials kept a firm grip on his arms.

Across the ice, the Bruins kid was being dragged backward toward the penalty box by another official. Blood streaked the corner of his lip where Luke’s fist had caught him, and he kept trying to twist around the ref’s hold so he could yell something across the ice.

Luke didn’t care what he was saying, didn’t even spare him a second glance. His attention had already shifted up to the WAG suite.

Y/N was pressed right up against the glass now, both hands resting against it as she stared down at the ice. The excitement and laughter she’d had earlier in the game were completely gone, replaced with wide eyes and a worried crease between her brows.

She looked scared, and that alone made Luke’s stomach twist. Their eyes locked for a moment across the arena, and he could see her lips move like she was saying his name.

“Luke!” A hand grabbed his shoulder. The referee was still talking to him, but Luke barely heard him.  “Luke, what happened there? What started that?” 

Jack was right next to the ref, trying to get in his line of sight. “Dude, what the hell was that?”

Luke didn’t answer either of them. His jaw was tight, breathing still uneven, eyes drifting back up toward the suite for a second longer before the officials started guiding him toward the bench.

The arena buzzed with the noise of fans shouting, and players yelling.

As they pushed him toward the Devils bench, Nico leaned over the boards, his expression somewhere between confused and concerned.

“Luke!” Nico called. “What the fuck happened, man?!”

The ref kept a hand on Luke’s back, steering him toward the open bench door.

Luke finally tore his eyes away from the suite. “Man should’ve kept his mouth shut,” Luke muttered bitterly.

Jack shot the ref a look before grabbing Luke by the arm as they reached the bench.

The official signaled toward the locker room. Game misconduct, which meant he was done for the night

Luke already knew, he pulled his arm free, shoving past the end of the bench.

“Luke—”

“Yeah,” Luke snapped quietly. “I know.” He started down the tunnel toward the locker room without another word.

Behind him, skates scraped the ice quickly.

“Luke!” Jack yelled.

Luke heard the bench door slam open as Jack jumped off. Footsteps echoed behind him in the hallway leading toward the locker room.

Jack caught up a second later, grabbing his arm again. “Man you never fight,” Jack said, completely baffled. “What the hell did that kid do?”

Luke stopped his shoulders were still tense, jaw clenched tight as he stared down the hallway.

For a moment he said nothing just glaring into the abyss of the dimly lit hallway.

When he spoke his voice came out quiet, but thick with anger. “…Started chirpin’ at me about Y/N.”

Jack blinked. “About–” His face darkened. “Are you fucking–” Jack turned back toward the ice entrance like he was ready to storm right back out there. “I’ll kill him.”

Luke grabbed the back of Jack’s jersey before he could take more than two steps.

“Jack.”

Jack stopped but his hands were clenched. “What did he say?” Jack asked, voice low.

Luke hesitated. The words still rang loud in his ears.

That girl… Y/N right? Easy. What do you and Jack pass her back and forth?

Luke’s jaw flexed. “…Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

Jack stared at him. “Luke.”

Luke looked away, dragging a hand through his sweat soaked hair. “He started talking about her,” Luke said finally, voice tight. “About us. About you.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What about us?”

Luke let out a slow breath. “He said… we pass her around.”

Jack’s expression went from confusion to pure fury in about half a second. “That little—”

Luke cut him off. “And then he called her easy.”

Jack’s entire posture stiffened. For a moment neither of them moved.

Then Jack turned toward the tunnel again. “Yeah, no,” he said flatly. “I’m actually gonna kill him.”

Luke stepped in front of him this time. “Jack.”

Jack’s chest rose and fell once. “Dude,” he said, voice tight. “You know you don’t say shit like that.”

Luke nodded slowly. “Yeah, but you should’ve seen her face just now. She doesn’t need you getting into a fight too.”

Jack looked back toward the ice one more time, jaw clenched. “Fine, but I’ll have his ass for this,” Jack growled.

____

The Devils pulled out the win 4–3 in overtime, and the arena had erupted when the final goal hit the back of the net. The crowd had been on their feet, the red lights flashing while the team piled together along the boards.

Luke had watched it all from the locker room. Usually after games he’d be right there in the pile, grabbing teammates, yelling, laughing, soaking in the noise of the win.

He was done the moment the refs dragged him off the ice, and the walk down the tunnel afterward had felt longer than usual.

Not because he regretted the fight. He didn’t, but because he knew what was waiting upstairs. Luke leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, running a hand through his hair as the sounds of celebration slowly filtered into the locker room.

Jack and a few of the other guys came storming in, still buzzing from overtime.

“WOOOO!” Jack yelled, tossing his gloves into his stall. “Let’s go!”

Jack pulled his jersey off over his head before finally glancing over at Luke, his expression softened a little.

“You good?” he asked.

Luke nodded once. “Yeah.”

Jack grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his face before tossing it over his shoulder. “You ready?” he asked after a moment.

Luke sighed quietly and pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah.”

—

About twenty minutes later, once the locker room had mostly cleared and the media chaos had died down, Luke and Jack headed up toward the WAG suite.

The hallway outside the suite was quieter now, most of the girlfriends and families already gathering their coats and bags.

Y/N was standing near the exit, wrapped in the arms of Nico’s girlfriend. She was hugging her tightly, clearly saying goodbye.

Y/N looked distracted though, glancing toward the door every few seconds like she was waiting for something, or someone.

Then she saw them.

“Luke!” Her voice cut across the room. She pulled away from the hug and hurried across the suite toward them.

Luke barely had time to brace himself before she reached him, grabbing his arms and holding him out at arm’s length. Her eyes scanned him rapidly from head to toe looking for injuries.

“What happened?!” she asked breathlessly. “You never fight!” Her hands slid to his shoulders as she leaned closer, still inspecting him. “You had me worried sick– what the hell did that guy do?”

“Good to see you too, Buggy,” Jack said dryly beside him, rolling his eyes.

Y/N’s head whipped toward him. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Jackson,” she snapped.

Jack froze his nose scrunching, he hated when she used his fake government name.

“You didn’t get into a fight!” she continued, glaring at him. “He did!”

Jack held his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay—”

She turned right back to Luke, her voice softer now and full of concern. “Are you okay?”

Luke could see the worry written all over her face. The way her brows were pulled together, and the way her hands were still gripping his arms like she needed to make sure he was ok.

The guilt twisted in his chest.

“Y/N,” Luke sighed gently.

Before she could keep spiraling, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. Her body immediately relaxed against him, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

She hugged him back instantly, arms sliding around his middle like she’d been waiting to do that all night.

“But you–”

“I’m fine,” Luke repeated quietly, he rested his chin lightly against her hair. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Jack watched the two of them for a second before letting out a small sigh.

“Alright,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “Can we go home now? Because I’m starving.”

Y/N shot him a look. “You’re always starving.”

Jack shrugged. “Winning makes me hungry.”

Luke finally cracked the smallest smile. “C’mon,” he said softly to Y/N, taking her hand. “Let’s go home.”

____

About an hour after the game ended, the apartment had finally settled into something quiet and normal again.

The adrenaline from the game was gone, the noise of the arena replaced by the soft glow of the TV and the low murmur of whatever show Luke had thrown on. The living room lights were dim, just the warm lamp in the corner casting a soft glow across the couch.

Luke sat stretched out along one side of the couch, long legs taking up most of the space, with Y/N tucked against him. She was curled comfortably against his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders while his other hand lazily traced circles along her arm.

Jack, meanwhile, had claimed the recliner across the room, one foot hooked over the armrest while he scrolled aimlessly through his phone.

The quiet lasted all of ten seconds.

Then Y/N’s phone buzzed, again, and again, and again.

Luke felt it vibrating against the couch cushion next to her. Y/N frowned slightly but didn’t move.

Then another buzz a brief pause, then three more in rapid succession. Jack glanced up from his phone slowly. The buzzing kept going.

“Jesus,” Y/N muttered, shifting slightly. “What the hell…”

Luke’s eyes flicked toward the phone.

More notifications lit up the screen. Instagram, tags, and mentions. Her phone started buzzing so fast it was practically vibrating off the cushion.

“What the hell is going on?” Y/N said, leaning forward to grab it.

Two voices shouted at the exact same time.

“NO!”

Jack shot out of the recliner like someone had launched him. Luke tightened his arm around her, and Jack snatched the phone off the couch right before she could reach it.

Y/N blinked at him in disbelief. “Jack.”

He held the phone out of reach like she was a toddler trying to grab a knife. “Absolutely not.”

“Jack give me my phone,” she said slowly.

“Nope.”

“Jack.”

“It’s movie night,” he said firmly. “No phones allowed.”

Y/N stared at him. “You have been on your phone this entire time.”

“That’s… different.”

“My phone is blowing up,” she continued, pointing at it. “There has to be a reason.”

Jack looked at Luke. Luke looked at Jack.

Jack panicked. “Yeah– well– uh– Luke!”

Luke immediately pulled her tighter against him. “He’s right,” Luke said calmly. “You don’t need that.”

Y/N slowly turned her head to look up at him. “…You two are acting weird.”

“We’re not.” Luke shook his head.

“You are.”

Jack had already started slowly backing away toward the kitchen with her phone still in his hand.

“Jack Rowden Hughes,” she said, pointing. He froze mid-step. “Give me my phone.”

“No.”

“Jack.” She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Why can’t I look at it?”

“Because—” Jack started, searching for a reason,“…reasons.”

“Jack.”

“Reasons.”

She turned her attention back to Luke. “Luke.”

Luke avoided eye contact with impressive skill. “Don’t Luke me.”

“Luke Warren Hughes.”

He sighed. “It’s just… internet stuff.”

Y/N blinked. “Internet stuff?”

Another buzz echoed from the phone in Jack’s hand.

Jack looked down, and his eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Y/N’s head snapped up. “What?”

Jack immediately tried to shove the phone behind his back. “Nothing.”

“Jackson.”

Luke pinched the bridge of his nose. Jack stared at the phone again, then slowly looked up at Luke.

“Dude.”

Luke’s stomach dropped. “What.”

Jack turned the screen toward him Luke leaned forward slightly to look, and his entire body tensed because the top video playing on the screen was the fight.

“HOT MIC CAUGHT WHAT SCOFFIELD, OF THE BRUINS, SAID TO LUKE HUGHES BEFORE THE FIGHT…”

Luke swore under his breath. “Give me that,” he muttered.

Y/N had already noticed the look on both their faces. “…What happened.”

Jack tried to hide the phone again. “Nothing!”

“Jack.”

“It’s literally nothing.”

“Jack.”

“Just internet people being dramatic—”

She lunged forward and grabbed the phone out of his hands before either of them could stop her.

“HEY—”

Too late.

“You distracted, Hughsey?”

Y/N frowned slightly. 

“That girl, Y/N right?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped instantly. “Oh my god.” Her eyes widened.

Luke stood very still beside her. Jack slowly covered his face with his hands as the video kept playing.

“The one all over your and Jack’s instagram…”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the phone.

“Or is she just easy?”

Y/N’s entire face went pale. “Oh my god.”

Jack groaned. “Yeah we tried to stop you from seeing that.”

Luke’s voice. “Easy?”

Then Scoffield– “What do you and Jack pass her back and forth?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. Silence filled the room. She slowly lowered the phone, her face was bright red.

“Oh my god.”

Luke rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Bug—”

“Oh my god.” She looked at the phone again like it had betrayed her. “That’s why you– oh my god!”

Luke didn’t answer.

“Yeah.” Jack sighed.

Y/N stared at the screen, her face burning. “That is the most embarrassing thing I have ever heard in my life.”

Luke immediately shook his head. “Hey.”

“No it’s not even the insult,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “It’s the fact that the entire internet heard that. He said I’m easy!”

Jack leaned forward.

“Well… technically it was just the hockey side of the internet.”

“That’s not better!”

Luke gently took the phone from her hands and set it on the coffee table. “Bug.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “You punched someone because of me.”

Luke’s voice softened. “No.”

“Yes you did.”She pointed at him

“No,” he said again. “He said something disrespectful.”

Y/N looked down at the floor. Y/N groaned and buried her face into Luke’s chest.

“I’m never leaving the house again.”

Luke wrapped his arms around her again. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“My name is trending!”

Jack leaned over to look at the phone again. “…Actually yeah it kinda is.”

“JACK.”

"Sorry!"

[smithusiast]

will smith x reader where she needs him after an argument and he doesn’t answer and she thinks he doesn’t love her anymore?

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭

pairing: will x reader

wc: 2k

note: i wrote this super late at night so i barely had time to edit it so please let me know if i have any typos !

it’s been five days since the argument between you and will had taken place and all you’ve gotten from his end is radio silence. it wasn’t that you didn’t try because god, you really did.

you tried so hard.

every text left on read, every call going to voicemail, completely avoiding you at the group hangouts. at first you thought that he may have needed some space, that he was angry and needed some time to cool down but then your mind starts to wonder that maybe he just didn’t care enough to come back to you.

and that thought hurt like a bitch.

because on your end, despite how mad or upset you’ve ever been with him, if he called you’d still answer his calls or text so quick.

you’ve spent most of your days in bed, not even wanting to head down for hangouts with the group anymore knowing that will would be there and completely ignore you the entire night. being in the same room while he acted as if you never existed hurt more than not seeing him at all.

class then back home, work and then back home and that was how your last few days have been looking.

it wasn’t until your friend had finally had enough of your depressive state that you finally leave your house by using her birthday as an opportunity.

all you wanted to do was stay in bed and mope around with a tub of ice cream and a romcom movie in the back to give you some comfort of a relationship when yours with will felt like it was hanging by a thread.

“i hate seeing you this way y/n, come out tonight. for me please?”

and with that you knew you had no choice. you will be leaving and staying out late tonight, no exceptions which leaves you standing in a overcrowded bar wishing you were anywhere but here.

the music was blasting, people all around you having such a good time with their people but you on the other hand feeling the most miserable you’ve ever felt.

the drink in your hand barely sipped at as your friends around you joked around about who knows what. you couldn’t bother to pay attention even if you tried because your mind was currently elsewhere. you glance down at your phone, your last text sent to will stared right back at you.

you: please just talk to me will

read eight hours ago but no response.

you could feel your throat tighten up as you blink back the tears, locking your phone.

you can’t cry; not right now especially when you’re here to celebrate your friends birthday. the group spreads around, some of your friends grabbing another drink, some on the dance floor but you stayed in the booth still working on your first drink of the night.

“hey.”

you look up from your drink, your eyes locking on the man in front of you definitely older and standing a bit too close to your liking.

“hi?”

you look back down at your phone, clearly hoping he’d get the clue and walk away but of course not. your luck always terrible in these situations and now all you wished is that you didn’t respond in the first place.

“you here with somebody?”

“yep.”

“gotta boyfriend orrr?”

your heart feels like it could collapse any moment.

“yeah.”

he laughs, shaking his head. “that’s unfortunate, where is he though?”

you stay quiet, not knowing what else to say but the heaviness in your chest now doubled up more than it was before you came to the bar.

“must not be around if you’re sitting here alone.”

you stand up, trying to excuse yourself from the situation because staying quiet and dry clearly hasn’t worked in your favour so far.

“i’m good, please leave me alone.”

“oh come on now, let’s not be so hasty.”

he follows behind; trying to catch up to you.

“i’m not interested.”

he scoffs, “you didn’t even try and get to know me.”

“i don’t want to.”

you turn to leave but before you could take another step his fingers wrap tightly around your wrist hard stopping you in your tracks.

you freeze.

“i’m just trying to talk.”

his grip tightens slightly and you hiss at the pressure around your wrist.

“let go of me, what the fuck?”

“relax.”

“i said let go!”

you yank your arm harder, managing you get out of his hold stumbling back. your breathing begins to falter and all you know in the moment is that you need to leave.

you turn around and bolt towards the doors, clutching your wrist tightly to yourself. you can hear your friends calling for you but you don’t seem to care, all you need in that moment is to get out of the club.

the second you step outside of the bar, the tears begin streaming down your face. you take a deep breath, trying to regulate your breathing but it wasn’t working and it all just hits you at once.

the fight.

the silence.

the guy grabbing you.

you just needed will, you just want your boyfriend.

with shaky hands, you pull out your phone finding wills contact and hitting the call button.

its rings a couple of times before going to voicemail.

your stomach drops as you try ringing him again.

please answer.

straight back to voicemail, you bite back a sob that ripples through your body now. hands shaking you try one last time. straight to voicemail this time.

and that unanswered call hurt the most because that means he was ignoring you. your legs begin to shake underneath you as you take a seat against the curb, wrapping your arms around yourself as you break into sobs.

then another name crosses your mind.

macklin.

you find his contact and hit call not expecting him to answer so quick.

“hey y/n, what’s up?”

the second you hear his voice, you break down in sobs again.

“mack.”

“hey— hey woah. what’s going on?”

you felt like you couldn’t breathe, everything just becoming too much for you to handle.

“mack.”

“hey— i’m here. slow down for me.”

you try your best to calm yourself down, trying to get the words out as quick as you could without sobs tearing through you.

“some guy— some guy grabbed me.”

the line goes dead quiet.

“what?”

you could hear muffled movement in the back, “what do you mean grabbed you?”

“he wouldn’t leave me alone mack, he grabbed my arm and i told him to stop.”

you let out another shaky sob.

“where are you?”

“i’m outside.”

“okay— okay good. stay where you are.”

the calmness in his voice makes you want to cry more and before you could think the words came slipping out.

“i called will.”

“yeah?”

“i called him mack, i called him three times.”

your voice breaks as you continue, choking back a sob. “and he didn’t answer.”

what you didn’t know is that will is sitting with macklin, listening to every single word over the phone standing up so quickly the second he hears your sobs on the other end. that every word was hitting him like a bus.

“i needed him. i needed him and he didn’t answer.”

will felt as if he could throw up. every bit of anger he felt about the argument had completely vanished. all he knew was that you were crying and that you needed him and he didn’t fucking answer.

“where are you?” macklin asks and you give him the name of the bar you were at.

“does he hate me?”

will freezes as he hears those words.

“y/n—”

“because i don’t know why else he won’t talk to me.”

will felt like his heart has been ripped out of his chest as macklin looks at him with a look he can’t exactly read.

“he doesn’t hate you y/n, i promise.”

his voice is firm, like he’s trying to get it through to you.

wills already moving beside him unbeknownst to you, grabbing his keys but he doesn’t miss the last part of the phone call.

“mack.. i just want him.”

“i know, i know y/n. just stay where you are.”

-

you stayed sitting on the curb, not trusting your legs one bit to be standing. you wrap your arms around yourself, face buried in your knees that you barely hear your name being called.

“baby?”

your head snaps up once you hear his voice. the second you see him and how concerned he looked you can’t help but sob, getting up as quickly as you could with your shaking legs into his arms.

wills arms wrap around you without a second thought, pulling you tightly against him. “i’ve got you.”

“will.”

you can’t make out anything else, sobs taking over your body. you don’t even know what you’re crying about more. whether that will finally came or just everything finally catching up to you.

you cling to him tightly, afraid he’s going to disappear if you let go.

“i know, i know. i’m so fucking sorry.”

“i called you will.”

“i know baby.”

“you didn’t answer.”

will can physically hear his heart crack at how broken you sounded because he didn’t have an excuse. he was angry and immature when all you needed was him.

“i’m so sorry.”

you buried your face deeper in his chest and for the first time in days will lets himself hold you as tight as he possibly could.

-

the entire drive wills hand never left your leg; every few seconds he glanced over to make sure you were okay.

once you both finally get inside the apartment, you’re out of it. will follows behind you to the bedroom, grabbing one of his team issued shirts standing in front of you.

“arms up.”

you do as he says, too tired to even argue against anything. his hands slowly pull the dress off your body; wills eyes landing on the bruise that’s littered around your wrist.

“fuck.” his hands gently brush over the bruise, his heart breaking at the sight of you. the bruise on your arm making the whole thing finally sink in.

someone put their hands on you.

you needed him and he wasn’t there.

“will.”

“i was so angry about the stupid fight. so fucking petty and you needed me and i should’ve answered.”

you blink back tears, looking down at your fingers.

“i thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

will kneels in front of you leaning down to eye level, hands resting on your thighs.

“what?”

“i thought maybe you were done with me.”

“baby-”

“you wouldn’t talk to me, you wouldn’t answer. i thought you stopped loving me will.”

wills hands come up to cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. his eyes teary as they lock with yours.

“don’t ever think that.”

“will—”

“i was angry, and i acted like an idiot but i never stopped loving you. not for one second, i don’t even think im capable enough to ever do that.”

your lips wobble, “really?”

he lets out a watery laugh, “i’m so in love with you y/n and i’m so sorry that i ever made you doubt that.”

the tears you’ve been holding back finally start streaming down your cheeks and this time for a whole different reason. tears of relief after five days of thinking you lost your boyfriend.

will wraps his arms around you, pulling you down into his lap placing kisses against your forehead. “i’m so sorry.”

“i’m sorry too will.”

he shakes his head, pulling you back from his chest locking his eyes with yours.

“hey no, don’t apologize for any of this.”

“but i—”

“no.”

his hands come up to caress your face, resting his forehead against yours as he lets out a shaky breath.

“i love you, i love you so fucking much okay?”

you nod but will shakes his head.

“no baby- i need you to use your words. i love you, do you understand that?”

“yeah, i love you too will.”

he leans closer, his lips pressing against yours. you melt into the kiss immediately, hands coming around his neck to pull him closer to you. he pulls back a bit, resting his forehead against yours.

“never am i ever giving you a chance to have to call macklin because of me again.”

[puck-luck]

OMG I LOVE UR STUFF SM. as a Luke girlie i would like to request smth if that’s ok w u 🥹

gentle bf luke reading about the trick where it feels better if u put a pillow under someone’s hips during sex. so like obviously he tries it out 🫶

i love requests! i'm sad i'm not taking them right now, but i'm happy that i could write this for you anon <3 luke has been piquing my interest lately because he's just sooooo... so enjoy this peek into MY vision of umich!luke !

warnings: protected p in v, insecure/inexperienced luke, unaware of how good he is at pleasing his gf, locker room talk (yikes... but boys WILL be boys😞), fingering, squirting (yes. inexperienced sweet luke makes his gf SQUIRT), unexplored size kink pairing: umich!luke hughes x fem!reader word count: 4,225

“Dude, she was all over me.”

“Looked more like you were all over her, Ed.”

“Nah, I mean, I went up to her, but once we started dancing? She was, like, twerking on me.”

“No fucking chance!” Mark laughs. “I don’t care how dreamy YikYak says you are, Eddie. There’s no way a girl like that was twerking on you. That’s like when Lukey bagged Y/N.”

“Hey!” Luke exclaims, blindsided by the chirp. He thought they were talking about Eddie's exploits from the past weekend, not about his relationship with you. That topic has been beaten like a dead horse– like a body at the center of a scrum.

“Don’t take it personal, Hughesy.” Beniers jokes, bumping Luke’s shoulder. “It’s impressive that, of all people, Y/N picked you.”

Luke grumbles a vague complaint under his breath, scowling at the boys around the table. They always manage to bring you up in conversations like this, just because they know it makes Luke uncomfortable. You’re his first girlfriend, which they know well, but they don’t know that you’re his first Everything Else. If they did, the jokes would be ten times worse.

“Get to the point, Ed,” Luke instructs. “I want to see what other shit you make up.”

“I’m not making it up!” Ethan exclaims defensively, peeved by his friends’ ribbing. “I swear, she was throwing it back!”

Dylan snickers into his drink. “Yeah, and then what? You took her home and fucked her real good?”

“‘Til she was screaming?” Rutger adds.

“Actually, yes,” Ethan says. “We went back to her place because someone–” he side-eyes Mark. “–was ‘trying to study.’ ”

Mark smirks. Everyone knows he wasn’t studying on Saturday night. He hot boxed the suite with a girl from the fifth floor.

“So we went back to her place and we were watching a movie, then she blew me, which was awesome. Watched her finger herself with my dick down her throat and she was gagging, boys,” Ethan brags with a wide smile on his face. “Like, fuck, her makeup was all messed up because she was going at it.”

“Hot,” Matt says, a tinge of jealousy evident in his expression.

“Bro, it was,” Ethan verifies. “But it gets better.”

“Yeah?” Luke asks.

Ethan nods. “We’re in her bed, right, and she tells me she’s a fucking dancer.”

“No way,” Dylan reacts reverently.

Suddenly, everyone at the table is hanging onto Ethan’s every word. Locker room talk is one thing, commonplace and nothing to bat an eye over, but locker room talk about a dancer? About a gymnast? He’s got everyone’s attention now.

Ethan soaks it up, speaking slowly and smirking all the while. “While I’m fucking her, she wants me to put her legs up. I put them over my shoulders at first, you know, and shove a pillow under her hips, but she tells me to put her legs behind her head. Her head. She was folded in fucking half and I swear I’ve never had pussy like that– fucking tight, boys, and wet. She had to strip her sheets when I was done with her, give ‘em a wash.”

“Shit, Ed, are you going to Snap her?” Rut asks. “If you don’t… I will.”

Ethan shrugs, answering Rutger with some bland, noncommittal statement that Luke barely hears. He’s preoccupied.

While Luke isn’t exactly eager to share his lack of experience with the boys, he can’t help but ask the question on his mind. The comment flowed from Ethan’s mouth with the rest of his words, hiding among them, a small detail that no one cares about except Luke. Those six words– shove a pillow under her hips– shoot off alarm bells in his brain because that’s exactly what he didn’t do last week when you came over.

“What’s the pillow for?” Luke asks offhandedly, shoving a French fry in his mouth so he doesn’t seem as interested as he really is. “Under her hips?”

“You don’t do that for your girl, Hughesy?” Ethan asks, quirking a smile. An evil kind of amusement dances in his eyes. “You fuck Y/N in classic missionary, huh– you know, that makes sense. With a dick like yours, you don’t need that extra depth.”

The boys laugh and Luke’s cheeks flame. Not because of the comment about his length, the boys have seen it in the shower enough times to know he’s well-endowed and proud of it, but because Ethan said ‘classic missionary.’ Luke isn’t experienced enough to do much more– he only fucked you for the first time a little over a month ago, and it was classic missionary, and he didn’t last more than five minutes. You felt too good around him, squeezing him, and Luke had lost control of himself. It was humiliating.

Well, until you started grinding on his thigh until he got it up again. That wasn’t humiliating at all. That was beyond sexy.

He covers his tracks quickly. “Wouldn’t want to hurt her,” Luke says, then drops his voice. “But, y’know, if she wants it deep... I just get her on her hands and knees. Doggy’s her favorite.”

“Atta boy, Hughesy!” Matt claps Luke’s shoulder as the boys hoot and whistle, Luke’s flush only deepening as they celebrate him.

The truth is, Luke likes it most in doggy, not you. He’s fascinated by the way your ass bounces off his hips, always palming your cheeks and waist and feeling your supple and smooth skin under his callouses.

But, then again, he loves when you lay on your side in the mornings and he gets to spoon you while he fucks into you from behind. He holds your boobs in his hands and kisses the back of your neck and buries his whimpers in your hair.

But... nothing compares to kissing you with your legs wrapped around his waist in that ‘classic missionary,’ your body working to pull him closer with each and every thrust.

So maybe Luke can’t choose what position he likes the most. It’s all so good and you’re so beautiful.

The boys don’t need to hear that he’s sentimental like that, though, not when they’re all used to putting girls on nights out and taking them back to the dorms. Luke isn’t like them, not in that way, but he smiles smugly and pretends like he’s proud of his lie. He smiles like he’s not faking stories to fit in.

It isn’t long before someone gets distracted by a Fantasy Football notification on their phone and the conversation turns back to the boys’ normal topic: sports. Luke feels a lot better in this realm, where he actually is an equal with his peers, and Ethan’s comment is pushed to the back of his mind for the time being.

Later that night, Ethan’s six words pop into Luke’s head again.

You’re perched on his lap, straddling Luke and rolling your hips languidly with each kiss.

Dylan is out for the night– something about working on a project, then going to Rut’s for a couple of drinks while football’s on– and Luke would be damned if he didn’t take advantage of the empty room.

His bedsheets have slipped down your body, pooling over Luke’s knees. You were laying down together for a while, talking and kissing and doing your assigned reading for your English Lit class. Luke was doing his best to distract you from that reading and he succeeded, if the hickeys dotting your collarbones and chest are anything to go by.

You shift away from Luke and he follows you subconsciously, keeping your pelvises together like a perfect fit between puzzle pieces. When you lay back on the bed, Luke fills the space between your thighs. Your hands sneak up the front of his t-shirt and Luke, in tandem, removes it so your bare palms have unfettered access to his pecs and abs and biceps and shoulders, or wherever else they decide to roam.

Your nails scratch lightly down his back as Luke ruts against you, his cock pulsing with need. He never understood what people meant when they said love drives a person crazy, but Luke gets it now. He understood it from the first moment he met you, when you set your tray down at his table and sat down before you even finished asking if you could sit with him. That exasperated, grumpy morning voice of yours had Luke captivated from the very beginning.

Luke hooks his elbow under your knee and lifts it, spreading your legs wider so he can get closer to you, so he can feel the pressure of your snug cunt against his entire bulge, no matter the angle. He moans into your mouth and grinds, following your slit from tip to base, feeling you mold to him even through the layers of clothes.

“Fuck, Luke,” you sigh. Your fingers clench his curls and Luke moans again, kissing you deeper and grinding harder against you. “Oh.”

Then, you lift your hips.

And Luke freezes mid-kiss.

There’s Ethan's voice, ghostly and echoing in Luke’s brain: “I shove a pillow under her hips.” 

Did you do this last time? Did Luke miss it? It's such an obvious movement, an obvious request to fill that space with something soft that’ll prop you up the way you want.

Luke blinks and finishes kissing you, pulling away and covering up his hesitation by mouthing over your neck.

You hum pleasantly, arching into Luke again.

His brain feels like it’s short circuiting, sparking and breaking because he’s all too aware of what he didn’t do and what he doesn’t know. It should come naturally to him– most of it does, to be fair. It’s not too hard to figure out what part goes where and what feels good when. But this? Knowing when you need a lift or when you want him to change his pace? That’s a mystery to Luke and, worse, it worries him so much that he has to stop.

“Lu?” you question, your eyebrows coming together in concern.

“Did– does– is this okay?” Luke asks. “Do you feel good?”

“I– yeah, Luke, it’s so good,” you confirm, delicate fingers squeezing his deltoid like a double-check. “Are you... do you feel good?”

Luke nods like a bobblehead, awkward and clumsy. He still doesn’t move, though, hands fixed to your waist like they’re glued. You can still feel his cock against your core, waiting for the action to resume, but he doesn’t do anything.

“Is—” you start, but change the direction of the question one word in. There’s really only one reason Luke would stop, that you know of, and it’s not nearly as embarrassing as he thinks it is. You feel rather proud whenever you make Luke come in his pants, or he comes close to doing so. “Do you need a minute?”

Luke frowns. “No.” He ducks his head and kisses your jaw, slumping against you. “It’s stupid.”

“What is it?” you ask. “I bet it’s not.”

“Bleh,” Luke groans into the thin skin over your pulse.

“Luke,” you insist, grabbing his curls and yanking him up to meet your eye. “What’s wrong, baby?”

His stomach flutters at the pet name, although Luke won’t admit it.

“Eddie said something earlier,” Luke relents, shying away from your gaze. “He was talking about this girl he met and how he put a pillow under her hips while they... you know... and I didn’t do that last time, and now I feel like I should’ve.”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip and blink at Luke. 

“Because– well, because I want you to feel good,” Luke continues, stumbling over his words. “And, like, you know I’m not super... I haven’t done this much, and I don’t want to do anything wrong or uncomfortable for you, so I was just…”

“Worried,” you say, finishing Luke’s sentence when he trails off. You cradle his cheeks and pull him in for a chaste kiss, telling him with absolute conviction, “You’ve done nothing wrong, Luke.”

“But I–”

“Do you want to try it?” you interrupt.

Luke’s mouth snaps shut. “Huh?” he asks after a brief pause. 

You shrug, a half smile on your face. You reach up and fix a curl that fell over his forehead. “We could try both ways, and then we’ll talk about what feels better after.”

“Both– tonight?” Luke asks, lifting his gaze to the clock on his bedside table. 

You laugh lightly and pat his chest. “Too ambitious?”

“No, it’s just,” Luke clears his throat. “I don’t know how late Duker is staying at Rut’s.”

“Okay,” you say. You grab his spare pillow and wiggle it underneath the small of your back. Luke watches you, jaw slack. You start to undress, pushing your leggings down. “Ooh, it makes this easier.”

Luke’s ear catches on your tone. It almost sounds like… you haven’t done this either. “Y/N,” Luke says, tilting his head.

“What’s up?” you ask, eyes focused on removing your leggings from your ankle and tossing them away. You grin sweetly at him after they hit the floor with a quiet thud.

“Have you…?” Luke doesn’t finish his sentence, trusting you to fill in his blank. 

You shake your head. “Never. Not like this. Always like we did last week.”

Luke’s eyes widen into big, starry saucers. All this time, here he was, worrying about how you were feeling and about how he matched up with your previous partners. He was worrying about how his inexperience could taint the night, taint your encounters, taint the intimacy that he values so much... and you’ve been on the same level as him all along. You’ve never done it like this either, unless you’re lying, but you wouldn’t lie to Luke. You’ve never lied to Luke.

He can’t express his relief through words, so he surges forward and captures your mouth. He pinches your sides as his kisses grow more ferocious, desperate to convey all that he can’t say.

You understand and you kiss him back, making a soft, pleased noise when Luke begins to grind against your core again. He reaches between your bodies and slides a finger beneath the band of your panties, dipping it into your wetness.

“You don’t know how much better that makes me feel,” Luke mumbles against your lips. He kisses you after finishing his sentence, sweet peck after sweet peck.

“You have a lot of expectations for yourself, Lu,” you reply, your tone kind and patient. “But you don’t have to be like everyone else. So what if they go out and pick up girls and have more sex than you do? You’re doing it now, at your pace, and the only people who need to know about it are you and me.”

Luke curls his finger inside you, tracing his favorite ridge on your inner walls, the one that makes your toes curl and breath quicken. A small smile relaxes his expression. “You and me,” Luke echoes quietly. Warmly. He probes your entrance with a second finger, working it beside the first.

You slip your tongue between Luke’s lips and deepen the kiss, keening in the back of your throat when he massages your sweet spot. He’s insecure about his inexperience– you know that better than anyone, possibly even Luke himself– but he has no reason to be. Like right now, he’s playing with your most sensitive place, and you didn’t even have to guide him to its location. You never did. You probably should tell him that he’s the first– of your three total partners– to find it on his own. He has nothing to worry about.

Luke waits until you start to squirm, wiggling your hips to draw him in deeper, then he frees himself from your grip. He glances at the clear substance on his fingers like he’s torn between doing nothing and wiping it away.

Your hand comes to his wrist and you bring his fingers to your mouth, surrounding the digits with the warm expanse of your throat, looking into his eyes from beneath your lashes.

A breath catches in Luke’s throat and his eyelashes flutter, pupils dilating as they lock in on the pink circle of your mouth and the hollow of your cheeks. “Fuck,” he whispers.

You swirl your tongue over his knuckles and suck the last bit of slick free from his skin, releasing his fingers. You offer him a pretty smile and Luke makes quick work of having both his hands free again; he shoves his sweats and boxers down and fists his cock, pumping it a couple of times to relieve the pressure that has built up inside of him from all of your grinding and kissing and encouragement and general prettiness. He feels pent up, minutes from shooting off, and he tells you such as he rolls a condom on and lines his cockhead up with your entrance.

“I’m close already,” Luke says bashfully. His tip slips past your entrance with a schlick and your pussy quivers around the intrusion, inviting him in, opening the door for more.

“Good,” you breathe out, tossing your head back. Luke ducks down and takes a patch of smooth, unblemished skin between his teeth, gently nibbling. “Fuck me, baby.”

Luke moans brokenly, planting both of his hands on your hips and pushing forward. His mouth drops open and stays there when he realizes how much different this feels. His right hand moves to the mattress beside your shoulder, propping him up, and his left goes to the bend of your knee. He raises your leg and kisses the inside of your thigh, fucking deeper and deeper into your cunt. Your hips are higher like this, because of the pillow, and Luke has more room to work. He has more leverage. He can feel the constraints of your insides, tip knocking your cervix with each shallow thrust. He’s barely fucking you, but he’s filled you entirely.

Looking between your bodies, he sees your abdomen distending in the shape of his thick length.

“Holy shit,” Luke marvels. “Look.”

You crane your neck, following his gaze, and gasp.

Luke fucks into you experimentally, cataloguing the movement of his cock and how it appears and disappears with each of his thrusts.

“Luke,” you plead, reaching for him. “Fuck me.”

He folds to your reach, crowding against you until his mouth can touch your face and neck.

He sucks the corner of your jaw to muffle himself as he begins his race against the clock. It’s the same game as always: Who Will Come First? Can Luke send you unraveling into a wave of ecstasy before his internal timer dings and he’s overwhelmed by his need to release?

The sound of skin clapping against skin fills the room. Luke bends your knee until your thigh is nearly flush with your stomach, holding you open for him. He watches your reactions, every contortion of your body and face, but his eyes keep returning to your bulging belly. He can feel you better, if only by seeing himself move underneath your skin, but Luke attributes this change to the pillow crushed under your backside. Eddie, despite being a fucking idiot most of the time, was right. This is deeper– and better.

“Faster,” you whimper. “Oh, Luke, I’m so close.”

Your voice twinkles like bells through his mind, bliss penetrating the marrow of his bones at your cock-drunk moan.

He grunts and readjusts, placing both hands beneath the bends of your knees and forcing them to your chest. Luke uses his leverage to pound into you, your gaping cunt taking him like it was made to be his.

A wail leaves your mouth, closer to a scream than a moan, and Luke moves blindly. His vision clouds, his entire being focused on one thing: he wants you to make that sound again, and again, and again, until your breaths are ragged and you can’t do anything but scream for him.

He wants his cock to kiss your cervix and your clit to brush against the curls at his base, bodies coming together violently. Animalistically. He feels primal, using his whole weight to keep you pinned to the bed and the pillow beneath you, providing you as much pleasure as he can muster.

He can feel a coil building in his own abdomen, waiting to burst. Luke can tell from the look on your face that you’re closer than he is, that if he thrusts into his favorite spot, you’ll see stars and fall limp beneath him, body shaking from the heat coursing through your veins.

“Luke, Luke, oh my God, Luke-Luke-Luke-Luke,” you babble, his name running together as your eyes roll back and your mouth drops open. A loud, high-pitched whine fills the room and Luke observes the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your thighs tremble beneath his fingers.

And he continues to fuck you, continues to piston his hips, continues to batter your spent cunt with his rod, chasing his own orgasm.

Your noises don’t end– they grow louder, more enthusiastic. It’s like your orgasm was just a precursor and if Luke keeps fucking you, a real climax will ripple through you. Luke wants to see it. He craves this unknown, more intense, incoming phase. He needs you to experience it, to tell him what it feels like, because everything feels heavenly to Luke.

Like an avalanche, you squeak out a bumbling stream of curses. Your arm snakes between your bodies to your clit, frantic circles stimulating the swollen bud. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you chant, sweat beading on your hairline. 

Luke can see the thin sheen on your chest, pooling in your collarbones, filling the air with its heady scent. It compounds with the smell of sex, creating an intoxicating haze that Luke drags into his lungs greedily.

His muscles are stiff and burning, but he’s close, and you’re close, and you’re this close to shrieking his name, which will send him off the edge. He just has to get you there, just has to place one. more. thrust.

You’re mid-cry when Luke’s cock accidentally slips from your hole, his final thrust too overzealous. He drew out too much of his long length too fast and left you empty, but your pussy doesn’t seem to mind. Your hips jump off the bed, hole spasming, and a stream of clear fluid bursts from your body.

Luke’s jaw drops and he hurries to fill you again, fucking back up to that pace, watching your body begin to vibrate with energy again. He replaces your fingers with his thumb, stimulating your clit as quickly as he can. He waits until you’re in the middle of taking a deep breath and pulls out as fast as he did the first time, although this one was intentional.

The result is the same. You scream wantonly and a thin, clear spray of cum soaks Luke’s thighs.

He’s not going to make you do it again, can see that you’re spent and breathing heavy and your eyes are fluttering like you’re pushed past tiredness into exhaustion, but Luke stuffs you full one last time. He thrusts twice before his own thighs give out on him and he floods the condom with hot, sticky, white fluid, wishing he could watch it drip out of you instead of trapping it in this rubber.

“Baby,” Luke groans, peppering kisses over your jaw and cheek until he reaches your mouth. “You’re perfect, so fucking perfect.”

“Fuck,” you reply, panting. You wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug, needing to feel Luke’s bare skin against yours. “That was incredible. I’ve never felt like that.”

“You– you squirted,” Luke stammers out reverently.

“I did?” you demand. You look at his bedsheets and your forehead crinkles. “Eww.”

“No, fuck no,” Luke corrects. He speaks through his kisses, lips smushed against yours. “It was so fucking sexy, baby, I’m gonna– I want to make you do that again.”

You laugh breathily. “Not today. Too much for today.”

A smile breaks over Luke's face. “No, not today,” he agrees. “We did enough for today.”

“Plus, Duker might come back soon.”

“Exactly.”

“Wouldn’t want him to catch us in the act.”

Luke shudders. “Definitely not.”

You push him gently, encouraging him to lay flat on the bed beside you so you can cuddle into his side. You look up at his face after pressing a kiss to his pec. “So, what do you think?”

“That was…” Luke can’t find the words to describe it. He settles on, “I need more pillows.”

You laugh out loud, a cackle that roots in Luke’s heart. He loves how your eyes crinkle when you laugh like this, even more when he’s the one who makes you react like this. He feels like he should do something for you, buy an expensive present maybe, just because he’s so struck by you. He’s in awe of you, everything about you stuns him and makes him think about how lucky he is to have found you.

“So I can ruin them all?” you tease.

Luke nods seriously.

You giggle and pat his chest. “You’re so weird.”

Luke smiles. He may be inexperienced, but he knows that when you say he’s weird in that fond voice, you really mean ‘I love you.’

[blowingbarnes]

But Daddy, I Love Him! (Bucky Barnes)

Pairing: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Mermaid!Reader Warning: smut (p in v, fingering), innocence kink, handjob, personal boundaries being disrespected (reader doesn't understand why humans don't share bathtubs?), corruption of a Disney trope?, it's giving disney if they let them fu- Word Count: 12.3k Summary: You were never supposed to interact with the shore people, told yourself just keeping their artifacts was enough. But a storm that crashes Bucky into the sea has different ideas, a mermaid who doesn't know the rules ends up too close to a prince who doesn't follow them. +fran: she's here! my contribution to the bwa fairytale collab is finally public! she's huge! I had so much fun with this, I love writing mermaid!reader. funny story, my dad bought me a stuffed flounder as a gift the day I was born. the rest is, as they say, history. @earthsmightiestbenders I'm sorry I edged you <3

The palace slept, its spires and coral arches glowing faintly with bioluminescent light. You should’ve been asleep too, curled in the safety of your chambers. But your heart thrummed with restlessness, and your tail flicked against the current like it had a will of its own.

So you slipped past the sentries, careful not to stir the sea anemones that lit the halls, and darted into the open water.

The deeper you swam, the darker it became. No lantern-fish guided your way; no conch-shell guards patrolled here. This was the border of your father’s kingdom—the place he forbade you from going.

Which made it all the more irresistible.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not in this part of the reef, not beyond the kelp wall, and certainly not inside the old wrecked cave with the split hull of a ship jutting out from the rock like broken teeth.

You grinned, darting down through the broken planks. Your fingers trailed over strange objects half-buried in the sand: cups of dulled silver, beads of glass, a rusted blade. Treasures. Human treasures.

You gathered what you could into the woven bag slung at your hip. But one thing caught your eye, glinting faintly in a shaft of moonlight that pierced the waves.

A chain. Thin, tangled, half-buried in silt. You dug it free, heart pounding, and found a small plate dangling at the end. The letters etched into it were strange, foreign, but you traced them carefully all the same.

James B. Barnes.

You pressed the tag to your chest, curious at the way the cool metal seemed to echo with a heartbeat not your own.

If you were caught, you’d be dragged back to the palace, scolded, maybe worse. But staring at the artifact in your hands, you knew you’d come back tomorrow. And the next night. And the next.

Because collecting these artifacts made it feel like the world above the waves wasn't so far away.

You darted through narrow tunnels of stone until the sea opened into your hidden grotto, your sanctuary.

Every ledge glittered with stolen wonders: tarnished forks, broken lanterns, colorful shards of glass polished smooth by the tide. Your collection sparkled in the dim blue light filtering from the cracks above.

You tucked the newest find—a thin chain with its curious etched plate—onto the highest shelf, as though that made it more important than all the rest. You whispered the strange words, testing the shape of them on your tongue. They meant nothing, but somehow they felt like more than all the treasures you’d collected before.

Then you hear them. Voices. Laughter. The swish of fast tails. Your sisters.

“Oh no,” you whisper, trying to rearrange a curtain of seaweed to hide your grotto’s entrance, but it’s too late. They burst in like a storm, all limbs and noise and glittering teeth.

“We knew it,” Kate laughs, flipping upside down in the water. “She’s here with her trinkets.”

“Are you talking to statues again?” Yelena says with a giggle, poking at one of the old compasses. “Ooh, what’s this? Another broken time spinner?”

You grab it before she can toss it. “It’s a watch,” you mutter. “It tells time.” They exchange a look and burst into laughter again.

“Tell time for what? How long it takes a human to drown?” Yelena snorts.

You scowl. “They’re not all like that.” You look at the big statue at the center of your grotto, one you dragged through sand and current a few moons ago after a particularly gnarly storm that was partially your fault. It was the last time you pranked your father with sea urchins, that's for sure.

“No,” Kate says, eyes glittering. “Just the ones who hunt us, dump trash into our waters, destroy reefs, and build those big wooden boxes that sink during storms—those humans?”

Your grip tightens around the old watch. “Some of them are different.”

Your sisters circle lazily, light current from their swimming pushing you to float right against the chest of the statue, teasing but not cruel. Not really. This is a game they’ve played your whole life. “Let me guess,” Yelena purrs, “you’re still dreaming about your human prince? The one with the strong arms and the sad eyes and the big—”

“Stop!” you laugh, flicking your tail hard enough to send a little bit of pressure through the water at them. “You’re horrible.”

“He’s not real, you know,” Kate says, but her voice softens. “No human prince is going to come sweeping into the sea to rescue a little coral-brained romantic like you.”

You glance at your collection—at the chipped music box that still plays a wobbly lullaby, the feathered quill encased in glass, the portrait of a man with a beard and stormy eyes who looks a little bit like how you imagine him.

You weren’t supposed to want this. You weren’t supposed to crave the surface. But every artifact told a story, and tonight you wondered — not for the first time — if one of those stories could be yours.

The tide was low. The sky painted in lavender streaks and salted gold, the moon beginning to rise like a silent promise over the distant cliffs. Prince James Buchanan Barnes walked along the shore with his boots in one hand and the salt wind in his hair, kicking sand lightly as he walked.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not this late, not without guards. Not with the weight of the crown looming closer each day. But he came anyway.

Steve trailed behind him, arms crossed over his chest, one of the only people left who could speak to him without ceremony or title. “You ever gonna tell me what you’re looking for out here?” Steve asked. "You've been disappearing into the shore every night for weeks now."

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the surf like it might reveal something. Like it owed him something. “I don’t know,” he murmured finally. “Peace, maybe.”

Steve’s boots crunched in the wet sand beside him. “You can't find peace in wine, the best food, and the prettiest women begging to be let in your chamber at the palace?”

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, then shook his head. “I feel… like I can breathe out here.” He turned, eyes skimming the waves as they rolled toward the shore. “I feel like I’m always performing in there,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the cliffs that cradled the castle in stone. “Like I have to be someone I’m not. But when I’m out here... I can think.”

“And what are you thinking about?” Steve asked gently.

Bucky hesitated. His jaw tensed, then relaxed. “That maybe I don’t belong anywhere. That maybe I’m not enough — for the court, the kingdom, the war council. For any of it.” Steve didn’t interrupt. Just let him speak.

Bucky exhaled, dragging his fingers through his dark hair. “I feel… alone,” he admitted, softer now. “Even when I’m surrounded by people. Even when I’m in a room full of nobles and soldiers and advisors.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “Especially then.”

He looked back at the waves. “But when I’m near the water... it’s like something settles in me. Like something out there understands.”

You were alone, nestled behind a jagged cluster of rocks, nothing above the surface besides your shoulders, neck, and face. Wet hair floating behind you, your fingers gripping a bed of mossy stone, your eyes fixed on the shoreline.

And on him.

Your cheek rested on your forearms, now crossed on the stone, hidden enough from shore that you could stay like this and just look at him pacing until he got tired enough to retreat back behind the walls that divided your worlds.

Gods, was he beautiful.

The hem of his pants was pulled up around his calves, his vest was undone, as was the shirt under it, letting his tanned chest be bathed in moonlight. His hair fell on his face every time he looked down, and when he looked up he flickered it back over his broad shoulders. 

You were close enough to see the way his lips moved as he talked to the blond one beside him—Steve, you’d learned from surface gossip and one of your better-eavesdropping sisters. Their voices didn’t carry over the waves, not clearly, but you caught fragments. Words like alone, lost, don’t belong.

It was all very mysterious and a little bit sad, which made you sigh like a maiden in a ballad, resting your chin on the barnacled stone with a dreamy smile on your face. 

You watched as he paused at the shoreline, staring out at the sea as if you were the one missing piece in his princely little life. Which, obviously, you were.

You held your breath, as though breathing too loudly might give you away.

And then—

“Gods, you’re pathetic.”

You yelp, spinning around in the water so fast that your tail hits the rock. A sharp sting slices through your fin, but you bite it back.

“Yelena!” you hiss, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?!”

She’s floating just behind you, grinning smugly, her arms crossed over her chest and her tail lazily flicking against the current.

“I followed you,” she says, all syrupy sweetness. “You’re not exactly stealthy when you sigh like a lovesick dolphin every five minutes.” She got closer and made you scoot over so she could see what you saw, both of you just peeking around the rocks now to make sure the two humans didn't hear you.

“He’s even sadder up close,” Yelena mutters beside you, following your line of sight. “You sure you want that?” You ignore her. “Why are you watching him again?” she asks, softer this time. “You know it’s dangerous.”

You press your cheek to the cool rock, frowning, watching as Bucky stops to look out at the sea. The wind plays with the hem of his shirt. He looks so tired. So real. You just want to reach out and touch his skin. 

You smiled dreamily. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

The sea outside was alive with noise—guards patrolling, schools of fish darting past—but in your grotto, all was still. Here, tucked deep in rock and coral, time belonged to you.

And to him.

The statue loomed from its place of honor, shadowed but magnificent. The marble face was softened by the water, but you could still see him in every line—the set of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head.

You circled him slowly, your fingers trailing along the cold stone of his arm. “You should be heavier,” you murmured, half to yourself.

“Ohhh, listen to her! Already talking to him like he’s her betrothed. This is love, I tell you. Star-crossed, storm-born, fate-bound love!” Ava, one of your oldest sisters, gushed from her place where she was brushing her hair, perched on a stone. 

Her romantic nature was only second to yours. 

Yelena rolled her eyes, “Fate-bound trouble,” she swam closer. “If father knew you’d dragged this into the grotto? If he knew you touched a human—”

You waved her off, "He'll never know." pressing closer to the statue’s chest. The stone was cool, but you imagined the warmth you’d feel beneath your palm on the shore. Slowly, daringly, you let your lips brush against the marble jaw. “He'd be warm,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “So warm.”

“You’d hold me differently, if you were flesh,” you murmured, just to yourself. “You’d burn like I do when I think of you.”

“Oh, little sister, it’s written all over your face. You’re smitten!”

“I am not!” But even as you said it, your mind betrayed you with the memory of Bucky’s voice, the curve of his lips. “I’m not,” you whispered, weaker now.

But then—the water shifted. Darkened. A deep voice rolled through the current, heavy as thunder. “You what?”

Your blood ran cold. Slowly, you turned. Your father hovered just beyond the entrance, his trident gleaming, his eyes alight with fury. The currents around him churned, violent and unyielding.

“Father—” you started, but the words died as his shadow loomed closer.

“A human?” His voice cracked like a whip. “After everything I’ve warned you, everything I’ve forbidden—you dare bring their filth into my waters?”

“No—please—” But he was already surging past you, his trident blazing with power. “Father, please!” you begged, darting in front of him. “These are mine, they’re harmless—”

But he barely heard you. With a sweep of his trident, light burst through the water. Your treasures shattered: glass shards spun into sand, silver dulled into nothing, your shelves crumbling into rubble.

“No!” you cried, clutching at broken pieces as they drifted away. “Please, stop!”

And then—his gaze fell on the statue. Bucky’s likeness stood tall in the dim glow, his marble eyes watching silently as though even now he might protect you.

Your father’s rage deepened. “This… thing,” he thundered, “you dare bring him into our world?” Before you could speak, his trident crashed down. The statue split in two, stone splintering, Bucky’s face shattering into nothing.

You screamed, the sound torn raw from your chest, as the pieces drifted past your hands. When the glow of the trident dimmed, your grotto was ruined. Nothing left but shards, dust, and the hollow ache in your heart.

Your father turned, his expression carved from stone. “This ends tonight. You will never see the shore again.” And with that, he left—leaving you in the ruins of your secret world, cradling a broken piece of marble in your trembling hands. 

Your sisters hovered in shock, tails shaking, eyes wide and fearful. You knelt in the rubble, curled around the broken marble fragments like they were the pieces of your own heart.

The storm came on entirely too fast. It didn’t roll in like weather—it ripped. The sky went black like someone had torn out the stars. Thunder cracked through the cliffs like bone snapping. The tide surged upward without warning, swallowing boats where they floated, dragging debris onto shore.

It was the kind of storm sailors feared in stories, the kind that didn’t belong to nature, the kind born from wrath.

Prince James Barnes stood at the prow of his ship, wind whipping through his dark hair. Saltwater sprayed against his face, and the storm bruised the sky black and silver. His crew shouted warnings, scurrying to secure sails, but Bucky only grinned into the chaos, eyes alight with challenge.

“Your Highness!” his first mate cried. “We need to turn back before the storm splits us!”

Bucky shook his head, tightening the leather strap on his arm where the metal gleamed faintly beneath his sleeve. “We hold course. This ship was built for worse than this.” But then thunder cracked, shaking the heavens, and lightning struck the mast with a deafening roar. The wood splintered, flames licking before the rain smothered them.

The ship lurched violently. Crewmen tumbled. And Bucky was thrown hard across the deck, his shoulder slamming against the railing. The sea rose like a hungry mouth. With one last jolt, the ship tilted, and he lost his grip.

Cold water swallowed him whole. For a moment, he kicked furiously, the weight of his boots dragging him deeper. He thrashed, reaching upward—but the surface was too far, the storm too strong.

And then—just before the darkness claimed him—a shadow moved beneath him, swift and strong. Small hands caught his chest, pulling him down instead of up, carrying him somewhere he didn’t understand.

The last thing Bucky saw was a glimmer of a face in the moonlit water, features blurred by the current, a voice humming through the depths like a dream.

Then everything went black.

The storm spat you out onto the sand, waves crashing around your tail as you dragged the heavy man onto the shore. He was heavier than any treasure you’d stolen from the wrecks, his body limp, boots and clothes weighing him down.

Your eyes dragged over him shamelessly—because what was he gonna do, complain? He was unconscious. This was a safe space.

His soaked shirt outlined muscles you didn’t even know humans had. His pants were fitted. And tight. And his boots were huge, which made you stare at other parts of him and question things you didn’t have names for yet.

You slapped your own cheek.

You collapsed beside him, chest heaving, seawater streaming off your hair and skin. He lay there unmoving, his dark hair plastered across his forehead, his lips pale. “Wake up,” you whispered, poking his sternum. “Come on, big guy. Don’t leave me here alone with all these intrusive thoughts.”

And then—a cough. His chest convulsed, seawater spilling from his mouth, followed by a ragged gasp. His eyes fluttered shut again, but he was alive.

Relief coursed through you like a current. You brushed wet strands of hair away from his face, studying him in awe. He was beautiful—sharp jaw, broad shoulders, lashes fanned dark against his skin. So unlike the finned men of your world.

Your heart jumped. You leaned closer, fingers trailing along his cheek, fascinated by the rough stubble there.

“[Y/N]!” a sharp whisper hissed from the shallows. You glanced back to see your sister — waving her arms at you, fins flapping furiously. “What are you doing?! If he wakes—if he sees—you’ll be dragged back in chains! Get in the water, now!”

You ignored her, mesmerized by the rise and fall of the man’s chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your hand.

“Don’t be foolish!” she snapped, his little tail lashing. “He’s dangerous. All of them are. Leave him be before it’s too late!”

But you couldn’t. Not yet. Not when he was here in front of you, the human you’d dreamed of holding in your grotto full of broken artifacts.

“James,” you whispered again, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “I’ll see you again." The man’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting on a hoarse breath. You startled, heart hammering.

“Now!” she hissed. “Into the sea!”

With one last lingering touch, you pushed yourself back into the surf. The tide seized you, dragging you beneath the waves, and by the time Bucky's eyes opened—bleary, searching—there was nothing left but the echo of your voice in the storm.

Sand clung to his clothes, seawater pooling beneath him, every muscle aching from the wreck. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand across his face, his lungs still burning from the salt.

Then—sharp barks split the air.

“Rex?” His voice cracked as his big shepherd bounded across the sand, whining frantically, nosing at his chest. The dog’s tongue was warm and insistent, dragging him further into waking.

And then another voice. Familiar.

“James!”

Steve’s boots pounded across the shore, his cloak whipping in the wind. He dropped to his knees, relief flooding his features as he gripped Bucky’s shoulders. “You’re alive. By God, you’re alive.”

Bucky blinked up at him, dazed, half expecting the vision of her face to still be hovering above him. His lips were dry, but the word slipped out anyway:

“Angel.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

“She saved me,” Bucky rasped, clutching weakly at Steve’s arm. “Dark hair… soft voice… she pulled me from the sea.”

Steve glanced at the wreckage still burning in the distance, then back to his friend with concern. “Bucky, no one was here. You must’ve dreamed it.”

But Bucky only shook his head, stubborn even in exhaustion. His dog whined, pressing against his side as Steve helped him upright.

“No dream,” Bucky muttered, his gaze fixed on the waves. “She was real.”

The palace was tense when you returned.

Not stormy—yet—but the kind of eerie quiet that made the sea itself hold its breath. Guards swam stiffly in the halls. Your sisters refused to make eye contact. Even the anemones lining the walls dimmed their glow like they didn’t want to witness what was about to happen.

You barely made it ten feet into the throne chamber before his voice thundered through the water.

“YOU SAVED A HUMAN?!” You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your father stood at the top of the coral steps, trident in hand, surrounded by currents that spun too fast, too sharp. His eyes blazed like moonlight on a storm tide.

“Did I not forbid this?” he growled, voice rising with each word. “Did I not warn you? Did I not say their kind cannot be trusted, that their world is not ours, that no good has ever come from reaching above the surface?”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“You dragged him onto our shore. You exposed yourself. You endangered your sisters. You’ve disgraced this family—”

“I saved his life,” you said firmly. “That’s all. He was drowning.”

“He is human.”

“He was dying!”

“He is human,” he repeated, voice low and cold. “And that is not your concern.”

Your throat tightened.

He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t. He never saw the way the surface shimmered at night, the way shipwrecks whispered secrets through the tides, the way human voices sounded like music even when they were just shouting.

He didn’t see him.

The man with the sad eyes and the rough hands and the kind of face that made you ache with wanting to know everything he’d ever lost.

“I couldn’t let him drown,” you said quietly.

“That wasn’t your choice to make.”

“And was it yours?” You defied. "The storm only happened because you were mad at me."

Your father took a threatening step down. “And what if he’d seen you? What if he told someone? Do you have any idea what they would do to us?”

“He didn’t see me.” You muttered.

“But he could have—”

“I don’t care!”

Silence.

Your voice cracked as you pushed forward, heart racing now. “I don’t care if he could’ve seen me, or if it was stupid, or if it broke a rule, or all the rules—because I couldn’t just let him die. And—and—”

You stopped.

There it was.

The feeling that had been building since the moment you saw him talking to himself scribbling on his journal all of those moons ago. Since you saw the way his lashes rested against his cheek like he’d been born for softness, not war.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because I love him.”

Your sisters gasped in sync from somewhere behind a column. Your father stared at you like you’d just said you wanted to marry a sea cucumber.

“You… love him,” he repeated slowly.

You straightened your spine. “Yes.”

“You love a man you’ve spoken zero words to.”

“I’ve heard his words,” you said defensively. “He talks to the sea. It’s romantic.”

“He was probably drunk!”

“He’s sensitive, too!”

He groaned and turned away, dragging a hand down his face. “You are grounded,” he said flatly.

“Again?!”

“Until you regain sanity. No surfacing. No wreck-diving. If I so much as hear you say the word ‘surface’ again—”

“But, daddy!”

“GROUNDED. Go to your reef.”

“I hate it here.” You flung yourself out of the throne room in a whirl of fins, humiliation, and romantic delusion. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t even touch him like you wanted. But now? You were grounded. You were banned. You were trapped. 

That night, you went to the surface one last time. The prince leaned against the railing of a high balcony, the lamplight behind him catching in his dark hair. His dog lay at his feet, tail wagging lazily as if keeping him company through his restless vigil.

You pressed closer to the rocks, daring the waves to carry you nearer. Your chest ached at the sight of him—alive, whole, breathing. So close, and yet impossibly far.

He sighed, his voice drifting faintly down to you. “I know you’re real.” Your heart stopped. “I felt you,” he continued, running a hand over his face before bracing it against the railing. “Your hands… your voice. You saved me. And I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Heat flared in your chest, that dangerous fire you still didn’t understand. You leaned forward, straining to catch every word.

“I sound insane.” he muttered, his lips quirking into a humorless smile. “A prince, talking to the waves like some lovesick boy... I’d trade every jewel in this damned palace just to see you again, though. Just once.”

You wanted to move. Wanted to swim as close to the shore as the water would let you and flail your arms and call out his name. But you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Above, James leaned heavily against the railing, his voice breaking into the night air. “Angel… wherever you are—come back to me.”

Your throat tightened. All it took was one reckless heartbeat, and you dove back into the dark waters and swam as fast as you could. 

The currents grew cold and strange in the unpatrolled depths, but you didn’t care. You curled into a hollow of black stone, tears of frustration in your eyes. So when the water shifted, colder still, you thought you were alone.

Until you heard her voice.

“My, my,” purred the Sea Witch, her silhouette forming in the gloom. She drifted closer, her tendrils of shadow and hair curling like smoke. “Such a pretty little thing, crying over a human. Tell me, child—do you want him?”

You startled, clutching the marble shard tighter. “What do you mean?”

Her lips curved. “Don’t play coy. You saved him, you watched him, you dreamed of his touch. You want legs to walk beside him. Arms to hold him. A mouth to kiss him.”

Your face burned, your throat tight. “I can’t—my father—”

“Your father has destroyed what you love,” she cut in, her voice low and smooth. “But I can give it back. I can give you him.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “How?”

“Trade.” She slithered closer, her eyes gleaming. “Your voice—for legs. You’ll rise from the sea, beautiful and silent. If he loves you before the next moon wanes, you’ll remain with him. If not… the sea will reclaim you.”

Your breath hitched, the fire in your chest sparking at the thought of his arms around you. “My… voice?”

The witch’s grin sharpened. “Such a small thing, for everything you’ve ever wanted.”

You hesitated—then closed your eyes, clutching the shard of marble one last time. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

The witch’s laughter coiled around you, and suddenly, pain split through your chest. A burning, wrenching pull tore the song from your throat. You tried to scream, but nothing came out—only bubbles streaming upward as darkness rushed in.

The last thing you saw was her grin, and the flare of her magic.

You woke to warmth.

Sand beneath your palms, the sun blazed against your damp skin. Your lungs seized, then dragged in sweet, sharp, light air. It was blinding, really, and you weren't entirely sure why your eyes were that much more sensitive. 

You tried rolling over and notices part of the weight you usually had on your lower half wasn't there anymore. And when you looked down, a gasp left your lips. 

Your tail was gone. 

The bi— witch really did it. 

In its place were two long, definitely not tanned legs sprawled clumsily in the surf, bare and trembling. Every nerve screamed unfamiliar sensations of rubbing on the sand. You whimpered silently, wiggling your toes and digging them deeper in the coarse grains, dragging yourself further up the sand, while the waves pulling at you like they wanted you back.

But you pressed forward, shaking, helpless, until you collapsed further on the beach. Your throat ached raw, thirsty from all the saltwater you probably ingested on the way up, unconscious.

Above you, gulls wheeled. The castle you looked at longinly for so long loomed on the cliffs, closer than ever.

The sun was lowering, painting the waves in molten gold. You lay tangled in the surf, every breath a battle, your new legs trembling with every futile push against the ground.

Was he there? You thought.

Was he as close as just on the other side of these stone walls?

Was he even going to spare you a second glance? I mean, you could just not be hi—

A sharp bark split the quiet.

You startled just as an enormous sheepdog barreled across the beach, shaggy fur flying, paws thundering over the wet sand. He skidded to a stop in front of you, nose pressing against your shoulder with frantic whines. His tail wagged so hard his whole body shook with it, and before you could even flinch, his warm tongue was dragging against your wrist, slobbering all over you.

You gave the faintest laugh—silent, breathless, but real.

“Rex!”

Your heart lurched at the voice. Deep, strong, achingly familiar, belonging to the one and only James Buchanan Barnes.

And then he was there.

The man you’d pulled from the storm. The one whose name you whispered against stone lips in your grotto. The prince you heard vent more times than you could count, listening to all of his problems and all his heart's desires.

But he didn't know that. 

Bucky's boots sank into the wet sand as he sprinted toward you, the orange and yellow from the sunset catching in his dark hair.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his breath a little ragged from running. His blue eyes locked onto yours, wide and stunned, almost like he knew you from somewhere but couldn't quite place you. "Hi,” he breathed. "I'm James. Bucky." He extended his hand to hold yours and bring your knuckles to his lips.

You wanted to tell him—yes, it was me, I saved you—but when your lips parted, nothing came out. Just silence, your throat burning.

She wasn't kidding about the voice part either, huh?

He frowned, brushing damp strands of hair from your face with gentle fingers. “You can’t… talk?”

You shook your head faintly, panic sparking in your chest.

His expression softened, twisting with something you didn’t understand. “You’re, uh,” he whispered, wonder breaking across his face, at the same time he realized you were indeed very, very naked. “God, you’re real.” 

If you weren't so mesmerized by finally being able to feel the heat of his skin against yours, even for a second, you'd be self conscious of the way his eyes raked your frame up and down. 

Rex barked happily, pressing himself against the side of your leg as if to prove it. His nose nudged your arm until your palm rested on his head again, and your lips curved into a tiny smile despite the ache in your chest.

Bucky's breath hitched. He took off his cloak, leaving him in the flowy linen undershirt. "Here.” His gaze lingered, heavy and searching. “We can, uh— we can get you some clothes.”

You didn’t have the strength to protest when he wrapped it carefully around your trembling body. The weight of it was warm, steadying, and it smelled like him.

And when he slid an arm beneath your knees and lifted you, you clung to him without thinking.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice calm and certain against the rush of the waves. “You’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe.”

And as Rex bounded at your heels, you pressed your face into his chest, your silent little heart screaming all the words you couldn’t speak.

“She’s not a stray, Buck.”

Steve’s voice was patient, if a little amused, as he leaned against the edge of the balcony railing, arms crossed over his chest. The sea stretched out behind him, calm for once, a rare shimmer of peace on the horizon. The setting sun bathed the stone walls of the palace in a honeyed glow.

Bucky didn't look up.

He sat slouched in one of the cushioned chairs in his chamber, elbows on his knees, his damp hair still tousled from the sea breeze. His boots were discarded nearby, as were the clothes he wore that morning, now wet and salty from the sea. 

Down the hall, servants whispered about the silent girl sleeping in the prince’s spare chamber—wrapped in one of his cloaks, apparently incapable of speech, and very much acting like this was her first day in the human world, for some odd reason.

“I know she’s not a stray,” Bucky muttered.

“But you brought her in,” Steve said, raising a brow. “From the beach. Not speaking. Naked. Sounds like something out of a bard’s tale.”

“She was hurt,” Bucky's voice was a little more defensive than he intended to, glaring up at him. “Exhausted. She could barely walk.”

“I’m not judging.” Steve’s hands lifted in mock surrender, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just... wondering what makes you so sure she’s not dangerous.”

Bucky scoffed. “Is that seriously your worry?” Bucky looked at the horizon and back at Steve. "She's mute and naked, Steve. If anything, she's the one needing protection from whatever creeps roam this world."

"You mean you?" Steve teased. 

Bucky glared at him playfully. "Watch it." He ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “I don’t know, alright? I don’t know why I’m doing this. I saw her, and—she looked at me like she knew me.”

Steve tilted his head.

“She was scared, but not... not of me. Like she trusted me, even before I said a word.” He leaned back, head tipping against the chair. “And when I touched her—her hand was ice cold, Steve, like she’d just been dragged out of a wreck—and she smiled. Barely. But it was there.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You sure it’s not the head injury talking?”

Bucky gave him a look.

“Alright, alright.” Steve chuckled, stepping closer. “She’s beautiful, she’s mysterious, she washed up at your feet like a gift from the sea—and now you're completely out of your depth.”

“I’m not—” Bucky started, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Steve’s grin widened. “Bucky. You’re acting like you’re in love.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest—and paused.

Because that shouldn’t sting.

But it did.

He swallowed, thinking of your eyes—how they searched his face, drinking him in like it was the first and last time. The way you held onto him, trembling but trusting, completely mute and vulnerable in his arms.

How your smile, even silent and weak, had nearly gutted him. “…I don’t even know her name,” he whispered.

Steve’s smile softened. “Maybe she’ll tell you.”

“She can’t.” Bucky looked up at him. “She hasn’t said a word.”

“Then maybe she’s waiting for the right moment,” Steve replied gently. “Give her time. Let her show you who she is.”

He had no idea you were the one who’d pulled him from the waves. How could he? He remembered his guardian angel of the sea talking him back to life, and it clearly couldn't have been you, could it?

The sun spilled over the sea one last time as start started to glitter in the sky in the late afternoon through the high windows of the palace’s spare chamber, turning the marble floors into pools of sprakling glass. 

“You’re really not from around here, huh?”

Natasha stood in the center of the room with a hand on her hip, watching as you held a wooden hairbrush like it was a weapon. Your brow furrowed, your head tilted as you poked yourself in the cheek with the bristles.

“This hurts,” you mouthed silently, holding it out to her in accusation.

“It’s a brush,” she said, taking it gently. “You use it on your hair, not your face.”

You blinked. Then looked at her wild red waves. Then at your own damp, tangled curls. Then winced in realization.

Salt water was much better for your hair when it was constantly wet. 

She smirked. “Yeah. You’re gonna hate it.”

Nat turned back to the bed where a neat line of folded dresses had been laid out—soft linens, simple cottons, all things a “guest” of the palace might wear. She didn’t know where Bucky found you, or why you couldn’t speak, but she had enough sense to know you weren’t dangerous.

Just… a little weird. But in a cute way.

“You’ve got a good figure, at least,” she said, holding up a lavender dress with puffed sleeves and soft laces. “Let’s start with this.”

You reached out for it, curious fingers running over the fabric. Your eyes lit up.

“Ooh,” you mouthed soundlessly, pulling the dress to your face and rubbing your cheek on it like a cat.

Nat laughed. “Okay, we’re gonna work on the dignity part later.”

It took a few attempts to get you into the thing. Sleeves? Confusing. Ties? Absolutely baffling.

Eventually, with some teamwork and a bit of dramatic sighing, the dress was on. You spun once, letting the skirt billow around your legs, delighted by how it moved with you. Nat couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re like a puppy,” she said. “A really pretty, weirdly hot puppy.”

You gestured to the vanity next—eyes darting over the unfamiliar items like it was treasure. An eyelash curler piqued your interest, and you picked it up and immediately pretended to use as tongs.

“Nope.” Nat plucked it away before you pinched your own nose off. “That one’s dangerous.”

You pointed to the lipstick next and made a questioning face.

“That one,” Nat grinned, twisting the tube up so the color peeked out, “is magic.”

She dabbed some on your lips, and you blinked, looking in the mirror with awe. Your fingers touched your mouth like you weren’t sure the color was real.

You grinned at her in silent thanks.

“I still don’t know who you are,” Nat said, brushing your hair back and tying it with a ribbon, “but anyone who makes Bucky Barnes act like a stunned teenager probably isn’t all bad.”

She stood, brushing off her hands, and nodded toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go find him before he starts brooding again.”

You followed her out, the small heels on your feet made it harder to look normal as you tried to figure out how to walk in them properly, arms still swinging at your sides like a deer in a princess costume.

Nat chuckled, holding the door open. “We’ll work on that, too.”

The grand dining hall of the palace was candlelit and echoing, the sky outside now a deep indigo as the warm breeze came through the open windows. At the long, polished table, five plates gleamed beneath silver domes, and five seats were filled—though only one occupant sat stiff as a board, wide-eyed, and very clearly out of her depth.

You.

The dress was soft but chafy against your skin due to unfamiliarity, the laces were too tight, and shoes were squeezing your newly gifted feet, and you felt the ribbon pull at your hair to tightly. 

You were perched on the seat to the left of Bucky, who sat at the head of the table, looking as good as the first day you saw him roam the beach talking to the ocean like a tortured poet. Prince James Barnes, heir to the throne, and the reason you had legs, a soul-aching crush, and zero voice.

“You alright?” Bucky murmured, leaning toward you with an amused smile.

You nodded way too hard.

Steve sat across from you, trying very hard not to laugh as he watched you attempt to butter your roll… with the handle of the knife.

“That’s the wrong end, sweetheart,” Nat murmured helpfully from your left, her own plate untouched as she observed you like one might a nervous stray kitten trying out a new toy for the first time. 

You blinked. Looked at the knife. Flipped it. Beamed.

Bucky chuckled quietly beside you, then reached out without thinking to lay your cloth napkin on your lap from where it sat by your plate. “Here. You’ll want this.”

Your cheeks burned. You felt like a kid, embarrassed you were quite literally a fish out of water, out of your element playing dress up with someone you didn't even know actually wanted you. 

Sam raised a brow, sitting beside Steve. “So,” he said, cutting into his roasted duck, “where exactly did you find this one, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t even look up. “She was on the beach. Injured. I told you.”

“You told me,” Sam agreed. “Didn’t explain.”

“She’s staying in the spare wing until we figure out who she is,” Steve added mildly, chewing thoughtfully. “Still doesn’t speak.”

“Does she understand us?” Sam asked, giving you a skeptical glance.

You straightened up, nodded quickly, and gave a thumbs-up for good measure, delighting yourself on your newly found true love: salted butter.

Nat snorted into her wine. Bucky hid a smile behind his hand. “She understands just fine. She’s been reading and getting accustomed to the palace all day.”

“She’s got spirit.” Steve said kindly, watching you poke your asparagus suspiciously. 

Sam nodded in agreement. “You’ve definitely had worse dinner guests.”

You looked up hopefully—maybe someone got it. Sam winked. You liked him immediately.

The conversation drifted—court politics, trade negotiations, upcoming festivals—and you listened quietly, sipping your water and watching everyone speak like it was the most fascinating performance you’d ever seen.

Your soft heels tapped delicately against the marble floor, the lavender dress fluttering around your calves as Bucky led you back toward your chamber, walking beside you with his hands tucked behind his back.

You watched the way his brows pulled together ever so slightly as he glanced down at you. The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual, like something was swirling in him just beneath the surface.

“You held your own back there,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even with Nat grilling you. That tart in Sam’s wine was pretty funny.”

You looked down, blush spreading up to the apples of your cheeks. You hadn't meant for that to happen, but forks were tricky and the tart crust wasn't nearly as forgiving as some of the foods you'd had. 

He laughed, warm and low in his throat. “I mean it. You made an impression.”

Your lips curved up. You liked his laugh. You liked him. Everything about him. His voice, his scent, how broad his shoulders were and the patch of hair that was always visible on his chest, since he seemed to absolutely despise shirts that made him feel claustrophobic. 

He paused outside the door to your chambers.

The silence wrapped around the two of you like velvet, soft and heavy and humming with unspoken things. 

“I was thinking,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “tomorrow, if you’re up for it… we could go into town.”

Your eyes lit up immediately. Your hands flew up in excited gestures, nodding quickly, stepping closer, barely stopping yourself from grabbing his arm.

He smiled wider at your reaction. “There’s a dressmaker in the market district. You’d love her. She’s a little nuts—swears fabric can talk to her—but I figured you could pick something yourself. Something that feels more like… you.”

You melted.

“But only if you want to,” he added quickly, as if nervous.

You nodded again, so hard your ribbon slipped a little from your hair, strands of hair falling to frame you face. 

“And there’s this bakery,” he went on, warming to your enthusiasm, “right on the corner by the fountain. I used to sneak out just to go there when I was a kid. They have these sweet buns—glazed, warm, dripping in cinnamon. They're dream worthy.”

Your smile got wider and his gaze lingered on you then. Quiet, gentle, almost something a little stunned in his expression, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

For a second, the air shifted.

His hand almost lifted. Almost reached out to touch a strand of your hair. His fingers hovered near your jaw. His eyes dropped—lips parting just barely—and you thought he was going to kiss you.

Pretty easy true love's kiss, if anyone asked you. 

You tilted your chin up, your breath caught in anticipation. And Bucky, ever the gentleman he is, stepped back. 

“I’ll have someone come get you after breakfast,” he said, clearing his throat. “Get some rest.”

Oh.

Your smile faltered just slightly, not enough for him to notice, but enough for you to feel. You gave a small nod. A quiet goodbye.

His smile was soft, kind, and then he turned and walked away down the hall, the hem of his dark jacket sweeping the floor behind him.

You lingered in the doorway, biting your lip, your fingers lightly resting on the edge of the frame, watching until he disappeared around the corner.

The morning sun was already warm by the time the palace carriage reached the edge of the village. Birds chirped overhead, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread, flowers, and the faint tang of sea salt carried on the wind.

You clutched the edge of your seat, practically vibrating with excitement. Your nose was almost pressed to the glass as you watched people bustle about, children dart between stalls, and merchants call out their wares like a symphony of chaos.

“You’d think she’s never been to a market,” Nat muttered with amusement, arms folded, lounging on the opposite seat.

Bucky grinned, resting his elbow on the windowsill as he looked at you.

The moment the carriage door opened, you didn’t walk—you bounded. Nat called after you, “Whoa, slow down, Bambi!” but you were already halfway to the nearest flower cart, eyes wide as saucers.

Bucky jogged after you with an apologetic nod to the driver. “She’s enthusiastic.”

“That’s one word for it,” Nat said, following with an exaggerated sigh.

Colors, scents, voices — it was all too much and not enough. You flitted from one stall to the next, poking, touching, smelling everything like it was treasure. Nat kept grabbing your elbow just in time to keep you from knocking over displays or getting swindled by charming cheese vendors.

Bucky trailed behind you with his arms full of things you’d silently insisted on carrying for you: ribbons, a little wooden trinket shaped like a dolphin, a bread roll you tried to pay for with sea glass before Nat slipped the vendor a coin.

“You can’t just smile at people and expect free things,” she scolded with a grin. You tilted your head and smiled even harder while Bucky bit back a laugh.

You stopped at a stall with dresses next, your fingers grazing the flowing fabrics, all different and new sensations at your fingertips, holding one up to your frame and spinning slightly. It was a soft seafoam green silk with a sparkling tulle layer over it, a color that shimmered faintly in the sun.

Bucky watched you twirl, his heart stuttering. “She looks like she belongs in that.” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Nat raised a brow. “Careful, your highness. You’re staring.” She smirked. 

“I’m observing,” he replied quickly. Then, quieter, kept talking. “...shut up.”

The seamstress came over, asked for your preferences. You blinked at her helplessly, fingers fluttering toward your throat. Nat stepped in, speaking softly to the vendor while you held Bucky’s gaze like you were asking him silently, Do you like this one?

He gave you the faintest nod and that dazzling smile. “It’s perfect.”

Later, you found the bakery.

Oh, the bakery.

Bucky barely had time to say, a word before you were pressed to the window, eyes wide at the rows of golden pastries dusted with sugar and glazed with citrus. The baker inside jumped slightly when he saw your face mashed to the glass, then laughed as Nat pulled you gently back by the shoulders.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.” she said, sighing again.

You left with a paper-wrapped bun in each hand and sugar on your lips. Bucky took one look at you and, without thinking, wiped the side of your mouth with his thumb.

Both of you froze when you realized what happened. You in glee, and him in a feeling he couldn't name, but it was something along the lines of scolding himself to stay proper in public with a lady he was not betrothed to. 

“Oh,” he murmured, blinking down at you. “S-Sorry. That was—sorry.” But you smiled up at him like he’d just handed you the moon. And he nearly tripped over a crate of apples trying to move on from the moment and walk towards the next vendor.

Nat barked a laugh. “You two are exhausting.”

A few minutes later, you were bent over a display of glass pendants at a vendor’s stall, fingers dancing just above the glittering trinkets, marveling at how each one caught the sunlight, when a tiny tug at your pale pink skirts pulled your attention away.

Startled, you turned and found a little girl staring up at you with wide eyes, a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand and jam smudged across her chin. She couldn’t have been older than six, her curls bouncing as she tilted her head.

“Hi,” she said, voice bright with curiosity. “You’re really pretty.”

Your lips parted in surprise, and your heart fluttered at the compliment. You dropped into a crouch, tucking your legs awkwardly beneath you, still not entirely used to them, as you offered a shy, silent smile.

The girl stepped closer, eyes roving up and down before stopping on your hair, still soft from Nat’s careful styling that morning, pink ribbons that matched your dress holding your hair out of your face in a half up-half down style, letting it fall behind your back in a cascade that reflected the sunlight. 

“Your hair is sooo long,” she whispered reverently. “And shiny. You look like…” Her eyes lit up. “…a mermaid!”

You gasped, nodding quickly, eyes wide. Yes! You wanted to say. Yes, you’re right! You knew! You finally found someone who knew—someone who saw it. Someone who could tell. You gripped her sticky little hand in both of yours, glowing with something like relief and joy.

Behind you, Nat smirked behind her drink.

The girl’s mother called out from another stall, completely unfazed, “Oh, honey, don’t pester the nice lady.”

The girl beamed, not paying any mind to following instructions. “Do you live in the sea?”

You nodded again, quickly, maybe a bit too eagerly, and Nat snorted. “Oh boy.”

You placed a finger over your lips, wide-eyed, and gave a playful shake of your head, the little girl gasped like you’d just given her the great cosmic truth and clasped her hands together. “I knew it,” she whispered, bouncing in place.

She scampered off toward her mother, shouting something about scales and sea foam and how she had proof now. You stood frozen for a moment, your heart beating a little faster, since now fianlly, Bucky had to know the truth, right?

Your smile slowly dimmed as you looked around and realized… no one else was reacting. No shocked stares, no gasps. Just laughter. Teasing. Nat leaning back against a barrel, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in amusement.

No one believed her. No one believed you.

Of course they didn’t.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, disappointment settling heavy like a stone in your stomach. The magic of the moment drifted away, swept up by the wind like sand through your fingers.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from behind you, soft and calming, in a way you heard him talk a couple of times when he thought it was just him and the tide. He’d returned at some point—quiet enough that you hadn’t even noticed.

You turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, schooling your expression into something resembling calm.

He gave you a small, apologetic smile. “We should probably head back,” he said. “The ball tonight… there’ll be guests from the neightboring cities. My mother’s probably already driving everyone crazy.”

You nodded quickly, lips pressing together.

You fell into step beside him, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to keep from tripping over it. You didn’t look back, not even once, though your mind replayed the moment again and again.

You didn't catch the glances Bucky stole your way as he walked by you, you really didn't pay him much mind when he offered his hand to help you inside the carriage either. Your mind was off to wondering how you were going to tell him you were you without having so much as a voice.

The sun was beginning to dip, its warm light slanting through the tall windows of Bucky’s chamber. In the bathroom, the scent of lavender and cedarwood filled the air, steam curling lazily from the surface of the bath sunk into the marble floor, all sorts of beautiful sea-themed patterns etched onto the surface.

Bucky hissed in pleasure when his limbs hit the hot water, muscles relaxing almost immediately. He had his eyes closed, head tipped back against the edge of the tub, hair slicked back, arms resting along the rim. He looked blissfully unaware, muscles loose for once, the weight of the palace momentarily forgotten.

Which is exactly when you walked in.

Barefoot, quiet, and curious.

You’d been looking for him. After you got back from the markets it was mid morning, Nat had told you someone would help you get ready soon, but you hadn’t seen Bucky since and—well, you missed him.

It was already late afternoon, and you liked being near him. You liked the way he looked at you like you were something rare, something worth watching. Liked the way his hand felt in yours and how it fed those insidious little thoughts of what his touch would feel like elsewhere.

You pushed open the door, peeked inside... and paused.

There he was.

Naked. Wet. Glowing like the marble statue come to life in the soft flickering light, water dancing at his waist while steam curled around him making him look like an angel of your deepest, coral-brained desires.

Your eyes widened slightly.

Bucky, to his credit, didn’t even notice. Not at first. You padded closer, slowly, head tilting, taking in the strange sight of him submerged in water. It was such a human thing. So… inefficient. He just sat there. Soaking. Not even doing anything.

You hummed soundlessly, then began to untie the sash at your waist, the moment your robe dropped to the floor, Bucky stirred.

He cracked an eye open—and immediately sat bolt upright, splashing a bit of water. “What the—? What are you—?”

It was mean, honestly. The way the light hit the hard walls and floors and just bounced off of your body, accentuating the curve of your breasts, your waist, and he had to actually stop his brain from continuing. 

You stepped in, carefully lowering yourself into the water opposite him, sighing as the warmth soaked into your sore new muscles. Your legs were still unfamiliar, heavy and awkward when they weren’t being pulled by the tide. This felt… better.

Worse, if you asked Bucky. Since now you were wet, glistening, and naked in front of him. So willing, clueless, and wanting. 

You blinked, wide-eyed, confused. Your fingers trailed along the water’s surface. You looked around the space, then at him, like wasn’t this what people did?

“You’re naked,” he hissed. You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then gave a little shrug like, yes, obviously? “I’m in here,” Bucky whispered, panicked, trying to cover himself with the foam.

You hummed, shrugging softly, then began to kneel into the tub with the most determined innocence he had ever seen, trying to get comfortable, somehow ending up leaning towards him.

Bucky cursed under his breath and tried to stand. Bad move. Worst move, actually. Sam would have the time of his life making fun of him for this for the rest of existence when this inevitably ended up making its way to his ears.

Because the moment he stood—half rising, trying to create distance, and grace, and dignity—his dick, which had been desperately not trying to behave, sprang forward through the bubbles like a traitor. Standing fully at attention. Hard and thick, barely inches from your wide-eyed, curious face.

You gasped softly, blinking in surprise, eyes going directly to it.

“Okay—nope,” he muttered, hands bracing on the edge of the tub. “This was a mistake. I need—space. Distance. Jesus—”

You leaned back slightly on your heels, blinking up at him, completely baffled. And good God if the sight wasn't almost enough to feed whatever fantasies he has in mind. 

Bucky swore and grabbed the nearest towel, fumbling to wrap it around his hips as he turned away from you so fast he nearly slipped. “Don’t—don’t look,” he said hoarsely. “That’s not—this is not—”

You made a face and a motion with you hands, mouthing does it hurt?

The innocent concern on your face made his cock twitch, he squeezed his eyes shut. “No. I’m not hurt.”

You pointed at the pitching tent in the towel again, as if to say "Why is it like that, then?"

He let out a helpless, breathless laugh, half hysterical. “Because my body is stupid,” he said. “And you’re beautiful. And naked. And sitting in my bath like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

You stared at him, absorbing the groundbreaking information, then you scooted forward just a little, reaching out like you were going to help. Bucky snapped his head around. “Nope—no—sweetheart, please don’t try to fix it—”

You stopped immediately, hands hovering midair. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, voice softer now. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “This is just… a human thing. A me thing.”

You settled back, folding your hands in your lap like you’d been scolded but understood — mostly. Because you were watching him with that same soft, fascinated gaze. Like he was a puzzle you wanted to understand. Like you weren’t embarrassed — just interested.

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna be the death of me. You smiled and splashed him gently with a handful of sudsy water.

He laughed despite himself. “Okay. Out. Both of us. Nat’s gonna murder me.” You didn’t move.

You just looked at him, bright and trusting and completely unaware of how close he was to losing every ounce of self-control. Bucky groaned and offered you his hand. “C’mon, mermaid. Before I do something really stupid.”

He teased it, not even knowing how close to the truth he really was. 

The palace’s spare chamber had never looked more like a war zone.

Dresses were strewn across every surface—spilled from trunks, flung over chairs, draped across the bed in waves of silk, satin, and embroidered tulle. Shoes were scattered like casualties on the floor. Ribbons, gloves, and delicate sparkling jewelry were arranged on the vanity like tools of seduction.

And in the middle of it all stood Natasha Romanoff, her sleeves rolled up and her red hair twisted back, hands on her hips as she stared you down like a general surveying the battlefield.

“You,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “are going to look like a goddess tonight.”

You stood barefoot in the middle of the chaos, arms wrapped around yourself, looking equal parts excited and terrified. You couldn’t stop tugging nervously on your lip as your eyes flicked from the dresses to the door, like Bucky might burst in at any moment.

Nat caught the glance and smirked. “Don’t worry. He’s not allowed in here. I made sure of it.” She raised a brow. “Unless you want him to see you half-dressed.”

What followed could only be likened to a whirlpool, pulling you to the depths no matter how hard you tried to swim out of it, inevitably landing you in a sparkling light pink gown, with a matching ribbon on your hair, uncomfortable feet cages humans liked to call shoes, and standing by the punch watching your prince be flirted with by the entire fucking kingdom. 

Lady Lillian of Somewhere. The Marchioness of Someland, you didn't care to hear, to be perfectly honest, ears turning pink in anger watching them all fawn over what was yours. Someone with a ridiculous feather in her hair whose name you hadn’t caught but who laughed a little too loudly at everything Bucky said.

Hello? Don't they see you here?

Crystal chandeliers bathed the marble floor in warm golden light, making the specks of color dance like the way people were meant to be dancing at that moment. Musicians played a waltz in the corner. 

Noble guests in gowns and polished shoes twirled across the floor like petals in the wind. Laughter chimed like bells, champagne sparkled in cut glass flutes, and servants floated through the crowd with trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres.

He looked handsome tonight. Too handsome. His hair was tied back, his tailored navy suit pressed to perfection, every gold button gleaming. The sword at his hip was ceremonial, but it didn’t stop him from looking like he’d stepped straight out of one of the illustrated romance books Natasha had read aloud to you.

One of the girls reached forward and brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder, and your stomach flipped violently.

Natasha, beside you with a goblet of wine, leaned in. “You know you’re allowed to look angry,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “But if you snap a fan in half, I will laugh.”

Bucky's eyes scanned the room, searching, the crease between his brows only softening when his gaze found yours. Like he could breathe. Like you were a little piece of the ocean breeze that made his lungs so easy to fill in nights where the walls closed in too tight. 

He looked at you like he might walk away from all of them if you so much as tilted your head.

You looked down instead, heart hammering in your chest. You couldn’t be angry—couldn’t blame him. You weren’t a duchess. You weren’t even technically human.

And nothing beyond a little coral-brained lovesick idiot who thought she had a chance with a man she's never spoken a word to. 

And he didn’t know.

Didn’t know you’d pulled him from the sea.

Didn’t know the ache in your chest was love, sharp and stupid and growing heavier every day.

A few minutes later, you felt his presence at your side, you huffed silently and looked away. Bucky reached for your hand.

“I was going to ask if you’d dance with me,” he said, then leaned a little closer. “But now I think I have to ask if you’ll even look at me.”

You turned slowly, meeting his gaze finally. He smiled softly, that look he only gave you spreading across his face like sunlight. “Hi.” Your shoulders relaxed.

He offered his hand, and in no time, he was waltzing you around, the slowest song of the night for sure. You thought this would be the moment he'd kiss you. Give in to the thoughts you knew he had, and just put you out of your misery.

Until it got interrupted by yet another stupid human girl thinking she could flirt with your prince.

You'd had enough, honestly.

It was stupid of you to think you ever had a chance. Should've listened to your father, to Kate… Hell, even Yelena! You should've never messed around with magic, or humans, or magic to mess around with humans. 

As soon as Bucky got pulled away yet another time, you swiftly made your way back to your chambers, eyes welling up. Your feet carried you through the marble halls faster than your thoughts could catch up.

If you were your father, the sea would be roaring by now. 

You had imagined it all—the look in his eyes, the breathless way he’d held you close, the near kiss, the way his hand had lingered on yours. You thought he felt it. You knew you did.

But maybe this was what humans did. Pretend. Smile. Flirt with one girl while another waited like a ghost behind a glass wall.

The nightgown Natasha had laid out earlier waited folded on your bed—long and soft, white like seafoam, cinched with the tiniest lace ribbon beneath the bust. It was delicate, dreamy.

You undressed slowly, sighing as the gown whispered over your skin. The cool fabric helped wash away the heat of the ballroom, but not the ache in your chest.

You moved to the vanity, taking out the ribbon and brushing your hair out with slow, thoughtful strokes, finally letting a few tears fall free, when you heard a knock. Probably Natasha bringing you tea and checking in on you, she was thoughtful like that, you learned quickly.

When you opened the door, the breeze moved your gown and hair slightly, revealing a very worried-looking Prince James Barnes. “Can I come in?”

Talking to you like he was the stray, and this wasn't his palace, with his staff, and his guards, and his everything. He waited a second and then asked quietly, "Please?"

He stood there in the soft lamplight of the hall, jacket gone, shirt undone at the collar. His hair was loose now, falling around his jaw, and he looked… unsure. Tense. But God, did he look delicious. 

You moved out of the way for him to come in, and his steps were slow, almost as if he was sure he was making a mistake but couldn't afford not to. 

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “You left.” You blinked and tilted your head. “I was looking for you,” he said, his eyes scanning your face. “You just… disappeared.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your bare feet padded softly over the rug as you returned to the vanity, brushing again to keep your hands busy, pretending you weren’t trembling with embarrassment.

“You’re mad,” he said softly. You didn’t turn, barely catching his gaze through the vanity mirror. “You have every right to be,” he added, coming to now kneel in front of you, warm hands on your covered thighs.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, like the words hurt coming out. “I wanted to. I still do. But I didn’t want you to think I was just another one of those men tonight. That I only wanted you because you looked beautiful.” He swallowed. “Even though you did. You always do.”

You hated this trade. You wanted to be able to tell him, wanted to be able to just— well, you could.

You looked down at him, hand cradling his jaw, the stubble there tickling your palm. And the way he looked at you, like you'd disappear into seafoam the second he took his eyes from you. You knew you shouldn't, but just couldn't resist. 

You bit your lip, barely contemplating the thought, leaned down, brought his face to yours and kissed him softly. Bucky's fingers flexing on your thighs and squeezing, grounding himself. 

You kissed him like you were still underwater and he was the surface.

Bucky kissed you like he’d been starving for it, like every part of him had been aching to touch you again since the bath, since the market, since the second he laid eyes on you washed ashore.

His hands slid up your thighs slowly, as if he didn't want to scare you off, until they curved around your hips, thumbs brushing the thin fabric of your nightgown. He rose from his knees, towering above you now, lips still pressing harder against yours like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Your fingers wrapped around the collar of his shirt as he pulled you close and up with him. He broke the kiss, as if looking for the moonlight reflecting off your eyes to tell him to stop, and when he found no trace of hesitation, once he saw your dazed look too eager to go back for more, he gave into it all. 

the second kiss was rougher, more possessive. His tongue explored your mouth like he wanted to plant a flag and claim you as his, strong arms pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist, hands finfing the plush skin of your ass under the gown. 

Bucky walked both of you to bed, laying you down carefully onto the soft sheets, the fabric of the nightgown bunching around your hips the more they chased friction against his body.

You tugged him down again, mouths crashing softly, hungrily. Your fingers tangled in his hair, lips parting to taste the little gasps you’d been dreaming about for nights.

His hips pressed into yours and you felt him—hot, thick, hard between you—and your knees nearly gave out.

You whimpered into his mouth and it was the first sound he'd ever heard come from you. It didn't even register to either of you that it happened, you didn't pay close enough attention when you were distracted by the thick feeling of him between your legs.

Specially since you knew what he was packing. 

And when he finally, finally slid his hand between your thighs, when he touched you where you were softest and slickest, Bucky nearly broke.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Is this all for me?” All you could do was whine and nod, begging him for more. You didn't even know what, but you knew his fingers between your folds were a balm to a fever you never wanted to be rid of. 

As he inserted one finger, and then two, he felt your gummy walls contract around him. "I never wanted anything like I want you." was muffled and whispered agasint the side of your mouth.

"Bucky, please…" Now, that registered. 

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, "Y-you can talk?" And you looked surprised with yourself, nodding, trying our the words again, less hoarse this time.

Your thoughts were interrupted by his hand, again, curling his fingers in a come-here motion while his thumb rolled your clit in a slow circle that had you squeezing your eyes shut and letting out a whimper. 

"I know, baby, just— just feel it." You bit your lip and nodded, hands roaming his shoulders, then his chest, and finally settling on the laces of his pants. 

"Need you— please…" You palmed him, begging. He groaned, the sound coming from deep in his chest. He wanted to savor it, he really did, but something about the flashes of you in the bath and your voice now begging for him had him thinking he'd just have to make you overstimulated another time. 

"I— fuck," He took his hand from between your legs, getting a disapproving whine out of you, and managed to barely get his pants down enough to free his cock. He stroked himself, the schlick sound making your cheeks pink, and leaned back over you, spreading your legs wider. 

He slid the head of his cock up and down your soaked slit, bumping your clit in the process and making both of you hiss, and notched the head in. 

Every inch he pushed in was nother kiss, another nibble, another nudge he gave the straps of your nightgown to make it fall away from your shoulder. His mouth lapped at every inch of skin it could until he was buried at the hilt. 

"You feel so good, baby— fuck."

You whimpered, the fullness being too much to think of anything but. "So— so full, James, please…"

Bucky slowly started rocking his hips, the tip of him kissing your cervix every time and dragging over that sweet spot that had you grabbing the headboard to prevent from letting the entire palace know what you were up to. 

"You're doing so— shit, so fucking good—"

"It was me—" You gulped, your brain coming abck to you for a moment. "I— I saved you, oh!, during the sto-o-rm." Breathy little words left your mouth as you felt a tight coil in your stomach getting worse by the second. 

He laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, then kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. Like the world had narrowed down to this moment alone. "I knew you were real, fuck — I knew I wasn't dreaming of an angel."

His thrusts got more erratic, and he felt you clench around him, "Let me feel it, just— just let go." And as his thumb found your clit again, that exactly what you did.

You hid your face in his neck as pleasure crashed over you like angry waves would take a ship under, and he followed close behind, filling you up with hot spurts of cum, 

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You were made for this. For me.”

As he lifted himself just enough to look at you after, he saw the moonlit glow over your face, and paid no mind to the waves that started to crash outside. “I love your voice,” he whispered finally, kissing just below your ear. “But I loved you even before I ever heard it.”

He had found his angel, and you finally got your prince.

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes@houseofhyde @heldbybarnes@opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface@54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover@buckyfmd@starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace@artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28@epiphanyrogers@famoushoshi@avgdestitute

[void-in-blue]

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐭, 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 // 𝐐𝐇𝟒𝟑

PART SIX | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: “You can’t hold my hand, and put my sunscreen on, and kiss the fucking bump. You can’t do that.” – or the one where a weekend in the michigan sun has you burning in more ways than one.

Pairing: quinn hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns

Word count: 17.8k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ read chapter specific warnings. minimal use of Y/N. for this part: smut, unprotected penetrative sex (she can't get pregnant twice), kinda vanilla, slight cockwarming. reader is needy and hormonal, hints at abandonment issues, but overall very soft and cute.

A/N: it's here!! probably my favorite part of this entire thing!! i hope that you all like it as much as i do. please tell me what you think!! and please tell me if the texting scene looks weird!!

PART SIX | Beach Baby.

The Hughes lake house in Michigan had a sound to it in the summer—screen doors snapping shut, the hum of old ceiling fans rattling against their screws, the drone of bugs circling the porch lights, and somewhere, always, one of the brothers yelling from across the property.

Quinn had grown up to that sound. Normally, it was comforting. Today, it felt like impending doom.

The minute his duffel bag hit the porch, he sank onto the old wicker couch like his legs had given out. The cushions scratched the backs of his thighs through his shorts, stiff with age and sun damage. He sat forward, elbows digging into his knees, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of lake beyond the railing.

He’d spent the entire flight to Michigan overthinking. Every worst-case scenario, every version of how this conversation could blow up in his face. Now, he was supposed to tell his brothers he got you pregnant, and he couldn’t even think of a first sentence. A first word even, to say to them and make it make sense. 

It even felt more difficult than telling his parents for some reason. Maybe because they couldn’t laugh at him. They’d taken it seriously from the beginning. He knew his brothers could turn it all into some joke. 

How did you start a sentence like that? Hey, so I got a one-night stand pregnant? Maybe something more polished? You’re going to be uncles? No option had survived the mental drafts without Quinn wanting to slam his head into a wall. 

The thing was, it all made perfect sense in his own head. He wasn’t fighting the reality anymore. He’d accepted it. He wasn’t calling it a mistake or accident anymore—not out loud, not even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

He didn’t know if he believed that babies could hear you before they were born, if they picked up on what you whispered or what you thought too hard about. But if they could? He wasn’t risking it. Not when he wanted that little thing inside you to feel nothing but wanted, nothing but expected—even if that hadn’t been the original plan.

That child was going to be loved beyond imaginable measures. That much, Quinn knew with bone-deep certainty. What he didn’t know was whether his brothers were going to buy into the circumstances of how all this had happened. Whether they’d sit and listen. Or laugh. Or god forbid, pity him.

The porch floorboards creaked in warning before the thud-thud-thud of wet feet on wood dragged him out of his spiral. He looked up just in time to see Jack barrel around the corner of the house, dripping lake water like he’d just risen straight out of it. His swim trunks clung heavy and dark to his thighs, his hair sticking out in ten different directions.

Quinn quickly realized he had no further time to overthink this. 

Jack spotted him immediately, his grin already dangerous. He flopped down beside him on the wicker couch with no respect for Quinn’s personal space—water seeping instantly into the cushion beneath them.

“Sooo,” Jack said, dragging it out, “mom told us you had, like, big news.”

Quinn exhaled slowly through his nose, already dragging a hand down his face. What happened to hello? What about a simple how are you, haven’t seen you in months?

Of course she had told them. Of course Ellen couldn’t keep it locked down for a few more hours until Quinn had figured out how to string together a single sentence. He’d told his parents that he would tell them when he got to Michigan. He just naively assumed she wouldn’t warn them about it beforehand. 

“I was going to tell you all at once—”

“Too late,” Luke called from inside, voice muffled by the crunch of something being chewed. The unmistakable crackle of a chip bag followed. A second later, he shoved open the screen door, curls flattened on his forehead from the lake, one hand buried wrist-deep in a family-sized bag of Ruffles. He had lake water still shining on his chest, droplets tracking down his collarbone.

“Mom’s been pacing like someone’s dying,” he added around a mouthful of potato as he sat down in a wicker chair in front of them.

Quinn’s stomach knotted. That wasn’t far from how it felt.

“Wait,” Jack turned suddenly, eyes wide in mock alarm. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“No, I’m not dying, Jack.” The words came out rougher than Quinn intended. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the beams of the porch ceiling, wishing for even a moment of quiet before this exploded.

“Is it about a girl?” Jack pressed. 

“It totally is,” Luke chimed, pointing with a greasy finger. “Mom had that look on her face.”

From the wide-opened kitchen window, Ellen’s voice suddenly snapped. “I do not have a look. Do I have a special girl-look?” 

Quinn’s head jerked toward the sound, startled. He hadn’t even realized she was in there, let alone listening. Great.

“You do,” Jack shot back, loud enough for her to hear. “You have a love-look.”

Luke snorted, shoving another chip into his mouth. “You’ve had it all week!”

Quinn sat forward, pressing his palms together so tightly his knuckles went white. His heart hadn’t slowed since he’d stepped onto the porch. Hell, maybe it hadn’t slowed since Vancouver. His brain was running laps, trying to decide if there was any way he could sidestep this. Maybe he could stall, toss them half-truths until they got distracted, and then they’d never circle back. His brothers had the attention span of goldfish. It was possible.

Except it wasn’t.

If Quinn didn’t say something soon, his mom would. He could practically see it happening—Ellen breezing onto the porch with no grace whatsoever, blurting out how’s the baby? or is Y/N doing okay? before he’d even get the chance to stop her. She’d gone from shock to concern to full-blown ecstasy since he’d told his parents a couple months ago. Honestly, she probably talked more on the phone to you now than she did with Quinn.

So yeah. He was out of time.

“There is a girl… involved,” Quinn finally admitted. His throat was dry. “And it’s somewhat the opposite of dying.”

It turned out that Quinn could do it gracelessly too. Too vague. Too dramatic. It sounded like the start of a terrible riddle—and riddles were not exactly his brothers’ strong suit. Almost any of the half-dozen rehearsed sentences in his head would’ve been better than that.

Jack tilted his head, squinting like he was genuinely trying to solve it. “You’re being born?” he asked, seemingly totally serious.

Luke nearly choked on his chips as he laughed, coughing until crumbs left his mouth. 

Quinn clenched his teeth. He should have expected this. Why did he think they’d let him get a single word out without turning it into a circus? “Oh my god,” he muttered. “No. I’m—”

And then he saw it—the flash in Jack’s eyes. The way his grin froze, sharp edges softening as the dots connected. The widening pupils, the exact second comprehension hit him square in the chest.

“Holy shit!” 

Luke straightened up, still coughing. “What?”

“He’s becoming a dad, you moron!” Jack crowed, so loud the sound seemed to echo into the woods surrounding them. He shoved Quinn’s shoulder hard enough to jostle him, water droplets from his hair spraying at the movement. “That’s what you meant, right, Quinn?”

The pressure in Quinn’s chest coiled tighter, almost painful. He hadn’t wanted it dragged into the light like this, loud and messy, but there was no running now. Not from his brothers, not from the way Jack’s face looked—half amazed, half like he couldn’t wait to make fun of him for it.

And, in a way, maybe this was easier. To have the words ripped out by someone else instead of choking on them himself.

Quinn’s gaze drifted anywhere but at the two sets of eyes staring intensely at him. He forced his shoulders to stay steady as he exhaled and said a quiet, “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence—a second of contemplation where Quinn wondered if this was when the world finally fell apart, or if his brothers had actually matured since the last time he saw them. 

Then there was chaos. Loud and all at once. 

Luke sucked in air too fast and practically choked again, this time on nothing, flailing enough that half the bag of chips slid right off his lap and onto the porch floorboards. Jack shot to his feet and let out a sound Quinn couldn’t categorize—half scream, half laugh. From a sun lounger on the lawn, their dad’s voice floated over, dry as ever. “Jesus Christ, Quinn,” he muttered, having clearly heard every word of their conversation. 

Heat prickled at the back of Quinn’s neck. His worst-case scenarios hadn’t accounted for this exact combination—choking and screaming—but maybe they should have.

“How did this even happen?” Luke demanded once he caught his breath. “I mean—I know how, but—”

“He skipped the condom, dumbass,” Jack deadpanned, so quick it almost overlapped Luke’s words.

From the kitchen window, Ellen’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to make Quinn flinch. “Jack Hughes! Do not say that out loud in this house.”

Jack lifted both hands innocently, eyes wide like he couldn’t fathom why anyone was upset with him. “What? It’s probably factual.”

Quinn winced. While it was exactly what had happened, he didn’t necessarily want to think about it—or have his entire family speculate about it. The last thing he needed was his mom scolding his brothers about condoms while his dad was within earshot. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Jack pressed on, undeterred. “You got some girl pregnant—and she’s keeping it? I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

Quinn straightened, bones stiff. “We decided on keeping it,” he corrected quietly. He wasn’t sure if it was defensiveness or pride in his voice. Maybe both.

Both his brothers continued to look surprised as Luke sputtered out, “W-we? You’re in a we now?”

Quinn opened his mouth, then shut it again, his pulse kicking up another notch. He knew how it sounded, knew how much his brothers thrived on tearing apart any scrap they could latch onto. His hands flexed on his knees before he finally got the words out. “We’re not dating.”

Jack didn’t even blink. “So, what, she’s baby-trapping you?”

Luke jumped in before Quinn could react, acting as though this was a perfectly reasonable question. “Or is he baby-trapping her?”

Quinn blinked at them with pure disbelief. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“You know,” Luke said with a shrug, “maybe she wants you for your money. Or maybe she’s way out of your league and you wanted her to have your kid so she’d have to stick around.”

Quinn’s jaw tightened until it ached. That exact thought had kept him up at night more than once—the way it might look from the outside, how fast people would jump to assumptions. He knew you hated it even more, hated how easily people would reduce you to that. And he’d promised himself, silently, that he’d never let you see it bother him. Never let you think he believed it for even a second.

But hearing it now, tossed out like a joke by his own brothers, nearly tipped him over the edge.

“That’s insane,” he bit out. “We barely knew each other before this happened.”

Jack leaned back in his seat, smirk curling slow and merciless. “That makes it even more wild.” He let the silence stretch for dramatic effect before cocking his head. “Is she hot?”

Quinn froze. The question slammed into him with a blunt kind of force, so stupid and so inevitable all at once. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat closed around the thought. He didn’t even know why it mattered, or why his body betrayed him like this.

Which, of course, was all the answer they needed.

Luke’s grin broke wide, triumphant. “She is hot.”

“Are you two done?” Quinn snapped, glaring between them. “This is not how I pictured this conversation going.” 

Ellen stepped out onto the porch then, screen door clapping shut behind her. She crossed her arms, hovering near the railing like she wasn’t sure if she should intervene or let the boys wear themselves out. “Me neither,” she admitted, her mouth twitching in amusement. She couldn’t keep a straight face no matter how hard she tried. “But at least they’re excited?”

“Excited is one word for it,” Quinn said dryly. His pulse was finally slowing, though his chest still felt tight, like he hadn’t completely escaped the chokehold of it.

Jack wasn’t done. “Why did mom and dad get to know before us? We’re your brothers, dude.” 

Quinn’s eyes stayed locked on the porch boards again. It was easier than looking at their faces. “You’re supposed to wait until the second trimester before telling people,” he said, the explanation clipped, rehearsed. “But they were in Vancouver and—”

“And you couldn’t look mom in the eye without telling her?” Jack cut in. 

“Basically,” Quinn admitted, lips pressing into a thin line. There was no use denying it. He glanced toward his mom briefly, who just smiled knowingly. “And they got to meet her too.”

Luke tilted his head. “Alright, but seriously—who is she? What’s she like? Why are you not dating her?” 

For the first time since the conversation began, some of the tension bled from his shoulders, replaced by something easier. It was easy for him to talk about you. 

“Her name is Y/N,” Quinn said. “And we’re not dating because—” He hesitated, unsure if he actually knew the answer as to why you weren’t dating. He forced something out that was factually true before he lost his nerve. “We had a one-night stand, but we’re figuring things out. It’s… going surprisingly well.”

His brothers actually let the words rest between them for a moment. No interruptions. And Quinn realized with a small jolt that it was true. More true than he’d probably say out loud to them. You two were doing good as expecting parents. 

“She’s stubborn, and smart,” he added, the corner of his mouth tugging upward without permission. “Kind of closed-off, but… she’s funny when she wants to be. And she works for a law firm, so no—” his eyes flicked sharply to Jack—“she’s not the kind of person who wants anything from me.”

Jack nodded slowly. “So she’s not baby-trapping you.”

Luke shoved another chip into his mouth, talking around it. “Guess we’ll have to see if you are baby-trapping her.”

Ellen swatted the back of his head before Quinn could even retort. “Enough.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The lake house was never truly quiet when all of them were there, but for once, the house had settled into a lull as it neared midnight. 

Quinn had sunk into it gratefully. His body felt like lead after the day of traveling—planes, cars, and then a bombardment of family voices on top of it all. He hadn’t had the energy to unpack his duffel, hadn’t even bothered changing into real pajamas. He’d barely managed to brush his teeth before collapsing onto the mattress in his old room, letting himself breathe in the familiar scent that clung to the wood-paneled walls. 

Dinner had been a trial. Not catastrophic, not as bad as he’d feared, but not easy either. His brothers had spent most of it in awkward silence, clearly circling questions they couldn’t quite spit out. His parents had asked the reasonable things—about you, the pregnancy, the logistics—and Quinn had offered short answers. He’d been relieved when the conversation had moved onto other things, to mundane small-town updates. Their old neighbor passing away. The golf course’s new driving range. Anything other than him.

Quinn was just about to drift off when the door to his room banged open, hinges squealing. “Alright, it’s time for you to talk,” Jack announced, striding in. 

Quinn groaned into his pillow, shoving it over his face. He was too tired to be surprised, too drained to even lift his head. His voice came out muffled. “No.”

“Yes,” Jack countered, flopping onto the minimal space next to Quinn on the bed. “You can’t just drop a bomb like ‘I got a girl pregnant’ and then not give details. That’s not how brotherhood works.”

“I second this,” Luke’s voice piped up from the doorway. He wasn’t even pretending to be casual about it—blanket draped over one arm, water bottle dangling from the other, eyes bright with nosy anticipation. He padded across the creaking floorboards and plopped into the armchair opposite the bed, throwing the blanket around his shoulders like he planned to camp there until sunrise. “We need more answers.”

Quinn dragged the pillow off his face and sat up halfway, squinting at both of them. His eyes stung with exhaustion, his whole body buzzing with the sharp-edged ache of too little sleep and too much thinking. “I don’t know what more to say. I didn’t think you’d care this much.”

Jack rolled onto his back, hands folded behind his head, scoffing like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Not care? You’re having a whole-ass baby, Quinn. With a whole-ass woman. This is the most interesting thing you’ve done in, like, your entire life.

Luke nodded agreeably, already cozy under his blanket. “Start talking, old man.”

“I’m twenty-five,” Quinn muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Exactly,” Jack shot back, pointing at him dramatically. “Ancient. You’re on the brink of death and impending fatherhood. We need to know everything before you wither away. Like, who’s gonna be godfather?”

Quinn stared at him blankly. “Neither. You guys are idiots.”

Luke ignored him entirely, leaning forward so the chair creaked beneath him. “What’s her name again? Y/N, right? What’s she like? Do you have pictures?”

“Luke,” he warned, tone flat, but Luke just raised his brows like he’d struck gold.

“Come onnn, Quinn.” Jack, of course, was oblivious—or chose to be. He rolled onto his stomach, chin propped in his hands, like a teenage girl at a sleepover. The mattress bounced with the movement, irritating Quinn down to his teeth. “You’ve definitely got pictures. Do you have a picture of the bump yet?”

Quinn blinked at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Don’t act like that’s a weird question,” Jack shot back easily, already stretching one long arm toward Quinn’s nightstand where his phone was charging.

Quinn was quick to yank it out of his hands. “No.”

Luke tilted his head, lips twitching into a smile. “So you do have pictures.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quinn muttered, dragging a hand down his face until it tugged at his jaw. He’d forgotten—really forgotten—how relentless they were, how merciless they became once they caught a whiff of something worth digging into. There was no tapping out, no ducking under the covers and forcing sleep. They’d happily stay here all night, peeling him apart layer by layer. No amount of fatigue was going to save him now.

Jack grinned, satisfied. “Okay, fine, if you won’t show us pics, give us stats. How far along is she?”

Quinn hesitated. He could lie. Or not lie-lie, but give them something short enough to shut the door on the conversation. But the air in the room was already thick, and holding it all in was starting to press against his ribs. Instead he found himself exhaling, shoulders slumping. Maybe if he was relaxed about it, the conversation wouldn’t spiral, and it could actually lead to them understanding him. 

“Seventeen weeks,” he simply announced. 

Jack’s jaw dropped. “That’s, like, halfway! You’ve been hiding this for four months?”

Quinn shot him a look. “Yeah, Jack, that’s how pregnancy works. You’re not supposed to say anything during the first twelve weeks, and then I wanted to wait so I could tell you both in person and not over the phone.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Jack muttered, but there was less bite to it now. His brain was clearly already running down a new track. He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Have you been to an ultrasound?”

Quinn’s expression must’ve softened, because both brothers noticed and perked up instantly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t… always like me being there. It’s kind of invasive since we’re not… a thing. But I’ve been to some check-ups. We’ve got the printout on the fridge.”

Jack’s grin faltered for the first time all day. His eyebrows drew together, like the weight of it had finally hit him in the chest. “Shit,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That’s… kinda crazy, dude.”

And Luke, for once, didn’t jump in with a joke either. He nodded slowly, his eyes searching Quinn’s face like he was trying to gauge just how serious this really was. “Did you cry?” he asked finally.

“No,” Quinn said way too fast.

Both brothers caught it.

“Liar,” Luke sang, sitting up straighter, grin breaking through.

Jack leaned in close, practically whispering in Quinn’s ear just to be obnoxious. “Show us a picture of her, or I’m telling dad you cried.”

Quinn rolled his eyes, but the jab hit deeper than he’d admit. He hadn’t cried in front of you. Only briefly on the drive home after your first scan. That day had been overwhelming even for him. The second he was alone, a couple of lonely tears had run down his cheeks before he even had a chance to think about it. Even now, remembering it made his throat burn.

He wouldn’t be embarrassed if they told their dad. Honestly, he’d bet good money their dad had cried too when all three of them were on the way. It was a pathetic attempt from Jack to gain leverage, but it still annoyed him a little.

Quinn let out a long, tired sigh. “You guys are fucking unbearable.”

“You love us,” Jack shot back. “And you love her, too. Which is why you definitely have, like, at least twenty secret photos of her on your phone.”

“I do not—” Quinn cut himself off, realizing too late that he didn’t know what he was saying. If he was denying the photos or denying being in love with you. Well, he did have photos. So there was only really one thing to deny. 

“Bullshit,” Luke interrupted, “You take pictures of everything. Food, golf scores, sunsets that look exactly the same. There’s no way you haven’t taken a picture of the girl carrying your literal child.”

Quinn sat still, fist clenched around his phone before muttering, “Fuck you guys.”

And still—he unlocked it anyway.

He didn’t even have to scroll far. Besides the odd sunset and golf score, his camera roll was embarrassingly full of you. It wasn’t intentional, just on instinct. A collection of proof that he’d been paying attention. That he hadn’t been able not to.

Your face. The ultrasound scan. Screenshots from pregnancy sites with highlighted bullet points he’d meant to reread. Pictures of your old baby clothes you’d dragged out of your grandma’s attic. The smallest, little sliver sparkly sneakers he’d ever seen.

Quinn swiped slowly, considering. 

His favorite was one he’d taken a couple of weeks ago, when you’d fallen asleep on your couch after demolishing an entire box of donuts and still had sugar smeared across your face. Your feet had been in his lap, and he remembered having mused at how completely at ease you looked asleep. And how much he’d stared at your stomach as your shirt had ridden up, almost forcing himself to imagine a bump that wasn’t even there yet. 

But that photo was his. Private.

Instead, he swiped to something safer. A picture from just a few days ago. The bump was undeniable now. You still tried to hide it in public, tugging at oversized shirts, but when it was just the two of you, you didn’t bother. That night you’d been in the kitchen, cooking, in oversized pajama pants and a tank top stretched tight across your stomach. You were smiling so hard your whole face scrunched, holding a pasta spoon like you were about to lob it at him for sneaking the photo.

Quinn hesitated again before finally turning the phone around.

“Do not show him first, show me first,” Luke blurted, already bolting forward from his chair.

“I’m the oldest,” Jack argued, already reaching.

“You’re the most annoying,” Luke countered instantly.

“Both of you shut up before I change my mind,” Quinn snapped. His voice was sharp, but his hand trembled slightly as he offered them the phone.

Jack snatched it carefully—more carefully than Quinn expected—and Luke hovered right at his shoulder, craning for a better view.

The photo was just you. Completely candid. Hair messy, no makeup, bump peeking out under the hem of your tank. A smile so wide he could count every tooth. If it were normal for him to have you as his lock screen, this would’ve been the picture.

His brothers went quiet. Too quiet. They examined the photo like they were handling evidence, both leaning in close enough that Quinn’s pulse hammered wildly against his ribs all over again.

Then Jack let out a low whistle, the sound breaking the tension. “Holy shit, dude.”

Luke blinked, leaning closer, squinting like he was trying to reconcile the bump with the person holding the spoon. “So she is hot.”

Quinn rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, yanking the phone back before they, god forbid, started to scroll to other photos. “Don’t say it like that.”

Jack smirked. “Sorry, sorry. What he meant to say was: she’s way out of your league. Like, astronomically. This is… actually shocking.”

Quinn shot him a look. “You’re such an asshole.”

Luke just grinned lazily, tipping back in the chair like the weight of the moment had already passed. “Nah, Jack’s right. For something unplanned, you sure lucked out.”

“I hate you both,” he groaned in response. But he couldn’t argue against them. 

Quinn wanted to strangle them both. Wanted them out of his room, out of his hair, out of the tangle of questions that kept circling closer to the softest parts of him. But beneath the irritation, something small and sharp twisted in his chest, because the truth was unavoidable.

Of course he liked you. Of course he’d started to imagine something bigger than whatever messy night had started all this. He could lie to them, maybe, but not to himself. Not anymore.

Luke broke the silence first, voice curious but uncharacteristically careful. “Can she fly still? Is she coming here?”

Quinn cleared his throat, shifting against the headboard. “Yeah. Next week.”

The answer had barely left his mouth before Jack, still half-snickering from earlier, tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Wait… do you have a picture of the scan?”

Luke perked up instantly. “Yeah! A tiny alien picture!”

Quinn froze. Just for a second. His thumb brushed along the edge of his phone, the hesitation heavy in the room.

He swallowed once, then unlocked his phone again and swiped. Past photos of you, past baby clothes, until he landed on the grainy black-and-white image that had been printed out at eleven weeks. A week earlier than scheduled. Because of the scare. Because of the cramps, the spotting, the way you’d called him in panic. 

The screen glowed faintly in his hand. He turned the phone toward them without a word.

This time, neither brother cracked a joke.

Luke stood up to lean in close again, his expression softening in a way Quinn was unfamiliar with. “Whoa.”

Jack frowned a little, shifting closer without probably realizing it. “That’s… really it, huh? That’s, like… your kid.”

Quinn nodded once, quietly. “Yeah.”

The room went still. The only sound was the lazy hum of the ceiling fan overhead, blades slicing the heavy summer air. For a long beat, the three of them just sat there, shoulders nearly touching, all staring at the same smudge of white and black that had redefined Quinn’s life.

Jack finally blew out a slow breath, running a hand back through his hair. “Holy shit,” he muttered. Then louder, with a half-shaken laugh, “Holy shit, we’re gonna be uncles.”

The spell broke. Luke grinned suddenly, a spark in his eyes. “Uncles who are absolutely gonna corrupt this child.”

Quinn grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at Luke, hitting him square in the face. “Neither of you are coming within ten feet of my kid until they’re at least ten.”

Jack was already grinning again, back to himself. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, voice teasing but softer at the edges now. He nudged Quinn’s arm with his elbow. “Keep talking, Dad.”

—

After a couple more questions and badly timed jokes—Jack declaring he was going to buy a baby-sized Devils jersey, Luke insisting he’d be “the fun uncle”—they finally left. Jack shoved Quinn’s shoulder on his way out, and Luke ruffled his hair before the door clicked shut behind them. Both substitutes for hugs. 

And for the first time in what felt like hours, things were quiet again. 

Quinn should’ve been exhausted. His body was. Heavy and aching. He should’ve been unconscious the second his head hit the pillow when he was finally alone again, his mattress dipping familiarly beneath him.

But his brain wouldn’t turn off. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his brothers’ faces staring at the ultrasound picture, or heard Jack’s voice calling him daddy like it was a joke. And then—because of course his brain was an asshole—he thought of you. Always circling back to you

Eventually, habit won out. He reached for his phone. The screen lit up too brightly in the dark, washing his face pale in the reflection, and his thumb hovered for a long moment before he actually unlocked it.

Kelly’s Instagram story was the first thing at the top of his feed. The green circle around it meant it was for close friends only. 

He almost didn’t click it. He told himself not to click. It wasn’t his business what you were doing tonight. He didn’t even know if you were with Kelly. But his thumb tapped before he could stop it.

And there you were. From an hour ago. 

The video was barely ten seconds long, shaky and full of background noise, but it gutted him.

You were crammed into a narrow booth at some bar, leaning forward over a table littered with drinks—glasses catching the yellow glow of whatever light was flickering overhead. A lime wedge perched on the rim of a Coca-Cola in front of you, straw chewed shut. For a millisecond he wondered if you felt out of place, being sober in a room full of intoxicated people, before Kelly’s camera panned on quickly, catching the wide shoulders of some guy sitting right beside you. 

Quinn immediately watched it again. Catching a better look of your face. 

Smiling in a way he hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. Maybe not since the first night he met you. You’d been slightly guarded since, for very explainable reasons. But here you were, bright and open. Like you’d forgotten yourself for just a second, laughing at whatever had been said off-camera, eyes squeezed shut, whole body tipping toward the table.

Kelly’s caption scrolled across the screen in pink font:

“Baby mama out past 11 p.m.!!! Someone call the press!!!”

Quinn actually pressed the phone to his chest and shut his eyes. Not jealous, he told himself. Not exactly. (Okay, maybe a little. Who was the guy out of frame, anyway?) But mostly—it was that he wasn’t there. You were smiling like that, and he wasn’t the one across the table making you do it. He was stuck here, thousands of miles away, lying awake in a bed that suddenly felt like the loneliest place in the world. 

He hated watching your joy through a screen like some stranger.

Quinn rolled onto his back, thumb itching against the edge of his phone, pulse climbing in his throat. He could just leave it. He could put the phone facedown, close his eyes, let you have your night.

He could do that.

But he didn’t.

Quinn: Text me when you’re in bed.

And immediately, he regretted it.

Not regretted, exactly—but the words looked stupid sitting there, glowing against the dark. He should’ve just written “home.” That would’ve been normal. That would’ve sounded casual. There had been no reason to bring the concept of you in bed into the conversation. Now it sounded like he wanted to know what you were doing in bed. Which, okay, maybe he did, but he didn’t need you knowing that.

Quinn let the phone rest face up, staring at the shadows shifting across his ceiling, already berating himself. He could practically hear Jack’s voice in his head: rookie move. 

To his surprise, the buzz of your reply came almost instantly. 

You: Bossy.

His lips twitched. He bit them to keep the grin from spreading, but it still slipped free as he shoved his face into the pillow.

Quinn: Just want to know you got home safe. 

Safe. That was better. He could work with safe.

This time, the little dots signaling that you were typing lingered longer before your reply popped up.

You: How did your brothers react? 

The top of his head bumped against the wooden headboard, a soft laugh escaping him. Even now, you could pivot the spotlight away from yourself so easily. Never ever just simply answering a question. It drove him crazy sometimes, but in this moment he didn’t mind. 

Quinn: It went alright. They’re still a bit confused I think, but started joking right away.

He hesitated—because the next part he didn’t have to tell you—but then he thought you might find it funny. That it was something he could write to make you laugh. And suddenly, he wanted that laugh. He wanted to earn it. 

Quinn: They think I’m baby-trapping you since you’re more attractive than me. 

Slightly self-deprecating. Fully true. Not the baby-trapping, but the fact that you were more attractive. That was undeniable. 

You: Do they even know what I look like? 

That made him laugh for real. Of course you’d cut right to the flaw in their logic, like this was some legal brief you could dismantle line by line. A work habit. 

Quinn: Yeah, I showed them a picture I took of you when you fell asleep after eating 6 donuts. 

You didn’t know the picture existed. Maybe you’d take it as a joke—simply understand that he’d shown a picture and not something overly embarrassing for you. Or you’d realize that he’d actually taken a picture of you in that moment and become adorably defensive. 

You: It was only 3. 

Defensive it was. Quinn practically giggled, shaking his head. “Liar,” he muttered to himself, chin digging into his pillow as the stupidest grin spread across his face. Stubborn. Always right, even when you weren’t. He tugged the blanket higher over his chest, trying to smother the warmth spreading there.

Then another bubble popped up.

You: I’m in bed, for the record. Since you’re apparently tracking my sleeping habits now.

Quinn shifted onto his back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles overhead. His skin was uncomfortably warm now, and it had nothing to do with the summer weather. You didn’t need to tell him you were in bed. You’d chosen to tell him. Which meant you knew exactly what you were doing.

His fingers hovered over the phone, useless and clumsy, thumbs twitching, as he tried to think of a way to recover without sounding insane. He typed, backspaced, typed again. The little blinking cursor mocked him.

But before he could settle, another bubble appeared.

You: Are you going to ask me what I’m wearing next, or are we skipping straight to phone sex?

Quinn actually sat up. Nearly dropped the phone. 

Quinn: What??

His chest was burning. His ears rang. You couldn’t just say things like that. Not when he was miles away, alone in this room with nothing between him and his imagination but thin sheets and guilt for thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking.

And absolutely no way of knowing your intentions. 

Quinn: Don't joke like that when I can’t see you. 

You paused your typing. On purpose, he figured. Stretched just long enough to make him sweat a little.

You: But it’s so fun to make you panic. 

A strangled laugh broke out of him, the kind that cracked at the edges, almost embarrassed. He flopped back onto the mattress, the phone pressed against his chest, and let himself grin. The sound of his own laughter was pathetic and intoxicating all at once. He could practically hear the smirk in your words, see the way you’d look at him if you were here. You would be a little surprised by your own words, but awfully smug at the same time, biting back your grin. 

You: I’ll fall asleep any second now. 

Quinn hesitated for a heartbeat too long, trying to decide if he should even respond. Then, almost without thinking, words tumbled out. 

Quinn: That’s good. I can sleep now too, knowing you’re horizontal.

It took him exactly three seconds to realize what he’d just sent. “Fuck,” he hissed, too late to stop it. He shut his eyes, tipping his head back, fighting the urge to hurl the phone across the room.

You: Horizontal, huh?

Quinn: I meant sleeping. Sleeping horizontal.

Another bubble appeared almost immediately. You were quick now, giving Quinn no time to recover. 

You: Mhm. Sure. Sounds like you’ve got a whole visual in your head, Hughes.

He froze, phone trembling slightly in his hands, groaning into the dark. Because yeah. He had a visual. Several, actually. None fit for sharing. None that were rated child-friendly. 

You curled on your side, blanket slipping low just enough to tease, a thin tank twisted around you, the curve of your stomach protruding, the little bump he had kissed in his imagination a dozen times, soft against his skin if he were there—

Stop. He had to stop. 

Finally, after a too-long pause, he typed the only thing he could without implicating himself further. 

Quinn: Sleep tight. 

He watched the dots appear, disappear, then reappear. 

You:  Good night <3 

Quinn stared at the little heart longer than he’d admit, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. 

He set his phone face-down on the mattress, but sleep didn’t come for a while. Not with his chest buzzing like that. Not with his brain replaying your smile in Kelly’s story. Not with the way you could knock him sideways with one innuendo. Not with the phantom image of you curled up in bed, wearing god knows what, texting him from under the covers.

Yeah. Quinn Hughes was officially and irreversibly screwed. 

And still very much awake.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

After a week apart, you flew to Michigan too.

Time had been slipping through your fingers lately—eaten up by work deadlines, morning sickness that had kept you stuck on the bathroom floor, midwife appointments that always seemed to run long, and the constant looming task of wrapping things up for your maternity leave. You weren’t exactly employee of the month, no matter how many coworkers seemed excited on your behalf. But you had a week to spare of vacation days to be with Quinn and his family at the lake house. Then you’d fly back together to Vancouver. 

Not totally domestic. Not couple-like at all. You told yourself that multiple times on the plane, and again when you spotted him waiting for you at the arrivals gate. But then he carried your bag in one hand like it weighed nothing, and drove you out of the city into the green sprawl of Michigan backroads, and suddenly—well, you couldn’t deny the domesticity. 

The sun hung low in the sky by the time he pulled the car into the driveway. You were tired, overheated, overwhelmed before you’d even left your apartment that morning. It materialized as a dull, constant anxiety that you couldn’t shake off. 

“They’re gonna love you,” Quinn said, turning the key and letting the engine click into silence. 

You hadn’t voiced your nerves, but they were loud enough on your face that he’d felt the need to address them anyway. His voice tried to be steady, but his thumb tapped the steering wheel like even he wasn’t buying his own calm.

Love.

You got caught on the word. You wondered when like had turned into love. When you’d first met his parents, he’d convinced you there was no reason they wouldn’t like you. And now they, and his brothers, were about to love you, apparently. 

“You don’t know that,” you remarked.

He gave you a sideways look. “They have no choice but to love you.” 

“Actually they do—” 

But he was already unbuckling, already slipping out of the car to round it, opening your door like you were someone worth opening doors for. The warm evening air hit your skin as he helped you out, then made quick work of grabbing your bag from the trunk. 

It smelled of smoke and barbecued meat.

The house looked serene in the evening light, nestled around evergreen trees right by the lakefront. White wood panels with pale blue shutters. It wasn’t too different from home, you quickly realized. But you also had a sneaking suspicion that the serenity was mostly a façade—because inside lived the Hughes family, and Quinn had already warned you a dozen times that quiet didn’t last long here.

His hand pressed gently against your lower back as he guided you up the driveway and onto the wraparound porch. Warm through the thin fabric of your dress, oversized and allegedly pregnancy-friendly, though you could already feel the seams tugging uncomfortably at your skin. You fought the urge to smooth it down.

Rounding the porch, your suspicion was confirmed. The serenity shattered into life. Voices echoed, laughter tumbling in bursts. A long patio table stretched across the porch, six chairs pulled close around it.

Ellen appeared just then, pushing through the sliding doors, bringing the last of the food outside, a salad bowl in hand. 

She was the first to see you two coming. “Honey!” she said, abandoning the bowl on the table. She came toward you with both arms already outstretched. “You made it. We were about to start without you, but I told them you’d be hungry after traveling.”

Before you could protest that you were fine, that they could’ve eaten without you, Ellen had swept you into a hug that smelled like home-cooked food and sunscreen, then gently steered you into an empty chair at the long wooden table.

“Alright—what can you eat? Chicken, grilled veggies, corn, there’s watermelon…”

Her enthusiasm wrapped around you like a warm blanket, leaving you scrambling for words. You glanced around the table instead—and realized, with a little jolt, how quiet it had gone.

You’d seen Jack and Luke in pictures before, and you knew they’d seen you too. Was that all the introduction that was needed? Because no one bothered. Like your arrival didn’t need announcing, like somehow you already belonged in the space. Maybe Quinn had told them beforehand to tone things down. That wouldn’t surprise you. 

“She’ll have some of everything,” Quinn cut in as he reappeared next to you, sliding into the chair so close his shoulder brushed yours. He’d already dropped your bag inside without you noticing, his expression carefully neutral like he wasn’t sitting there mapping out your every possible discomfort.

You caught the way Ellen’s gaze softened—just a flicker, a little oh, he’s protective look—but she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she just nodded, piling a plate in front of you while the brothers started sneaking side glances when they thought you weren’t looking.

As Ellen sat down, and the rest of them started to grab food, she, with the subtlety of a megaphone, asked, “And how’s the little passenger doing? Pregnancy treating you alright?” 

You froze, fork halfway to your plate, before forcing a smile. You could feel the three sets of Hughes-brother eyes land on you like spotlights, stopping their movements almost mid-chew. 

“It’s… good,” you said, your voice a little shy but steady. Your hand brushed briefly over your belly in a small, unconscious gesture. “The second trimester’s been a lot easier. Still rough some mornings, but… yeah. Overall good.”

Ellen nodded kindly as she began to eat as well. 

You caught Luke leaning back in his chair in your periphery, tossing a half-eaten corn husk onto the plate in front of him, his face perplexed like he was figuring something out. “So, like, no cravings for, I don’t know, spaghetti with peanut butter or something?”

“Luke,” Quinn muttered under his breath, shooting him a look.

You surprised yourself by laughing. “No peanut butter spaghetti yet. But I did cry over fried chicken last week, so… pregnancy brain is alive and well.”

Luke smiled back at you, amused that you were entertaining the topic. “I know some women start to crave eating dirt or clay when they’re pregnant.” 

Jack turned slowly to him, eyebrows shooting up. “You know things about pregnancy?” 

You cut in gently, coming to Luke’s defense. “He’s actually right. It’s usually because of iron deficiency.” 

The whole table paused. Then Jack and Jim laughed, Quinn pressed his lips into a flat line, and Ellen only shook her head with the faintest smile—like she’d long since learned not to question where Luke collected his bizarre facts.

You sank a little lower in your chair, spearing a grilled veggie off your plate just to give your hands something to do. It was easier to eat than to figure out what expression you were supposed to wear under all those eyes.

Quinn reached for his water glass, taking a slow sip, and then—smoothly, deliberately—set it down again. “You had that scan last week,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “How’d it go?”

He knew. Of course he knew. He’d called you the second you left the clinic, voice warm and relieved when you told him everything looked good. But you realized what he was doing—handing you a conversation topic, something safe to talk about under the scrutiny of his entire family.

You looked over at him, ready to roll your eyes on instinct, having to force yourself not to. 

Before you could answer, though, Ellen asked loudly, “You missed another scan, Quinn?” 

She knew about your first scan and the hurried, spontaneous nature of it, which was obviously why Quinn hadn’t been able to be there. It wasn’t something he had wanted to miss, and it wasn’t a habit that had formed. You felt obligated to inform them about that. 

Quinn shifted in his chair, opening his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it. “Oh, I had to force him not to come. I thought he should be here with you instead.” 

A flicker of amusement crossed Ellen’s face, like she found the dynamic between you two quietly fascinating. And maybe it was. A weird tug-of-war between who was in charge and how much you wanted to let the other one in. 

You exhaled, smoothing your palm once over your stomach. It had been practically glued there ever since the bump was an undeniable fact. “But it was good. I actually had quite the iron deficiency—Luke’s trivia checks out, apparently—but I got stronger supplements for that.” Your voice softened, the tiniest hitch slipping in when you added, “They’re the size of a pear now, and they’re moving. Not kicking yet, but… yeah. I can feel them. Weird.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just… weighty. Like there were probably questions to ask, but it felt more secure to just let the words rest in silence to fully let them sink in. 

Eventually, you broke the silence yourself, like you always did. “Actually…” You hesitated, glancing at Quinn, then back to the group. “I brought something. I know we didn’t send a physical copy of the scan last time, so I asked for one this time. Something you can keep.”

You watched Ellen’s face light up, and you moved to scoot your chair backwards, but Quinn was quick to place a hand on your shoulder, already halfway out of his chair. “Sit,” he said instantly, firm but gentle, purely on instinct. “I’ll get it.”

“Are you sure? It’s in the side compartment—”

“I know.” He was already striding inside before you could argue.

The table went still again, everyone watching as the screen door shut behind Quinn. Heat crept up your cheeks. But then the door opened again, and Quinn reappeared with a little envelope in hand. He slid back into his seat, then carefully unfolded the grainy black-and-white printout and laid it flat on the table, scooting it forward to his brothers first. 

They both leaned in, Luke’s fingers gently picking it up. 

“That’s…” Luke started, then his voice wavered, breaking in a way that seemed to surprise even himself.

“Luke, are you crying?” Jack asked, immediately laughing. 

“There’s something in my eye,” Luke shot back, wiping furiously at his face with the heel of his hand.

With a sudden movement, he placed the photo in front of his parents instead to get the attention to shift. Jim chuckled lowly, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his sons, but it all faded when he caught the little blurry human depicted. Ellen simply rested her hand against her chest, her eyes soft and shining as she took in the silhouette.

“Did your parents get one too?” she asked quietly, glancing back toward you.

You nodded. “It’s just my mom. But yeah, my grandma and she got one.”

After that, dinner stretched into long stories about the boys’ childhoods—Jack accidentally breaking his arm by falling off the dock. Luke once getting lost in the woods for hours. Quinn allegedly eating an entire stick of sunscreen at age three (which he firmly denied).

Somewhere between the stories and the food, your nerves began to loosen. You found yourself laughing more than you expected. By the time the sky turned inky blue and the first bugs started tapping lazily against the patio lights, you were yawning between sips of water, exhausted from the travel and the attention.

You and Quinn were the last ones to turn in. You watched him on the lawn in the evening darkness, going down to the dock to turn off the outdoor lights, as you rested in your chair, chin propped in your hand. Your heart was caught on the strange thought of not knowing how this would end. If your place here would ever be truly solidified. 

By the time you followed him inside and up the stairs, the house was hushed. Everyone seemingly asleep. 

You lingered in the doorway of his room, heart beating strangely at the sight, as Quinn carried your bag in. 

The bedroom looked like it had been frozen in time. A tiny double bed squeezed into the corner, quilt tucked crooked, pillows mismatched. Posters of long-retired hockey players plastered the walls, edges curling with age. The whole space smelled exactly like a summer house should, with a slightly sweet, closed-in scent of old wood. 

It felt so him, and nostalgic. 

“So… uh…” you started, the words sticking in your throat.

Quinn set your bag down on top of the dresser. He turned toward you, brow creasing slightly. “Yeah?”

You gestured vaguely toward the bed. “Are we…?”

Understanding flickered across his face in an instant. He straightened, rubbing the back of his neck like he was buying time. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “I mean—we’ve done it before.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “And how did that turn out?”

That earned the smallest grin from him, a flash of teeth before he ducked his head. “Fair. But it’s fine. It’s just sleeping. I’ll stay on my side.”

You pointed a finger at him, mock stern. “No cuddling.”

“Noted.” He bent over your duffle and pulled out your toiletry bag, offering it with a tilt of his chin toward the hall. “Bathroom’s down there. You can go first if you want.”

You took the out, glad to escape for a moment. The bathroom smelled faintly of mint toothpaste and the sharp tang of men’s deodorant, the counter cluttered with too many toothbrushes jammed into a single ceramic cup. You scrubbed off your makeup, brushing your teeth slowly, maybe too slowly, listening to the faint thuds of drawers opening and closing back in his room.

When you padded back in, Quinn had already changed into a plain white t-shirt and flannel sleep pants. He brushed by you on his way out, murmuring, “My turn,” his shoulder grazing yours for half a second before the door clicked shut behind him.

The bed felt even smaller once you sat on it, the mattress dipping in the middle. After changing into a t-shirt and shorts, you slid under the blanket, keeping toward the outer edge.

When Quinn returned with a confused look on his face, you blurted before he could settle, “I’ll sleep on the edge, I need to get up to pee like three times a night.”

You didn’t like to sleep on the edge. Your preferred position was sprawled out like a starfish across your entire bed. Quinn didn’t necessarily know that, but he did know that you slept turned inwards to things, having seen you smush your face into the couch cushions at both his and your place. But right now, you didn’t want your nightly bathroom routine to disturb his sleep. 

His eyebrow ticked up. “What if you fall off?”

“Quinn.”

That pulled another half-smile from him, soft and crooked. He climbed in behind you, nimble like a fridge, the bed dipping further beneath his weight, his presence immediately filling the small space. He shifted under the covers with little to no efficiency, pulling your shared blanket up over his lap as he rested against the slatted headboard. 

“Dinner went well,” he said after a beat, voice casual. But his eyes flicked down toward you, gauging your reaction.

You turned your head, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Quinn seemed to relax further, exhaling softly. “They love you.”

Your laugh came out drier than intended. “That’s comforting.” Still, the words left something warm lingering in your chest as you shifted further under the quilt. 

A short silence followed, softened by the rustle of fabric as you both adjusted your pillows and Quinn lay down behind you. You turned to have your back against him, your gaze focused on some old stickers stuck to the back of the door. 

The shared awareness of being this close hit you hard. You’d be surprised if Quinn didn’t feel it too, an overwhelming warmth, almost like static. 

“Just sleeping,” Quinn whispered out loud, like he needed to remind himself.

“Just sleeping,” you echoed.

And then you clicked the bedside lamp off, swallowing the room into darkness. It was impossible not to notice the sound of his breathing, steady and too close. Or the way the bed slumped ever so slightly toward the middle, pulling him closer than you’d planned.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The night had passed in a blur of half-sleep. The bed was too small, the air too warm, and somewhere between tossing and turning you were pretty sure you’d drifted against him. Just barely—a brush of shoulder, the solid heat of his arm close enough that you might’ve borrowed it as a pillow for a minute or two. 

Not that you could prove it. Because the second sunlight filtered through the blinds, Quinn had bolted upright like the mattress was on fire. By the time you cracked your eyes open, he was already gone—moving around the kitchen with suspicious efficiency, quieter than usual, not really looking you in the eye at all during breakfast.

The plan for the day was to spend it out on the lake, taking the boat out to enjoy it all. The whole family was readying, piling sunscreen and towels into bags, and changing into swimsuits. 

Which was how you’d ended up in your current little predicament, staring at yourself in utter disbelief in the little bathroom mirror. 

“You alright in there? Dad has the boat ready.” Quinn’s voice came muffled through the bathroom door, casual but laced with impatience.

You braced your hands on either side of the sink, shakily breathing out, not sure if you should laugh or cry. “Quinn. We might have a slight problem.”

The reflection you saw was horrid. No matter how many times you adjusted the strings on your bikini top, they still dug into skin that had softened and stretched in ways you were still catching up to. You tugged one strap higher, then the other, only to watch both betray you again the second you let go.

There was a shift in Quinn’s voice immediately—alert, concerned. “What’s wrong? Let me in.” 

You let out a startled laugh. “No, absolutely not. You’re not seeing me like this.” 

A beat of silence, then his voice came again, more suspicious this time. “Are you… laughing in there? What’s going on?” 

“Yes,” you admitted, half doubled over the sink, unable to take your own reflection seriously. “Because the pregnant body is ridiculous. I bought this bikini a month ago, haven’t even worn it yet, and the top is already too small.”

You had thought that a string bikini was a great investment for your changing body. You were so so wrong. The straps dug harshly into your skin no matter how many times you adjusted them, and while the bottoms worked just fine—hips handled the strings with grace—the top was a whole other story. The so-called triangles of fabric barely qualified as triangles at all anymore, more like postage stamps taped to a balloon. 

Obscene didn’t even begin to cover it.

On the other side of the door, you heard him mutter something under his breath—maybe a curse, maybe a smothered laugh—but the sound made heat prickle up your neck. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” 

“Quinn,” you groaned, clutching the edge of the counter, “I’ve grown, like, two cup sizes without realizing. My chest is doing things I do not consent to.”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t you have a cover-up?” 

“Yeah,” you said flatly. That had been your first solution too. But now you could only eye the little crochet cardigan you’d tossed on the floor with pure hatred. “It’s see-through. Real subtle.” 

There was a pause, like he was debating something. “It’s probably not as bad as you think—” 

You yanked the door open before he could finish. You weren’t embarrassed. Only annoyed. And Quinn wasn’t helping. 

His eyes landed on you, then darted up so quickly you’d think your chest was the sun and looking directly at it would cause permanent damage. But not before you caught the split-second flash of stunned silence on his face. His cheeks were already turning pink.

“I look like a piece of ham,” you deadpanned, pointing at your chest. “Y’know, with the string tied around it?” 

That broke him. Quinn’s mouth twitched like he was fighting off every possible reaction at once. He made the mistake of glancing down again, then snapped his gaze away, lips pressed tight like he was literally biting back words. “Uhh… Do you… want to borrow one of my shirts? The linen one? Should be flowy enough to cover…”

“You can’t even say it,” you accused, crossing your arms—which, unfortunately, only shoved things closer together.

His grin slipped through this time, helpless and a little sheepish. “To cover your boobs. There, I said it.”

He turned on his heel before you could throw something at him, disappearing into the bedroom. A moment later he was back, holding out the shirt—baby blue soft linen, sleeves rolled up from where he’d worn it the night before.

You slipped it on quickly, muttering a thank you, grateful for the way it draped loose over your shoulders, hiding the offending bikini top. While doing the buttons up, you caught the scent of his cologne lingering in the fabric. One of few perfumes that didn’t irritate your senses. But you’d never tell him that. 

Quinn gave you one long look, eyes crinkling in a way that made you suspicious. “That looks good,” he said casually, but there was something smug underneath. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m practical,” he countered, and then, with a jerky little movement, he reached out like he might take your hand to guide you down to the dock. His fingers brushed your knuckles—warm, tentative. But the moment stretched too long, awareness sparking sharp in the air, and he seemed to realize it at the same time you did.

He pulled back, clearing his throat, and gestured vaguely instead. “C’mon. They’ll leave without us.”

And just like that, he was already moving ahead, pretending nothing had happened, while you adjusted the borrowed shirt around you and followed. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The sun was already high by the time you stepped out onto the dock, the pale blue linen shirt billowing around you in the warm breeze. Quinn’s family was already gathered at the dock, the boat bobbing lazily in its slip. His dad crouched near the helm, fiddling with something on the steering wheel, while Luke and Jack moved with restless energy, ferrying snacks and coolers back and forth like it was a competition.

You arrived last, sandals clacking against the dock, with Quinn a few steps ahead of you. He looked over his shoulder once, as though to check you hadn’t disappeared, before hopping easily onto the boat.

“Help your pregnant girlfriend up on the boat,” Luke called lazily, not even bothering to look up from where he was cramming a cooler under the bench.

Your mouth opened before Quinn could react. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

Luke looked up, eyebrows raised, a deliberate smirk spreading. “Right. Totally. My mistake.”

Quinn muttered something that sounded very much like shut up under his breath, but he was already reaching back for you. His palm wrapped around yours, steady and warm, guiding you as the boat dipped under your weight. He didn’t let go until you were solidly planted on the cushioned bench. His thumb brushed once against your knuckles before he dropped your hand.

You were sure they all noticed the moment. Mostly because Luke didn’t know how to be subtle. The shirt you wore—his shirt—fluttered with the lake breeze, the hem brushing against your thighs. You tugged it closer around yourself, though not before catching Ellen’s glance from across the deck. Her smile was soft, knowing, as though she’d seen this play out a hundred different ways before.

As the boat left the dock, you settled into your seat. Once out on open water, the boys were quick to jump in, sounding like they were trying to drown each other but not between fits of laughter. 

You’d brought a book to read, tilting it upright to shield yourself from the sun’s glare as you laid flat on the bench, though you hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. The words on the paper blurred, hard to concentrate on when so much was going on around you. 

Quinn had made sure you were okay before joining his brothers, stripping his shirt off and diving into the glittering lake. And now you were stuck with the view every time he came up only to jump back in, as they dared each other into increasingly chaotic cannonballs.

Stupid thick thighs, stupid broad shoulders, and skin so pale it looked like it might burn just from the audacity of existing under direct sunlight. His body cut clean lines through the water, stark against the deep blue, and every time he hoisted himself up onto the ladder, droplets streamed down his chest and collarbone, catching the light like he was purposefully trying to make concentration impossible.

You pressed the book closer to your nose, like printed ink could shield you from noticing any of it. 

It didn’t work.

The sudden shadow over your lap told you he’d climbed back on board. You didn’t lower the book until his damp hair began shaking furiously, droplets spraying across your face and pages alike.

“Quinn!” you gasped, curling protectively around your book. The water left cool trails on your cheeks and arms, soaking through the fabric of your shirt. 

“Is your book exciting?” he asked, smiling as he towered over you. 

“Mhm. Riveting,” you deadpanned, closing it shut to look at him. You didn’t even know what the book was about. 

He crouched in front of you, water still dripping from his hair to bead across his shoulders. “Then maybe you should take a break and come swim with me.”

“You know I can’t.” 

Quinn shrugged, lowering his voice just for you. “No one cares if your bikini’s a little tight. They’re too busy trying to drown each other.”

Your jaw tightened. He wasn’t wrong—the chaos ten feet away was loud and distracting enough, and Ellen and Jim looked like they’d fallen asleep in the sun—but that didn’t make the thought of standing there, all exposed, any easier.

“It’s not just a little tight,” you muttered.

He rolled his eyes, droplets still clinging to his lashes. “C’mon. You’re gonna overheat if you sit here all day.”

A part of you wanted to argue more, but you relented, fingers quick to unbutton the shirt. 

Quinn didn’t look away, and when the fabric slipped off your shoulders, you felt the weight of his gaze—lingering, unhurried, traveling over the new curves you were still getting used to. Quinn’s mouth parted slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was about to say, but he didn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest to take all of you in. Not like he had when you exited the bathroom this morning. 

“See?” you mumbled, wrapping your arms over your chest. “It’s like a sausage casing.” 

His lips twitched, and he leaned back on his heels, giving you a look equal parts annoyed and amused. “How many more comparisons to meat are you going to make about your body?” 

“As many as I can come up with,” you shot back. “Stuffed turkey. Vacuum-sealed pork loin. Take your pick.”

Quinn shook his head. “Or maybe you’re just pregnant, huh?” 

You didn’t have a ready answer for that—nothing quick, nothing defensive. So instead, you pushed past him, moving toward the back of the boat where the little metal ladder dipped into the water. The wood beneath your feet was warm from the sun, the lake below a cool and endless abyss.

Quinn followed at your shoulder, hand steadying the railing before yours could. “Here,” he murmured, voice gentler now. “I’ll help you down.”

The ladder rattled under your grip as you eased yourself down, toes dipping into the lake first. The water was a shock of cold against your sun-warmed skin, and you sucked in a sharp breath, bracing for the plunge.

Then, with one last push, you slipped in fully, the lake closing over your head in a cool rush that stole every sound from the world above.

When you surfaced, gasping and pushing your hair back, Quinn had already dived in after you. He swam up alongside, shoulders gleaming under the sun, water in droplets all over him.

He swam close—close enough that the ripples from his strokes rocked you gently side to side. His grin was wide, boyish, the kind that made his usual serious edges soften. “If anything snaps,” he said, teasing, “I’ve got you. No pork loins left behind.”

You groaned, splashing water toward him with one palm. “Oh my god. I am gross.”

“No,” he countered easily, flicking water back at you with a sharp kick, “just a little dramatic.” 

You opened your mouth for a retort, but a sudden wave from Luke’s cannonball smacked into both of you, sending water shooting up your nose. You sputtered, coughing out lake water while Quinn shielded his face with one hand. From the boat, Jack’s laughter rang out.

You kicked away from Quinn on instinct, flipping onto your back and floating in the gentle swell. Your chest rose and fell, hair fanning out around you like a halo as you squinted up at the sun. When you tilted your head to glance sideways at Quinn, his face was half-shadowed, half-lit, eyes locked on you in a way that made your smile slip unguarded.

You weren’t in the water for more than a couple of minutes before the ache in your arms reminded you this body wasn’t running on its usual reserves.

By the time you reached the boat ladder, Quinn was already there, hands out like he’d been waiting for you. He braced your elbow as you climbed, steadying the wobbly last step until you were back on deck, dripping and breathless. Without a word, he grabbed a towel from the pile and swung it gently around your shoulders, the terrycloth warmed by the sun. 

You let him dote, too tired to protest when he guided you toward the sunniest spot on the deck. “Sit down. Don’t want you two to burn.” 

For a second, while you dried yourself off, you wondered what he meant. Then he reached for the sunscreen bottle, crouching next to you as he put some into his palms. 

He playfully put a glob on your nose, and you scrunched your face in reaction, letting out a giggle. You rubbed it onto your cheeks, slightly surprised as Quinn’s hands found your shoulder, carefully working the rest of the sunscreen onto your back and down your arms. 

As he worked his way down your forearms, his hands stopped in line with your belly, hovering just above the gentle swell. The lotion glistened in his palms, and you saw his fingers twitch, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you there. 

“It’s fine,” you said softly, not really thinking further. 

If you had, you would’ve shut down long before, from feeling his hands on your body even in the faintest of ways. 

Something shifted in his expression as you said it. He nodded once, then set his hands carefully against your skin. The sunscreen was cool, making you shiver, but his palms warmed it almost instantly as he smoothed it over in slow, even circles. He was cautious, too cautious, as though your skin might bruise under too much pressure.

You had to grip the edges of your towel to keep from fidgeting.

When he finished, he should’ve pulled back. He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned down, almost without thinking, and pressed a quick, unannounced kiss right against your bump. An inch above your belly button, barely a brush of lips, so light it could’ve been imagined.

It was over before you could react. But your whole world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact, your skin burning in the aftermath. You blinked at him, mouth half open, heart suddenly racing. 

Somewhere behind you, Luke’s voice broke the spell.

“Not on the boat, please!”

You jolted like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Quinn, for once, didn’t argue. He just sat back on his heels, cheeks bright pink, and you knew it wasn’t from sunburn. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The bathroom light was too bright, glaring off the tile, reflecting every line and shadow on your face. You rubbed your eyes in the mirror, but the woman staring back at you refused to soften. She looked exposed. Almost accusing.

You’d been able to laugh at her this morning, standing in this same spot, trussed up in the world’s most obscene bikini top. That version of you had rolled her eyes, had cracked jokes about pork loins. But you couldn’t summon her now. You just wanted to scream.

The lake house outside was quiet, the kind that follows a long, sunburned day. Insects began their night chorus, the family collapsing into tired, easy sleep.

You’d told yourself you’d go to bed. You’d told yourself a dozen practical things: breathe, take a shower, watch something dumb on your phone until your eyes drooped. And then you’d done none of them. Instead you paced, barefoot on the tile, palms damp, mind re-running the day in a loop you couldn’t stop. 

Quinn had gone to bed over an hour ago, out cold after swimming, after laughing, after pretending nothing about any of this weighed on him. He probably hadn’t even noticed you never came to lie down, even though you’d mumbled you wouldn’t be long.

You pressed your forehead to the mirror, breath fogging the glass. The whole day had been a blur of Quinn’s… fucking behavior. That’s what it was. Behavior. You kept telling yourself you’d imagined it, or encouraged it, or excused it into being normal.

But it wasn’t normal. It was mean. 

The way he’d been protective of you last night, steering you gently through dinner like you might tip over if left unattended. The way he’d slept beside you, murmuring just sleeping like it didn’t mean something more. The way he’d blushed so hard his ears turned pink this morning when he’d caught you in too-small swimwear. The way he’d said that looks good like it wasn’t a lie, like you weren’t a parody of yourself in borrowed linen.

The way he’d held your hand, steadying you onto the boat. Smoothed sunscreen over your skin like it was a holy thing.

And the kiss. That tiny, perfect kiss pressed against your little baby. 

It had burrowed under your skin. Twisted your thoughts until you couldn’t tell if you were happy or furious or just… lost.

You wished you could take it easy in situations like these. Explain it away with simple reasons. Quinn was tired. He was being polite. He didn’t know what else to do.

But truth was, you couldn’t imagine someone voluntarily wanting to be this close to you. Not without having ulterior motives or feeling forced to. Not without eventually resenting it. Not without you, inevitably, running before they got the chance to hurt you. 

And what were his reasons? What else could it be but the baby, the living, undeniable tether between you? He wasn’t kissing you. He was kissing responsibility. Obligation. That was the only explanation that made sense, wasn’t it?

One hell of a fucking guilt trip. 

It wasn’t like Quinn knew that these were your thoughts when he did hold your hand or place that puny little kiss on your stomach. You tried to rationalize his behavior to that. But you also wanted to scream in his face that he should’ve known better. That he couldn’t act like he loved you just because of the baby. Because it wasn’t true. And it wasn’t fair. 

Because you’d spent your whole life avoiding this exact trap. You didn’t get attached to people. You didn’t let them set up camp inside you, didn’t let them carve out a home in your chest. Because they always left.

Yet here you were, attached like never before, and scared to the brink of tears that he was only acting. That this was all some dream you’d wake from. That he’d only ever been loving the baby, and never you.

— 

What you didn’t know was that Quinn had been awake for almost as long as you, twisting and turning on the mattress, not getting comfortable because you weren’t there beside him.

He’d patiently waited at first, thinking that you would shower and then come to bed. But the pipes never rattled, the water never hissed. The house continued to stay silent. And the longer the minutes stretched, the tighter his chest wound, until lying there waiting felt unbearable. 

By the time he was padding down the hall, barefoot and restless, he was already rehearsing reasons not to knock. But his knuckles rapped against the bathroom door anyway, soft and careful, like he wasn’t sure he actually wanted you to hear it.

“Something wrong?” His voice carried through the wood, low and scratchy with sleep.

You didn’t say anything. He shifted on the other side—you could almost hear the weight of him debating whether to wait, or leave. Then the lock clicked, subtle, but you didn’t open the door. The choice, you’d decided, was his.

Inside the bathroom, you weren’t panicking as much as you thought you’d do. You’d almost expected him to come knocking, even though a part of you was overly convinced Quinn was fast asleep, totally unbothered. 

You moved back to the mirror after turning the lock, like it was safer than facing him head-on. Your reflection was easier to hate. Or maybe you did want to look at him, but the thought of actually doing it felt like falling without aim. 

Still, in your periphery, he appeared. Leaning on the doorframe, rumpled and barefoot, in shorts and a worn t-shirt. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, his eyes heavy-lidded.

“Baby keeping you up?”

You could lie. You could deflect. Or you could fight. None of it sounded appealing, but sleep wasn’t going to find you either way. Fighting at least felt like release.

“No,” you muttered, still only looking at your reflection. “You’re keeping me up.”

There was a pause, the faint lift of his brows in the corner of the mirror. “I am?” 

“Yes, you are!” 

You raised your voice for no apparent reason. Not to him at least, you figured. You turned your head just enough that he could see it. He seemed unfazed at your outburst, silently waiting for you to explain yourself.

Your breath left you in a harsh exhale. Hands cutting through the air, gesturing at nothing. “Because you’re being mean, Quinn.” 

There was no way for that to not sound pathetic. You were painfully aware of that. 

“I’m being mean?” he simply questioned. 

Your fingers caught at the hem of the shirt you wore—his shirt. You’d swapped the damp bikini for clean underwear when you got back, but for some reason you hadn’t changed out of this. The linen fell loose around your thighs, the faintest scent of him still clinging to it. 

“I get that you want to be affectionate toward the baby, I do,” you said, your voice trembling despite yourself. “But you don’t have to be overly affectionate toward me to do that.”

“Overly affectionate?” he echoed. 

You recognized it instantly—his tactic. The short counter-questions. Not to argue, but to force you further, to pry out the thing you were too afraid to say.

“You can’t just—” Your voice faltered, breath stalling. You backed away a step, letting yourself sink onto the closed toilet lid, shoulders curling inward. You couldn’t look at him anymore, couldn’t stand the weight of his presence filling the small room. Your gaze dropped helplessly to your hands, twisting in your lap.

“You can’t hold my hand,” you muttered. “And put my sunscreen on. And kiss the fucking bump. You can’t do that.”

He tilted his head, mouth tugging upward at the corner. “Oh, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize affection was a crime. You didn’t say—”

“That’s not the point!” Your voice cracked, sharp and splintered. It almost hurt. Your hands clutched the hem of the shirt like you needed to hold yourself together. “You can’t do those things because it makes my stupid fucking emotions and hormones believe that you like me, that you love me—” 

The silence after that was deafening.

The word hung between you, awful and fragile, and you couldn’t believe it had slipped out of your mouth. Love. That silly little word. Like it wasn’t the very thing you’d sworn never to hand over again. Like it wasn’t the kind of word that cracked open old wounds just by existing.

And Quinn—he didn’t even flinch. His expression didn’t so much as waver. Maddeningly still, unreadable. Like maybe he’d been waiting for this all along.

The door clicked shut behind him, soft and decisive, sealing the two of you in. The sound made your stomach drop. And then he moved, slow and steady, crossing the small bathroom in just a couple of steps until his presence was too close to ignore. You could feel the heat of him, the ripple of muscle under his t-shirt, the familiar human smell that, despite yourself, soothed the jaggedness in your chest.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful. “Would it be so bad? If I did those things because I love you?”

Your arms folded across your chest on instinct, flimsy armor against the weight of him. “It’s not fair, Quinn. Because it isn’t true.”

You were one pathetic attempt away from pouting at him. 

“It’s not true?” he challenged. 

You held his gaze, though it scraped something raw inside you. “We both know it isn’t. Your judgment is clouded by me having your baby, and it’s making you think that you should love me—”

“And how do you know that?” His words cut clean, measured. Patient in a way that was somehow worse than anger.

“Because you didn’t even like me when we slept together.” Your voice rose again. “I was just a distraction from your disappointment. You can’t possibly be in love four months later. It doesn’t work like that!”

“I didn’t like you?”

You laughed—ugly, bitter, humorless. “If we had met under different circumstances, you wouldn’t even have looked at me.”

Quinn scoffed at you in return. “I knew who you were before we met,” he said, steady as stone. “Did Kelly ever tell you that?”

Your brows furrowed. “What?” 

“You’re all over her Instagram. She never shuts up about you.” He shrugged faintly, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “So when we met, I recognized you instantly. Kelly knew from the get-go that I thought you were cute.”

“Cute?” The word practically fell out of you, flat with disbelief.

“Yes.” His voice dipped lower. “Adorable.” His eyes didn’t leave yours, unwavering, every syllable weighted. “Does that change anything in that stubborn little head of yours?” 

You wanted to scream again. He was almost enjoying playing with your stubbornness, your pathetic attempt at an argument. “Can you stop with your stupid fucking counter-questions?” 

“No,” he said simply, almost gently. “Because you’re not making any sense.”

Quinn was almost close enough that your knees where brushing his from where you were sat. You had to strain your neck upward to even be able to look at him. You didn’t know what to say anymore. Already felt like you’d said too much, like you’d given him too much of an opening into your mind. 

It could be his turn to word vomit. To feel like no matter what he said, his emotions didn’t make sense. 

“You wouldn’t have let me this close, wouldn’t have let me love on you—if you didn’t feel it too. If you didn’t want it too,” he continued sternly. 

Or maybe it was only your own emotions that didn’t make sense. Not to yourself, at least. But you appeared to be transparent to Quinn. 

You forced yourself to look down at the floor, but his hand was suddenly lifting your chin. “You’re hiding in the bathroom because sleeping next to me made you flustered,” he murmured, and there it was—that almost-smile tugging at his mouth, like he definitely enjoyed watching you tie yourself in knots. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”

Something in you snapped. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet—” he paused, “you’re still right here.”

That should have been your cue to storm out, slam the door, build your walls higher. But instead, your breath hitched, and your body betrayed you—your feet moved of their own accord, standing up and closing the last inches of space. Suddenly, you were right there, right in front of him, so close you could see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest, the vein ticking in his throat.

The air held, taut like a wire. And then it broke.

The kiss happened fast—violent in its inevitability. It was a rush. His hands cupped your face with startling gentleness even as his mouth claimed yours with too much teeth, too much heat. 

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and desperate and so real it terrified you. And it was everything you’d sworn you didn’t want.

Your chest heaved as you broke away, foreheads colliding, breath catching in the narrow space between you. “We shouldn’t—”

But Quinn didn’t even give you the chance to convince yourself. He caught your mouth again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world to prove you wrong. His thumb traced your jaw in a line of fire, tender, worshipful, memorizing every slope and hollow as though he had any right to. And maybe he had. Always had. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips.

You couldn’t. You didn’t want to. 

The words stuck in your throat, heavy and useless, while your body betrayed you, leaning into him. It kept going—your back pressing into the counter, his body crowding yours, his mouth tasting like mint. Every time you tried to pull away, he leaned back in, catching your mouth again, like neither of you could bear the air between you.

Your fingers twisted in the soft cotton of his shirt, knuckles aching with the fear that if you let go, this would dissolve, vanish, prove itself to be some dream. But his heartbeat thudded against your palms, steady and anchoring. 

And when he finally tore himself back, breathing hard, you realized you were both smiling. Small, crooked, unstoppable things.

You were breathless, lips tingling and swollen. 

Quinn didn’t step back immediately. He just looked at you, continued to hold you close. His chest rose and fell like he’d just skated a full shift, eyes moving over your face in a way that made you feel like there was nothing you could hide.

“C’mon,” he murmured, voice hoarse, like his throat had gone dry. “Let’s go to bed before anyone hears us, and never let me live it down.”

You laughed weakly—half from the adrenaline, half from the absurdity—and let him take your hand.

—

The walk to his room was short but strange; his fingers were still warm around yours, and the hallway felt narrower than usual. You were both quiet. Not because there was nothing to say, but because neither of you trusted your voices yet.

Inside, Quinn shut the door behind you with the same gentleness he’d used in the bathroom, then leaned his back against it like he needed the solid wood to keep himself upright. 

You slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, right in his eyesight.

His hair was a little messy, his shirt wrinkly from where you’d grasped it, and his mouth pink and bitten. You hated how good he looked like that—sleepy, rumpled, and just a little smug.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asked, almost playful, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I’m…” You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’m confused.”

He pushed off the door, crossing the space in two easy steps. “Let’s talk it through, then.”

And just like that, he tugged his shirt over his head. Casual. Unhurried. The movement so natural it felt unfair. Heat crawled up your neck as you tore your eyes away, suddenly hyper-aware that you hadn’t been this close—like this—since before your body had changed.

“You have to be shirtless for that?” you managed, barely holding back a laugh. 

“You’re not the only one who’s hot and bothered,” he shot back lightly, but there was a softness beneath the teasing.

It’s because you’re sunburned as fuck was what you wanted to say, but he took one step closer and the mood shifted.

“I told you earlier,” he said, softer now, sitting down next to you. His hand reached for yours and you didn’t stop him from letting them intertwine. “It’s not the baby making me feel this way. It’s you. You could’ve walked into my life any way, any day, and I would’ve been screwed.”

You let out a sharp snort, half defensive. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.” His hand lifted, thumb and forefinger catching your chin with careful pressure, tilting your face so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. “You think I’m too stubborn to know my own mind? To know when I want someone?”

You swallowed hard, heat prickling your cheeks. “I think you’re stubborn enough to confuse guilt with—”

“With love?” he finished for you. “I’m not that stupid. And I feel no guilt.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to untangle yourself from the coil of hope twisting tighter in your chest—but then he kissed you.

It was slow at first, testing, exploring, his hands grazing the small of your back, coaxing you closer until your body found its place against his.

You kissed him back. Harder.

And then everything blurred—because one second you were laughing into his mouth at your own dramatics, and the next your knees were sinking into the mattress, straddling his lap, slotting into him like you’d been meant to all along.

Quinn scooted back against the headboard in a clumsy scramble, one hand still tangled in your shirt while the other slid instinctively to your hips, steadying you. He hit the wall with a soft thud, and your mouths broke apart for a dizzying breath.

“Did you just hit your head?” you giggled, lips brushing his.

He tried to kiss you like it didn’t matter, but his grin betrayed him. “Shhh…”

Your retort dissolved into a sound you didn’t recognize as your own because his mouth was back on yours, stealing any space and air and thought.

The angle was awkward at first—your knees slipping on the comforter and he grabbed your thighs fast, steadying you, murmuring something that sounded like “got you” against your lips. 

And you believed him.

His mouth was sickly addictive—pretty, swollen, impossible to get enough of. Every kiss felt like a dare, every drag of his teeth over your bottom lip pulling noises from your throat that sounded obscene even to your own ears. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking once before sliding higher, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

You pressed your forehead to his, panting, dizzy, nails raking gently across the nape of his neck. He shivered, and the smug look that followed made you want to both slap him and kiss him harder.

“Still confused?” he whispered, eyes flicking down to your mouth.

You hesitated. “Less than before.”

His grin spread wider, crooked and boyish, like he knew exactly how far gone you were.

And you hated that he was right. Because even though some rational part of you screamed that letting him this close meant you’d never go back to pretending, the rest of you was already leaning in, already giving in, already lost.

You were almost sure he could see the nervousness radiating from your body when his lips started to trail down your neck and jaw, his hands moving upward from your hips to rest against your ribs, following the shape of your rounded bump. 

It was a wordless interaction when his kisses started to venture so low that the buttons of your shirt were beginning to be in the way. He looked up at you through his lashes and with a simple nod you told him that it was okay. 

Okay for him to start undoing the buttons. Okay for him to see you. 

You watched him as he did it, fumbling almost nervously with his fingers. Buttons popped open one by one. He helped you slide the linen off from your shoulders before dropping the shirt onto the floor, right next to where his own shirt had been left discarded. 

And then you sat there, perched on his lap, in nothing but simple white underwear. 

Your body had grown in more ways than one. You weren’t sure how much Quinn remembered from the last (and only) time he’d seen you naked before, but it definitely wasn’t the same woman he had in front of him now as he had back then. 

You were swollen. Stomach round, breasts annoyingly large. You found new stretch marks almost on the daily, in places you’d never had them before, patterning your skin like pale, connecting lightning strikes. 

Quinn’s reaction made you want to hide. Because he didn’t say anything at first. His hands didn’t even move back into place on your hips. 

He just seemed to look, so you folded your arms across yourself in defense, unsure if it even hid anything.  

“Don’t stare at me,” you mumbled, which made Quinn focus on your face again. It seemed almost like he hadn’t heard you, and then as he comprehended what you’d said, he softly laughed in disbelief. 

“I have you naked in my lap and I’m not allowed to look?” he asked smiling, his hands moving up to where your arms were still crossed, taking a gentle grip of your forearms. 

“My body probably looks all… weird and pregnant,” you tried in a measly defense. 

“Oh my—” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “You really are stupid sometimes.” 

It wasn’t meant as a dig. It was meant as way aof saying that you wouldn’t be in this situation if he hadn’t wanted it too. You let your arms relax and Quinn felt it, taking your forearms and lowering them down. 

That was the first time you looked down between you, where your heat was placed upon his thighs, where your bump was lodged in between you, and where you noticed that Quinn had stiffened beneath you, a prominent bulge under his soft, gray shorts. 

You looked up to meet his eyes, seeing him swallow hard. 

And then he was back to touching you, with a quiet confidence you secretly knew he’d always had. His hands rested back against your ribs, touching the bump and slowly going further up. 

His eyes were immediately drawn to your swollen peaks, just like they’d been this morning, but with no barrier of self-restraint now. Nothing telling him that he couldn’t gloat. 

Quinn’s thumbs rolled over your nipples, a little rough against the sensitive skin, as he encapsulated them in his hands, pushing them together. Your nipples pebbled under his touch, and your breathing turned quicker as he twiddled them slightly between his fingers.

He searched your face for a reaction, looking to see if it hurt, if the tenderness was too much. But really the pressure was really only helping. It wasn’t pain anymore that you felt radiating from them. It was pleasure. 

“I’ve wanted this,” Quinn admitted quietly, “since… since the first time.”

“I… you’ve thought of this?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, tilting down his head so his lips skimmed the swell of your breast again. His thumbs circled over your skin, careful, gauging, but not holding back. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Not just… this,” he added softly, “but you. All of you.”

You whined at the feeling when his warm tongue finally touched your skin, licking a line on your sternum before he put one of your nipples in his mouth, suckling on. He looked up at you through heavy eyelashes, eyes with wide, blown pupils staring you down as his lips explored.

You hissed as his teeth grazed the bud slightly, and then he soothed it quickly with the warmth of his mouth. He sucked on the tender skin, mouth on one breast as he cupped the other.

Almost unwillingly, you pushed forward slightly. An instinctive response to his movements, making his face press up against your breasts. 

“Quinn,” you breathed out, a moan escaping you as he stopped sucking with an audible pop.

Wordlessly, you pulled his head up by his hair, not forcefully but enough to get his attention. Your eyes begged for him to kiss you again. 

Quinn smiled at you sweetly, wasting no time before kissing you back, letting his hands wander down from your chest to your ass. As he groped the ample flesh, he guided your hips in a rolling motion. You were moving down against him, the feeling of him hard and hot against your core even through the fabric of your panties, was something that made you speechless. 

The flimsy cotton was quickly starting to become sheer as your wetness bloomed, and by the way Quinn stretched out his shorts, it made it clear he had nothing on underneath. It was like you could see him twitch through them, a little dark wet patch forming right where his tip would be. 

With a quick decision, you broke the kiss, scrambling away just enough to remove your panties, pushing them down your hips and legs, before throwing them on the floor with the rest of your clothes. 

Quinn watched, captivated, as you undressed completely. After watching you, and figuring out your idea, he wasn’t slow to remove the only thing left restraining him either. 

And then you were back to straddling him, nothing hindering your skin from directly touching him. He gasped at the sudden feeling, his hard length pressing up against your heat, almost reaching your bump. 

His hands were back on your ass, gripping until skin spilled between his fingers, holding you still for a moment as his forehead pressed against yours. 

“Is this comfortable for you?” Quinn whispered, lifting his hips in a slow motion, creating a friction you were both desperate for. 

“Mhm,” you manage to get out, your breath hot between your faces. Your hips rocked almost involuntarily against him, seeking more of what you’d just felt. Quinn’s hands on your ass pulled you even closer, impossibly so. 

“Because you have to tell me if it’s not. For you and for them,” he said, forcing you to nod again, signaling that you truly understood him. 

Quinn reached down between you, holding himself at the base and lightly stroking. You weren’t sure what were memories and what were dreams from your last time together, but he somehow looked better than anything you’d been able to string together. Hard and wild, his tip red and leaking.

His eyes locked onto yours in silent questioning. You chewed on your lower lip as you nodded. There wasn’t really a discussion to be had. You just wanted him inside you. 

With some guidance with his hands on your hips, you were able to stabilize yourself, your hands gripping his shoulders as you lifted to align him with your entrance. 

A groan ripped from your throat as you sank down on him, taking him deeply and almost all at once. Quinn had to fight you for control, his hands in tight grips on you, stilling you from moving at first. 

He reveled at the sight, jaw dropping slack, as your warm walls surrounded him. The last of him nestled in, fitting inside of you like home. The immediate sounds you were making were high-pitched and needy. 

Your hot breath ghosted over his face as the both of you flickered between staring at each other and staring at how you were connected. 

“I know, I know,” Quinn breathed out, his lips reaching to kiss you, his grip making you sit still, making you take it all in before rushing. “You’re doing so good for me.” 

“Please, Quinn… I need to—” You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say, you just wanted him to make you feel good. 

And then he let you move, his grip loosening, his hands helping you set a steady rhythm, rising slowly and then sinking all the way back down. Quinn’s head hit the headboard again, but this time you couldn’t laugh. You only reached up to thread your fingers through his locks, your soft palm at the back of his head. 

You looked at Quinn wildly as you continued to move. His hands settled even deeper into the dips by your hipbones as he helped you ride up and down. With the pace, your breasts were bouncing, mesmerizing. He was buried in you fully, and you could glimpse down, past the bump, to see his cock disappearing into you.

One of his hands moved to your breast again, kneading as his thumb circled your nipple. It made you tilt forward, bracing your hands on his shoulder, your body pressing into his, your breasts against his collarbones, your bump against his stomach. 

The new angle allowed him to reach deeper, hitting a sweet spot inside of you all the goddamn time. 

“I love… how close you feel,” you murmured against his lips, letting your hand drift down to rest gently over the swell of your belly. He moved to intertwine his fingers with yours, letting them rest there on top of the bump. 

The word had slipped out of you again. And you didn’t even fully register it until Quinn started to answer in rambling, breathy strings of words. 

He responded without any real hesitation, tilting your hips slightly, pressing a soft kiss over your temple, then down your jaw. “I love you,” he whispered, low and unshakable, his free hand holding you with careful, reverent pressure. “I love this. I love you.”

You clung to him, your nails skimming lightly over his shoulders, thighs trembling around his hips as you tried to keep the movements quiet, controlled. He kissed you through every gasp, every soft whimper, swallowing the sounds you couldn’t hold back.

“Shh, I love the sounds you’re making but we need to be quiet. Can you do that for me, baby?” Quinn hushed out, lifting his hand to your cheek, slowing everything down for a second. 

“Baby?” was all you could say, heat coiling in your stomach, fading and returning with the loss of pace. 

“Mhm,” he nodded, kissing you to shut you up. “My baby carrying my baby.”

And then his hand was back on your stomach, moving in smooth circles over it as he built the pace back up, rutting up into you. He kissed you continuously as you both came closer to release, keeping all of your moans to himself, trapped in the minimal space between your lips and his. 

Tension started to dissolve into pleasure. You felt him start to pulse and twitch inside of you, as the sharp sounds of your skin colliding and the wet sounds of your bodies connecting began to increase. 

There was a fire spreading in your lower stomach. Slipping from your bump, Quinn’s fingers found your clit, grazing the bundle of nerves back and forth. 

“Keep your eyes on me when you come, baby,” Quinn demanded. 

You did your best to obey as you reached your highest point. Eyes only clenching shut when you saw Quinn do the same. A warm, static feeling spread through your body as it shuddered. 

Feeling yourself become unable to move, Quinn took charge of the last few strokes, rolling your hips against him, extending the very last of your pleasure until he was able to reach his own. Quiet little grunts and praises left Quinn’s mouth as he released inside of you, spurting hot and warm streaks against your walls. 

You were soft and swollen, as you melted into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. 

— 

Quinn wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this way. The hazy, half-drunken memory of your first time together didn’t even compare. This was sharper, deeper—like something fundamental inside him was being rewritten. Like there would always be a before-you and an after-you, and he was standing at the seam, unable to go back to know what life had been like before he’d had you. Like this. As close as humanly possible. 

A part of him—not the drunken, sad mess that had forgotten a condom the first time—but the primal part of him, the one who had wanted to become a father, absolutely rejoiced at the feeling of his cock being buried bare inside of you, the warm mess from both of you now dripping down between your bodies. 

He didn’t mind the mess initially, when you rested your full weight on top of him, still keeping him seated inside, your cheek tucked into his neck, your breath still ragged but slowing. He liked having the weight of you in his arms, the pressure stilling something inside of him. His arms folded easily around you, one hand tracing idle lines up and down your spine, comforting in its simplicity.

Quinn especially liked the press of your little bump against his stomach, how his body curved instinctively around it—protective, reverent.

When minutes passed without you moving, he wondered if you’d fallen asleep like that, boneless in his arms. He brushed the slightly damp hair from your face, only intending to catch a glimpse, to see if you were ready to slip off him, get cleaned up, crawl into bed properly.

He wanted to cuddle you to sleep more comfortably than now. 

But then you whimpered—so soft he almost missed it. It almost sounded like you said stay. 

He pressed his palm over the back of your head, smoothing your hair down and started to rub your back again. “What did you say, baby?” 

You shifted faintly, clinging tighter. He caught the words this time, barely more than a whisper. “Quinn, please stay.”

Something inside him cracked open. Because it wasn’t about sex anymore, or about whether he pulled out, or whether you shifted off his lap. It was about everything bigger than that.

“I’m here,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, to your arm wrapped so tightly around him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And then—so faint he still doubted it—you whispered something that sounded an awful lot like I love you.

thank you for reading <3 please tell me what you think my asks are always open!

[superbassbuck]

until I have you.

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x maidservant!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink

wordcount: 12.2k masterlist

a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you

synopsis: A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.

Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.

You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.

Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.

It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.

You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.

With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.

There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.

“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.

He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.

A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”

A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.

There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.

The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.

He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.

Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.

A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.

The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.

Your Bucky.

“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”

A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.

He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”

“Very selfish of you, James.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.

Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.

Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.

“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”

Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.

He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.

He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.

“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”

Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.

“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”

After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.

Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”

You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”

“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”

All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.

“You ladies are unbelievable—”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”

You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.

“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”

Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”

“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”

You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.

Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.

“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”

Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.

Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.

His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.

“You could get us all in trouble.”

“You’re only thinking for yourself.”

But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.

She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.

It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.

“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”

It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.

You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.

“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”

There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.

You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.

“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.

She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”

“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.

Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”

You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”

“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”

You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.

“All finished—”

“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”

You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”

“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”

You truly didn’t know what to say.

You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.

But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.

And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?

“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”

“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”

Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.

Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.

You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.

But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.

You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.

With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.

The Queen’s favorite flower.

You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.

The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.

He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.

“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”

You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.

“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.

“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.

He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.

“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”

“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”

Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.

He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”

I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.

I want you to stay here with me instead.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.

“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”

He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.

“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”

Drown out everything else.

You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.

“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”

Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.

“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”

Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”

“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.

Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.

He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.

The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.

“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”

“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”

The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”

The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.

“Move along, Sergeant.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.

He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.

Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.

In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.

But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.

With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.

The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.

At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”

Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”

“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.

Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”

Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.

“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.

Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”

You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.

“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”

Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.

“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”

You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.

“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”

“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.

Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”

“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”

John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.

“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”

The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.

“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”

Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.

The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.

“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”

“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.

Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”

You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”

On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.

You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.

With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.

Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.

Bucky was standing right beside her.

And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.

“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.

Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.

“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”

You felt your heart drop.

As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.

“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.

“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”

“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.

“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”

The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”

Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.

“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”

You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.

So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.

Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.

Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”

“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”

He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.

The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.

“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.

“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.

You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.

The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.

“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”

You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.

“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.

“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”

Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.

You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.

“Do you think he finds me charming?”

Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.

“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”

There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.

Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.

She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.

But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.

So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.

“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”

The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.

The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.

Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.

As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.

While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.

By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.

You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.

Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?

Had he forgotten?

Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?

Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?

An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.

You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.

As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.

But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.

“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”

Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.

He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.

“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.

“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.

Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.

“… For how long?”

“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”

Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.

Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.

“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”

You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.

But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.

“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.

You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.

“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”

You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.

It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.

For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.

You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.

“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”

Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.

“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”

You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.

Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.

But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.

“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”

Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”

“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.

“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”

But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.

Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.

He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.

Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.

“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”

“Hey!”

A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.

Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.

“James—”

“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.

“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”

“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”

You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.

“James, calm down—”

“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.

“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Bucky had never spoken to you like that.

Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.

Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.

He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.

“You broke bread with the boy?”

You didn’t dare to speak.

“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.

“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.

Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.

“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.

“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”

You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”

He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.

“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”

Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”

Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”

“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”

Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.

“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”

He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.

“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.

“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”

He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.

“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”

He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”

Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.

“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”

Bucky was leaving?

You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.

“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.

“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”

Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.

“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”

He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.

“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”

Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.

When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.

He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”

You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.

And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.

He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.

“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”

You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.

He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”

“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”

Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.

He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”

Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”

Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.

Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.

Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.

“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”

“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”

His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.

“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”

Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.

His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.

“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”

You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.

“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.

Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”

Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.

“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”

With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.

“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.

“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”

Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.

He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.

With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”

You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.

“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.

To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.

“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”

“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”

Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.

The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.

“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”

“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”

“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”

“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”

Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”

The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.

With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.

Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.

“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”

Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.

“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”

You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.

“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”

You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.

“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”

Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.

The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.

“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”

Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.

“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.

He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”

Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.

Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”

“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”

“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.

Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.

Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.

“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”

You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.

Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.

“So perfect,” he mumbled.

You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.

He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.

“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”

Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.

He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.

The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.

But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.

“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”

He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.

“Right,” you whimpered.

“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”

The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.

“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”

Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.

“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”

The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.

You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.

“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.

“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.

“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”

“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.

“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”

“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”

“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.

As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.

After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.

He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.

You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.

You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.

Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.

Was this a drill?

The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?

As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.

“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”

“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”

“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”

Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.

You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.

But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.

That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.

A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.

“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.

Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”

“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”

You felt your blood run cold.

Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.

“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”

Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”

The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.

Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.

“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.

“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”

She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.

“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”

Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”

As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.

“Nat!”

You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.

A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.

You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.

Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.

You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.

A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.

“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”

Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.

Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.

It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.

Ah, there he was.

Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.

Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.

He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.

You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.

But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.

And that was all that mattered.

In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.

His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.

His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.

Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.

“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”

“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”

“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”

“Barnes!”

Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.

All he cared about was you.

Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.

“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”

You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.

His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.

“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.

“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”

He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.

“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.

“It’s okay,” Bucky cooed, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.

“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”

“Bucky—”

“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”

“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.

As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.

Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.

For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.

“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”

He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.

“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”

He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.

“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”

Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.

The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.

Bucky kept his promise—and more.

Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.

thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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