#thatonefangirlwrites

as graduation approaches in only a few more weeks, you find yourself scrambling. you’re one of the few in your friend group who doesn’t yet have a job lined up for after graduation, still working through tedious job applications day after day in the hopes that something will work out. 

you still haven’t talked to Bucky about the plan you’ve begun to develop in your head, a plan where you envision staying in LA beyond graduating. where Bucky comes to join you in this city that’s grown to be your favorite place in the world. 

there hasn’t been any discussion about it beyond the little talks you had while he was in town, but you’re sure he’s going to love the idea. he wants to support you, and he seemed to be quite open to it when he was here. there’s a lot of factors to consider, you know that. it’s not easy to make that kind of decision. for instance, sure, he’s busy with business back home. that’s a sign of a good businessman, though, right? there’s no way he won’t be able to make it work here. 

luckily, despite your fears about what will happen after graduation in terms of successfully finding a full-time job, your lease still has a few more months before it runs out. that’s plenty of time to find a job and hopefully finagle a way for Bucky to join you in LA.

because why wouldn’t he? you’ve left such a mess at home, alienating both Bucky and yourself from your family with the reveal of the relationship you never wanted to have to confess to. for months now, you’ve been able to avoid it, pretending it doesn’t exist in awkward phone conversations where there’s no need for the elephant in the room to be brought up. 

Bucky moving here is the best case scenario for the both of you to start over, to live the life you’ve always dreamed. that’s what it would be for you to be able to live happily ever after with Bucky: a literal dream. a dream you’ve harbored since your early teens, dreaming and praying to call him yours and have that stupid fairytale wedding you’d imagined as a kid. 

starting over here would be perfect, to get away from the critical eye of your parents and away from the guilt and shame that arose within you alongside the very start of your relationship. 

besides, you’ve built a life for yourself here. you didn’t really expect to grow to love Los Angeles as much as you do; choosing to come here was a decision made out of desperation to get away from Bucky, to get away from your childish crush. 

yet somehow, it’s become your new home. you hope that Bucky will be open to letting it be his new home, too, because as long as you’re together, it’ll be enough. 

being with him is all you’ve ever wanted. 

it has to be enough.

~~~

the last voicemail you have from him in your inbox was from last week. typically, he tries to call you every other day, even though most of the time you can’t pick up. your voicemail box is filled with a million different messages from him by this point; ones of him telling you how much he misses you, others of him speaking deeply and making debauched noises as he tells you how bad he wishes you were there with him while he jerks off. even though you hate missing his calls, you love having his little voice notes in your phone to listen to whenever you please. 

he’s sent a scarce few texts since then, but you truly haven’t heard from him in days now. 

you’ve texted and called him a few times over the last day or so, with nothing in return. it’s only instinct for you to grow concerned. 

except you don’t have the time to be worried about him or the state of your relationship. you’ve finally secured an interview for tomorrow afternoon, a job local to your apartment here in LA. at this point, you can’t afford to screw up any interviews, no matter the position or the company. you’re about to be completely jobless post-grad otherwise, so your anxieties are going to have to leave you alone for the next 24 hours. you have so much more on the line than your stupid little fears about what’s going on with Bucky. 

it doesn't help that this interview isn’t just any interview. the job is actually very well aligned to your interests, and the pay can’t possibly be beat. 

if you’d heard from Bucky recently, or if you were fessing up to the fact that you were only interviewing for LA-based jobs, you would be gushing to him about how excited you are for the opportunity and how badly you want the job. he’s always been your number one supporter, no matter what, so he would tell you that you’re going to do amazing. he would tell you you’re perfect and if the interviewer can’t see it, then they’re the ones missing out. 

you do wish you could have an Uncle Bucky pep talk right now, but you can’t tell him, not yet. you’ll find the right time sooner or later. 

when you get home that evening, you think you’ve calmed yourself down enough from your worries and nearly gotten yourself into the right headspace for the interview. except apparently, you’re not doing as good of a job as you think you are, because your roommate comments on your depressed attitude. 

“are you alright?” she asks as you put your bowl in the microwave, the inquiry taking you by surprise. 

“yeah, why?” you reply, feigning ignorance as you shut the microwave door. “do I not seem alright?” 

“definitely not, dude,” she tells you bluntly. “I see you like this all the time, all pouting and sad but pretending to be fine. but I know you have a big day tomorrow, so, out with it. what’s going on?”

the suddenness of her statement shocks you. you know your anxiety is a persistent issue, and that being away from Bucky doesn’t particularly help. but are you really that obvious about it? 

“it’s just nerves,” you assure her. “I’ll be fine.”

as you deliberately avoid telling her the truth about your real concerns, you feel a pang in your stomach. the realization that you’ve never even mentioned his name to your friends here for fear of your crush being found out, and now the possibility of your relationship being discovered. 

people that love and care about you, and you’re still too paranoid to tell them the truth. you truly can’t blame yourself for being hesitant, though; the circumstances are sketchy, you realize that. and you can’t fathom pushing everyone away in the same manner you’ve done with your family all because of who you love. 

“you can tell me,” she tries, and the microwave beeps then. you take a deep breath and try to shake her off by focusing on your bowl, ready to eat so that you can avoid the topic. except your food is cold, and now you have to wait thirty more seconds to get out of this.

“I’m fine. promise,” you tell her. another pang in your stomach. you’re going to have to tell her, and the rest of your friends, the truth if you expect Bucky to become a part of your life here in LA.

you don’t know if you could handle the negative reaction you’ll get from admitting the truth. 

she speaks your name, and you know this isn’t going away. the microwave continues to whir. 

“come on. talking about things helps, and there’s no way you’ll be able to do well on your interview if you’re all worked up–”

“I’m not worked up!” you nearly yell back at her. “can you just leave it alone? for fuck’s sake! I told you, I’m fine!” 

she doesn’t respond immediately, pausing for a minute after your outburst. the silence between you is deafening, and you immediately know you fucked up. 

“fine. I’ll leave you alone,” she says before walking away, leaving you alone with the microwave now beeping at you once more.

you wish you could say that you weren’t quite sure why you reacted like that, why you felt the need to get so defensive over it, but you know exactly why you did: because you couldn’t handle it. you couldn’t handle the realization that you haven’t told her, and you can’t tell her, because how are you supposed to be able to say yeah, I’ve been fucking my dad’s best friend for the better part of a year now. oh, and we’re dating, because that will go over well. 

you feel terrible. you just snapped at her while she was trying to help you feel better, all because of your fear and territorialism over this relationship that you’re still far more concerned about protecting than you should be.

it’s just because it’s been so long, you think, and that you’re freaking out because you haven’t spoken to him recently that you’re wired so tightly.

it’s because you’re petrified of what other people will think of you if you tell them the truth, a truth that they simply can’t handle, why? sure, maybe your relationship is wrong from most standpoints, but…

you love each other. you love Bucky, and he loves you. that’s all you need. 

everything will fall into place. you’ll find a way to man up and tell your roommate and all your friends about your relationship before Bucky comes to LA, and it will surely go over far better than it did with your parents.

everything is going to be just fine. 

more than fine.

~~~

when you wake up the next morning, you feel exhausted even after a full night’s sleep. you pray that it isn’t an indication of how the rest of your day is going to go. 

when you look around for your roommate, you find that she’s already gone for the day. of course she is; why would she want to be around you and your sour mood after you went off on her last night?

it is what it is, you determine. there’s nothing you can do about it until you see her this evening and have the opportunity to apologize to her. 

the very next thing you do is pick up your phone, searching for a text, a voicemail, anything from Bucky.

nothing. 

it’s okay, you assure yourself as you take a deep breath and stand from your bed. you can worry about both of them later after your interview. 

until then, you have to try not to let your thoughts consume you alive. thoughts of pushing away your roommate in favor of protecting, nay, hiding your relationship. thoughts of pushing Bucky too much until he just doesn’t respond to you anymore. 

you know that isn’t the case. that’s not the case with him, it never would be. he’s not the type to just ghost you out of nowhere; he’s busy. that’s all. you don’t need to be that clingy, annoying girlfriend that constantly texts and seeks validation every five seconds that he’s still interested in you. 

as you walk around campus, though, you’re still thinking about calling him. you think about telling him about your plan the next time you get a chance to talk to him, but will that push him even further away?

you’re going to have to tell him eventually, though, about your plan to stay here and your hope that he’ll follow you across the country. to get away from the critical eyes of your family. 

you just hope your community here doesn’t look at you the same way.

you ponder simply sending him a text that might grab his attention, like, “hey! I have an interview today!” something that’s just enough to catch him in a few brief seconds when he isn’t busy, just to get a “good luck!” in return. anything. 

worry about it later, you remind yourself. focus. 

the more you consider your practiced interview responses in your head, the more you’re able to distract yourself from your concerns. it’s easier to fret about everything going on in your personal life than your professional one, but now is not the time. 

you become an expert in how to explain what interests you about the company and the position, why you want the job and what benefits you would bring to them if you were to be hired. you pore over last minute research to ensure you’ve stored every possible piece of information in the small space in your head devoted to crushing this interview. 

when the time comes, you’re ready, you think. your laptop is charged, your water bottle is full, and your hair is tidied. 

except as you sit in the waiting room of the Zoom meeting, you can’t stop worrying. as quick as you can, you pull out your phone and hurriedly open your text messages. first, a message to your roommate—I’m sorry about last night, let’s talk later?—and a second, one you begin to type out that’s intended to go to Bucky. 

I haven’t heard from you, are you alright? Can I call you in an hour?

just as you’re about to hit the little blue button to send the text, your laptop screen flashes at you, and the interview is on. you hurriedly drop your phone into your lap, forgetting about the text and readjusting in your seat to steady yourself.

here goes nothing. 

the woman, Monica, is friendly and charming right off the bat, you acknowledge. a good back and forth between the two of you as you begin to exchange pleasantries, learning that she’s an alum from your university and that she used to hold the position you’re now interviewing for. all good signs, so far. 

as you begin to give your elevator pitch, your phone begins vibrating in your lap. you try to focus, cursing yourself for not turning it off before the meeting started. reluctantly, you glance down at it for a mere second: it’s your mom calling you. your gaze flits back to the laptop screen before darting down to the phone once more when it has stopped ringing. Call me, her text reads. 

you stutter over your words, but you refuse to let the small instance distract you, not right now; you can’t screw this up. 

ven though you want to worry about it, you can’t. even though there’s something in your gut telling you, something is wrong, it’s not the time. 

you take a deep breath to center yourself once the interviewer speaks again. you can do this.

and despite the minor setback, the rest of the meeting goes astonishingly well. 

“keep your phone nearby,” Monica tells you once she’s done going through her list of questions for you. “you should be hearing from me very soon.”

“wow, thank you,” you reply with a bright smile. “thank you so much!”

as the meeting ends, you can’t contain your glee. there’s no way that actually went as well as you think it did, right? you have to be deluding yourself into thinking that this might finally work out for you, that everything might actually be going your way for once. 

you pack up your things into your bag while your smile never once falters. the last time you felt this giddy and excited about something was when Bucky came to visit for Valentine’s.

it’s nice to have something to well and truly hope for, you think. to actually know what it means to be excited for the future. 

as you pull your purse over your shoulder and walk out of the conference room, making to leave the building and head home, you begin to scroll through your texts. your roommate responded telling you that all is forgiven; that’s one relief, at least. 

you check the text from your mother, the ominous Call me staring you back in the face. except you’re still over the moon with joy as you walk down the street and begin to head back to your apartment, ecstatic about the good news that you can’t wait to share with her. you click on the contact in your phone and dial her back as you walk. 

“hi, honey,” she says into the phone, and yet you don’t catch her solemn tone as you practically speak over her.  

“you’re not gonna believe this,” you ramble in your excitement. “remember I told you about the interview I had today? well, I just got out of the meeting, and it went amazing. she even told me—Monica, her name was—that I’m going to hear back very soon. she specifically said very soon, and it sounded like a good sign to me. I think they’re going to give me the job, Mom! can you believe it?”

“that’s amazing,” she replies, trying to remain excited for you, but her tone finally breaks through your enthusiasm and you manage to hear it this time. “I’m so glad it went well. I’m sure they’re going to offer it to you.”

“yeah,” you say, your smile fading. “what’s up, though? what did you need to tell me?”

she pauses for a moment, and your heart sinks into your stomach as her lack of response resonates in your mind. 

“what is it, Mom?” you ask more firmly. your walking pace begins to slow, your heart beating quicker in your chest. something is wrong, and deep down, you know it. 

after another beat, she continues. “I’m sorry I have to tell you like this, after your interview went so well. but I know you’re going to want to know this.”

“what’s wrong?” you reiterate more harshly, your voice beginning to strain. 

“your Un-” she begins, but curtly interrupts herself. 

except you catch it. you know exactly what she was about to say.

your uncle.

a million thoughts begin to race through your head. 

the slip-up was a mistake, one made out of habit. of course she’s not going to refer to him like that anymore. you haven’t even brought him up in months, skirting around the topic instead, none of you willing to talk about it until the time becomes absolutely necessary. 

is this it? has the time become absolutely necessary? 

 “Bucky,” she corrects herself, “has been in an accident.”

and it’s like the world stops. 

your feet stop moving, and you freeze in place in the middle of the sidewalk. all the joy and excitement you felt just a few minutes before is gone, replaced by a soul-crushing agony from deep inside yourself. 

“what?” you whisper, voice coming out small and fractured. 

“he’s okay,” she assures you with a tone that’s somewhat more confident, “but he’s in the hospital.” 

you blink a few times as your eyes grow watery, tears spilling over before you’re evening consciously aware of it. after the initial shock wears off, your brain goes into overdrive and you begin to panic. your feet suddenly begin moving again as you walk as fast as you can back to your apartment before you lose your composure in public. 

“what happened? when did it happen?” you question as you begin piecing things together in your head. it’s been days since you’ve heard from him, why has no one felt the need to tell you about this sooner?

“there was an accident at work. it happened on Monday. he… he fell off a ladder. he has a serious concussion, and he broke his right arm. he’s beyond lucky he wasn’t hurt any worse than he is.” 

you thank whatever higher power there is for saving him, you think, because you’re going to kill him yourself. 

“Monday,” you utter, your anger growing along with your volume, “it’s Thursday! it’s been three whole days, and no one thought to tell me until now?”

“we didn’t want to upset you before your interview today,” she excuses of the decision, and you scoff before cutting off her next words. 

“you don’t think something like this matters enough to tell me? are you serious? I don’t care what you think about me, or him, or our relationship. I had a right to know when this first happened. you should have told me, you don’t get to keep things from me, lie to me like this–”

“–don’t you start,” she bites, interrupting you in return. you’re still walking at full speed down the road, tears pouring from your eyes, and you want nothing more than to burst into full-blown sobs and start screaming. 

it’s for the best that you’re still in public because having a meltdown would only make this far worse. 

“don’t argue with me about keeping secrets and lying. not about this, not about him, not about anything. your father and I decided it was best to wait to tell you because your interview is more important, young lady, do you understand?”

you grit your teeth and force yourself not to yell back at her. more important than something this serious, more important than Bucky? 

“and what about Bucky? why didn’t he tell me?” you ask. 

she sighs somberly on the other end of the phone. 

“the doctors have kept him in a medically-induced coma for the last few days until the pressure in his head came down. they woke him up this morning, and he agreed with us that it was best to wait until after the fact to tell you.” 

“I want to talk to him,” you announce, “put me on the phone. now. please, Mom. please.”

“he’s asleep right now, okay? but I’ll make sure to give you whatever updates the doctor gives us?” she offers, and you shake your head even though you know she can’t see the motion.

“no. no, I’m coming home. I have to see him, I need to make sure he’s okay–”

“–no, you need to focus on classes and finishing your semester. he is fine–”

“Mom,” you cry out, and your soft tears finally turn into ugly sobs, unable to stave it off any longer. through your cries, you continue, “please. I know you don’t approve, I know what you think of him now. but, please, Mommy. I love him. I need to come home, I– I have to see him. please.”

it’s been a very difficult few months with the rift in your relationship with your parents over the last few months, but now, you can’t dance around the situation. right now, you need her to understand how pained you feel, for her to forget about how much she disapproves and understand how badly you need this. 

“okay. alright,” she gives in, her own voice a near whisper. “try and get on the next flight out tonight and we’ll get you back by Monday.”

“thank you,” you say, relieved. “thank you. okay. I’ll see you soon.” 

you pull the phone away from your ear, ready to press the button to end the call, when you hear the words softly through the phone. 

“I love you, sweetie,” she says, and the words punch you right in the gut. you can’t help but shed a few more tears at the sound of it. 

you bring the phone back to your ear. “I love you too, Mom. I’ll be home soon.”

when you finally get back a few minutes later, the race is on to pack your bag and get to the airport as quickly as possible. it’s as though you’ve gained a second wind as you begin to break down all over again, cries erupting from your throat against your will as the stress of the situation hits you now that you’re away from prying eyes. 

“oh my god, are you okay?” your roommate asks you the second she sees you. “what’s wrong? was the interview that bad? it’s okay, there will be other–”

“I have a boyfriend at home,” you admit to her through your whines as you start pulling random clothes from your drawer. “and– and he’s been in an accident. my mom just called me, and she told me, and I have to go home. I have to see him.”

“boyfriend?” she questions. “you never told me about… never mind. we can talk about it when you get back. is he okay?”

you wipe at your nose with the back of your hand, all the while you’re going crazy running around your bedroom grabbing everything you need to get on the plane. your mind is a jumble of mostly unintelligible thoughts as you try to remember everything you need and explain what little you can to her at the same time.

“yeah, I think so. but I can’t be here while he’s there, hurt, and alone. my family is probably there, but–” you pause, gulping and trying to figure out what to tell her. you’ll tell her the truth when you get back, when you’re in the right headspace, but now isn’t that time. “they don’t really approve of us.” 

“right, of course,” she replies, and it’s clear she doesn’t know what else to say. you don’t blame her; you probably wouldn’t know what to say in this situation, either. “just be safe and text me along the way, okay?”

“I will,” you agree, throwing the last few things you need into your bag before turning to face her. “I should be back Sunday night.” 

“it’s going to be okay,” she whispers before wrapping her arms around you in a hug. 

it takes all your effort not to break down for a third time in her arms, but you finally manage to hold yourself together as you get ready to walk out the door.

“yeah, I hope so,” you whisper. “I really hope so.” 

~~~

the lights are blinding, stark white shining into your eyes as you walk down the corridor towards his room. the scent of alcoholic sanitizer in the air doesn’t ease your nausea in the slightest as you anticipate the worst. 

they say that the side effects of the concussion are minimal given the impact of the fall he took, that he’s lucky to not be suffering any symptoms worse than the ones he’s experiencing. they say that he’s okay. 

you’ll make that determination for yourself when you see him.

when you approach the doorway leading to his room, your nerves spike. flashbacks filter through your mind of the last time you found yourself here, waking up in a similar room after your very own fall and resulting concussion. 

maybe yours was your bad karma for corrupting him, and perhaps now he is facing his own karma for choosing to hold onto you after allowing himself to delve into sin with you.

you inch closer towards the open door and peek inside to see him laying in the bed, his eyes gently shut. the television plays quietly in the background, announcing the local news to anyone listening as though it could possibly distract a soul from the horrors that brought them here.

your feet move of their own accord as you finally enter, turning to shut the door behind you and latching it as quietly as possible. except despite your best efforts, it emits a sound louder than you’d hoped, and your eyes cinch tightly shut in mild frustration with the door, hoping you haven’t woken him.

“hey, kid,” you hear a hoarse voice speak from a few feet behind you. 

you hurriedly whip around to face him, finding him awake and alert, smiling at you so beautifully. you race to the side of the bed he lays in as your heart rate spikes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter, eyes scanning him up and down. he waves you off, unconcerned. 

your fingers begin threading themselves through his hair ever so cautiously as you take in the sight of him. dark bags sit just beneath his eyes, redness circling his irises as your gaze finds his. his right arm sits across his chest in a cast, held up by a sling. 

“you’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, your free hand joining your hand in his hair as you lean in to press a kiss to his lips. “how the hell did this happen?”

he just chuckles softly. “it was an accident,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t care if it was an accident or not, you need to be more careful,” you tell him, looking back and forth between his eyes. “getting the phone call that you were in the fucking hospital was not a fun one, do you hear me?”

“yeah, yeah. I remember something like that last year. hated every second of it,” he mumbles. “but it’s better me in this bed than you.”

your eyes nearly roll back in your head when he says that. “neither of us should have to be here. and I’m not the one who fell off a ladder, you dipshit.” 

he laughs again. 

“I’m fine, kid,” he whispers, bringing his metal fingers to your arm, drawing your hand away from his hair and bringing it towards him to place a kiss on your knuckles. “I’m tough. I’m going to be fine.” 

you shake your head, beyond exasperated with him, but relieved that you’re finally here to see his state for yourself. hearing from others that he’s okay means nothing to you, because how are you supposed to be able to judge what exactly that means? 

“you didn’t need to come all this way,” he tells you, and you scoff.

“of course I was going to come. I haven’t heard from you in days, and the first news I get is that you’re hurt? no way in hell I wasn’t getting on the first flight. you’d do the same for me.”

“yeah, well. you have more important things to focus on,” he says.

you know he’s trying to reassure you about his situation, but hearing him say that he believes he isn’t the most important thing in your life hurts. you love him more than life itself; you always have. he’s always come first for you. 

“enough,” you whisper, wiping your eyes before your tears begin to fall. “I’m here, and that’s all that matters.”

he slides over in the tiny bed, his large frame already taking up the majority of the space, but he doesn’t seem to care very much as he adjusts to make enough room for you to lay down with him. you’re hesitant to do so because of his injuries, but at the same time, you’re selfish. you want to be here for him in every way possible. you want to give him this comfort, the safety and security of knowing you’re here for him. you want more than anything to just feel him. 

you lay on your side beside him and his free arm wraps itself underneath you and around your waist, tugging you in tightly against him. you rest your head carefully on his shoulder and look down to see where his arm sits in a cast. 

“you can’t afford to be breaking your arm in ladder falls, old man,” you tease of him, “you already lost one to a stupid accident. imagine having two stupid stories to tell.” 

“nah, I’ll just tell people the shark liked the first bite so much that he came back for seconds,” he jokes, and you can’t help but laugh. you lightly smack his chest as you break into a fit of giggles.

“you’re never letting me live that one down,” you say through your laughter, and his chest rumbles with his own laughter.

“of course I’m not,” he assures you as his face tilts downwards, leaning in just enough to place another kiss to the top of your head. 

the two of you lay there for a few minutes in silence as your fingers trace patterns over the fabric of the gown covering his skin. you’re finally able to relax thanks to the close contact, thanks to being able to see him with your own two eyes.

“was it your parents that told you?” Bucky whispers, reluctant to break the peaceful moment, but his curiosity grows too great to avoid asking the question. 

you swallow. “yeah, my mom did,” you admit, and he hums in response. “why? have you seen them?”

“they were here when I woke up yesterday. filled me in on what happened, and all,” he says. “they told me you had an interview yesterday? how did that go?”

your heart nearly stops beating in your chest. you’re not ready to have this conversation with him, not right now. except you have no choice but to address it, so you try your best to be casual about it in your response. 

“uh, yeah,” you mumble under your breath. “went well. dunno if I’ll get the job, but maybe.”

you hope that the casual, non-chalant tone you use will throw him off the scent, that he’ll get the hint you’re not interested in talking about it.

because how can you? how can you tell him right here, right now, that you have a plan you’ve been keeping from him? 

he’s going to agree to it, though. he will agree to it, because he loves you. there’s an opportunity here for the both of you, and he’s going to see it. 

or maybe you know that you’re lying to yourself, hiding your deepest fears in a locked box in your mind so that you don’t have to face the pain that you know may follow from having this conversation. 

except you know now, after not just the last year but the last four long years, that you’ve found where you’re meant to be. albeit by a happy accident, you know that LA is where you’re meant to be, the same way you know that you’re meant to be in Bucky’s arms for the rest of your life.

so why can’t you make both of those things happen?

“I’m sure it went great,” he continues. “they’ll be more than lucky to have you. I know I am.”

the sentiment makes your lips turn up into a soft smile, and a flush of warmth passes across your cheeks.

“yeah, it was actually great,” you admit. “the woman I spoke to seemed pretty eager to have me join the team.”

“that’s amazing, kid. where’s it at? somewhere close by, I hope?”

fuck. 

you begin to sit up from your position on the bed, looking down at him as you do. 

“actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” you admit. the look on his face is almost indeterminable, except you know him well enough by now. you know he’s confused, wondering what bad news it is you’re about to share with him. 

“it’s there. in LA,” you start, and continue to ramble on before he can say anything else. “it’s an amazing opportunity, and I know you seemed to like being there when you came to visit in February, didn’t you? when we talked about it, you said–”

“I said that the city isn’t my scene,” he interrupts you with a biting tone, and you’re taken aback by his brazenness. you continue, your eyes narrowing in mild anger with his inflection.

“you said that you’d be interested. that it would be nice to have a place out in the valley, somewhere close enough to the city–”

“kid, stop,” he interrupts you. “that was all… that was all just talk. I had a great time coming to visit you, sure. but you seem to have gotten this idea in your head, that, what? I’d be interested in moving there?” he says it almost condescendingly, as though it sounds like a joke. finishing his sentence with an unamused laugh underlining his words. 

your jaw stutters as you try to think of what to say next. 

“just hear me out for a minute,” you try. “this is a great job opportunity for me. excellent, even. if you just listen to me for a second, then maybe you’ll realize this is exactly what we both need. a fresh start away from everything, where we can just be ourselves and not worry about people looking over our shoulders, judging us at every turn. how are we supposed to be together like that? it’s not like people don’t know us, don’t know–”

“who cares what they think?” he says, raising his voice. “who cares? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that, because I love you, kid. and your parents– we can figure that out, you hear? we don’t need to keep running and hiding! I know I’m getting real fucking sick of it, aren’t you?”

“of course, I am, but that’s why we should do this! we need to get away, somewhere–”

“what are you really trying to run from here, kid?” 

the question takes you by complete surprise, and you do a double take. you have no clue how to answer that as he stares you down, waiting for your response. 

“I’m not running,” you whisper. except your words come out low and broken, as though you don’t even believe them yourself. 

“except you are,” he argues. “you’re running, like it’s the only option you have. but we can figure this out, if you come home, and we figure it out together.”

“are you implying that we can’t work things out if I stay there? that if I choose to move, then, what? that’s it? you’ll give up and won’t even try to work this out with me?” 

he sighs, realizing how harsh he sounds. “no, no. that’s not what I’m saying. I don’t want to give up, I just… don’t see how it can work out if you’re there, and I’m here.”

“so, come with me,” you urge, and his eyes fall shut, his head shaking.

“I can’t move to California, kid. I have a business, and a whole life built here. you have to know that moving isn’t in the cards for me.”

he goes quiet, and you remain silent, too. you don’t know what to say now, what it is you’re supposed to do.

you sit there for a few moments, every sound from outside the door sounding infinitely louder in your ears as you suffer in silence, unsure what comes next. just when your lips part to say something, anything, he speaks up. 

“listen, kid, my head is starting to hurt. let’s talk about this later,” he suggests, and you tilt your head back down to avoid his gaze..

“of course,” you mumble, quickly standing from the bed and stepping away. “yeah, sure. I’ll let you get some sleep. we can, um… talk later.”

“hey, no, you don’t have to leave–”

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, refusing to look back up at him as you step away, opening the door and ignoring whatever he says as you walk out. 

how can you face him right now, when you feel so stupid? why did you think that this could work out as well as you had hoped and dreamed it would? 

because you’re just a stupid kid, you remind yourself. you’re a dumb kid who doesn’t know anything about the real world or real life, the same reason you’ve managed to find yourself in this position with your parents and now with Bucky. 

what the hell do you know?

~~~

when you walk in the door at home, you don’t know how to feel.

over the last twenty-four hours, you’ve gone through quite the whirlwind of emotions. from your nervousness, to blissful excitement, then to pure fear and panic, you’ve been through the ringer and don’t quite know what you’re supposed to feel now. 

you’re mad at yourself for bringing up this discussion with Bucky while he’s in the hospital before having the opportunity to do it on better terms, before you could find a way to be more graceful about the discussion. you’re frustrated for letting yourself get this idea stuck in your head that Bucky would move with you, that you could both have your cake and eat it, too. 

you’re sad that you left him there, alone, now that you’ve made it back to your parents’ house. you flew all this way just to see him, and for what? you’ve run away from him, again, and you’ve now let yourself end up butt-hurt just because you ended up in an argument that didn’t go your way?

there’s too much going on in your life right now for this to be at the forefront of your concerns, and yet, it is. because that’s what Bucky means to you. he’s your everything. 

as you walk towards your bedroom, you’re exhausted, and a deep part of you has a terrible thought. a thought that you almost hope you don’t get the job, because then, you would no longer be obligated to stay in LA and you could move in with Bucky as you’d told him many months ago that you would. 

you hate yourself for thinking it, recalling how ecstatic you were just the night prior upon the success of your interview. you love LA, but you love Bucky more. you think. 

at what point do you have to start putting yourself first? 

all these years, you’ve pined over Bucky. you’ve longed to have him, to be with him, to call him yours the way you finally do now. for the majority of your time on this earth you’ve placed him at the center of your universe. 

moving to California was the only thing you’d ever done for yourself, even if running away from him was the primary reason for doing so. even if he was still at the root of that decision, you’d done it because you knew you needed to grow up once and for all. 

you never did get over Bucky like you’d intended to when you told yourself that college was the opportunity for you to do that “growing up.” 

and yet, regardless of that fact, you’ve grown in so many other ways. Bucky aside, this move was one of the best choices you ever could have made for yourself. 

would you be throwing it all away if you came back to New York just to continue choosing him over yourself?

as your thoughts continue to circle, you hear a soft knock on the door jamb, and you turn your head to see your father standing there. 

“hey,” he begins cautiously, “how was Bucky today?”

you take a deep breath, unsure of how to approach this discussion with him. you’re soon reminded of the time you found yourself standing right here, in your bedroom, the vision of your father punching Bucky out after walking in uninvited. 

except the look on his face now is forlorn. he’s hesitant, likely even more confused than you feel about how he feels about the situation. 

at the end of the day, you remind yourself, Bucky and your father have been best friends for over three decades now. the kind of familial relationship that develops after knowing someone for so many years doesn’t just go away overnight; he is likely genuinely concerned just as you are. 

“he seems to be doing alright,” you say, plopping yourself down on the edge of your bed. “you wouldn’t be able to tell that he just came out of a coma yesterday, that’s for sure.” 

a gentle smile passes his face as he steps inside the room, slowly sauntering inside before taking a seat next to you on the bed. 

you take a deep breath. he’s going to bring up your relationship with Bucky, you know it. and if the past few conversations you’ve had about the exact same topic are any indication, then this isn’t going to go well.

“when we were in high school,” your father begins, “Bucky was… kind of an asshole.”

you laugh at that. “you could say the same about him today,” you joke, and he laughs along with you in response. 

“yeah, well. more so back then than he is now,” he continues. “he was the kind of guy who went around chasing skirts, you know. didn’t really care about the women he went out with, and… it took him a while to grow out of that. 

“when your mom and I started going together, though, he knew better than to cause any trouble. he knew that I was serious about her. and, well, some of her girlfriends at the time had been on the… receiving end of Bucky’s stupid shenanigans, to say the least. it took a really long time for him to finally win her over, before they finally became friends, too.” 

“I didn’t know that,” you mumble, and he nods. 

“it wasn’t until we were in our mid-twenties, when Bucky finally grew out of his womanizing phase, before he and your mom finally began to get along. I was so glad when they finally became friends, because I didn’t know how I was supposed to choose between them if they hadn’t. your best friend, or the woman you love? that’s not a decision to be made lightly, and I never wanted it to come to that.” 

he pauses for a few minutes, staring down at his hands crossed in his lap before continuing. 

“when you were born, Bucky adored you. he vowed to take care of you, to be there for everything, every milestone. all of it. he watched you grow up.”

“dad, please, I promise you that nothing untoward ever happened when I was a kid, he never–”

“I know, I know,” he nods. “I know he would never do anything of the sort, but I also never expected that he would–”

he cuts off mid-sentence, and a pit settles in your stomach. here comes the argument, the part where he tells you he forbids this, that Bucky will always be the same idiot he was as a teenager. 

“when I saw… what I saw that day, I was livid. beyond anything I’d ever felt in my life, because how could he? how could he take advantage of my daughter like that?”

“dad, please–”

“let me finish,” he says calmly. “I didn’t understand how anything like that could ever happen under our noses, under my own roof. I didn’t understand how he could betray our family’s trust like that.”

you’re still waiting, waiting for the outburst, waiting for the ultimatum. waiting for whatever awful thing is happening next. 

“I still don’t understand it, and I don’t know that I ever will. but the point I’m trying to make is this: I don’t want you to think that your mother and I aren’t still here for you. I don’t want you to think… that you have to choose, between us and him.”

you blink once. twice. 

what? 

“I can’t say that I’m okay with any of this, but what I have come to realize is that you’re an adult who can make her own decisions, now, and I am not willing to lose my only daughter over this.”

you’re honestly shocked beyond belief as the sentiment he’s expressing to you settles in your mind. 

choosing to sleep with Bucky, choosing to be with him, you were never going to get to have the fairytale romance you dreamt of as a little girl simply because of who you were to each other. there was never going to be an open-armed welcome from your family upon telling them you were in love; there was always going to be a fight, a terribly disagreeable reaction on their end from learning such news, albeit a very warranted reaction. 

it was never going to be smooth sailing, and no, you never expected your parents to approve in the slightest.

but this, what your father is telling you right now? 

this might be the best possible outcome you ever could have hoped for.

“your mom is still working on getting over her anger, as am I, but we’re in agreement that you are too important to us to let you go over this. so… we aren’t going to interfere, or argue with you over it anymore, alright?”

you’re rendered entirely speechless, instantly reaching your arms out and wrapping yourself around him in relief. 

“thank you, Dad,” you mumble into his shoulder as you hug him. “thank you.”

you sit there for a few minutes as the tension you’ve felt between the two of you for months finally begins to melt away, as you finally begin to feel like you might be able to find a way back to normal. that what felt like the end of your world wasn’t truly the end. 

“we’re here for you,” he says, “and if he ever pulls anything funny, he’ll regret it until the end of his days.”

you laugh, although somewhat somberly, as you finally pull away from the embrace. “yeah, well. we’ll see if it even works out. my interview yesterday went amazing, as I’m sure Mom told you. and… I really want the job, Dad,” you confide in him, “but it’s in LA. and I’m going to miss him. and both of you, too, of course.” 

“look at me,” he encourages, and your soft eyes find his. “you’re strong, and you’re smart. and while the decision is yours whether or not you take the job, if you get the offer, I want you to think about what’s going to be best for you, not anybody else. the rest of us will still be here. but you owe it to yourself to seriously consider the offer, even if it means…”

“losing Bucky,” you mumble. 

“yes. and I don’t just say that because of everything that’s happened, but I say that because it’s true. you’ve worked so hard for your degree, and you deserve the job, if that’s what you want.”

“I do really want the job,” you whisper. “I really hope I get the offer.”

“then you should take it. you’ll have our full support. we’ll just have to come visit you more often,” he tells you with a smile, and you return it with a laugh.

“that would be great, Dad. thank you.”

~~~

you walk down the same corridor to the same bright, ugly hospital room as the day before. the same sterile smell permeates your senses as you walk more confidently to his room now, although you’re still nervous after your conversation the previous day. 

no matter what happens, you’re not leaving his side. you’re going to spend every minute you can with him today until you have to get on a flight back to LA tomorrow, argument or not. 

when you see him this time, he’s already awake, eyes fixated on the television as he eats jello from a plastic cup that rests on the table in front of him.

“that’s not a very healthy breakfast,” you say as you walk into the room, and he looks over at you for a few seconds before breaking into a smile after processing your words. 

“yeah, well, when you’re a sick man like myself, they let you have whatever you want for breakfast.”

you walk up to the side of the bed and look over at the screen on the wall. “you also should not be watching TV with a concussion, Bucky!” you exclaim, reaching for the remote where it sits in his lap, immediately clicking the off button. 

“I was watching that,” he says, but there’s no fervor behind his words. instead, he slowly shifts over in the bed as he did the day prior, once again allowing you to sit with him. 

the both of you go quiet, the elephant in the room making itself known after your argument the night prior. 

“let me help you,” you whisper, reaching for the spoon in his hand. with only one free hand available to eat from his cup, it falls over on the table as he reaches for it, and you immediately reach out to help him. 

as you extend the spoon of jello out in front of him a few moments later, he mumbles, “I’m not a baby,” but doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around the plastic. 

“thank you,” he says shyly afterwards. you softly hum in response, slowly feeding him the rest of the jello in the cup while you both remain in silence. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he finally says once he’s done eating. “I shouldn’t have blown up on you like that. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“it’s alright,” you assure him with a smile as you lay down next to him. “I don’t know… where I got that stupid idea in my head from. it’s fine.” 

“it’s not stupid,” he assures you, metal fingers tracing up and down your back. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I thought it was.” 

you hum in acknowledgement. “thank you,” you whisper. “but, can we talk about this later? I have to leave tomorrow, and I’d rather just be here with you than try to make any monumental decisions right now.”

“of course,” he says, planting a kiss on your head. you sigh in relief and settle in closer to him. 

“how are you feeling?” you ask him as you settle in next to him. “are you in any pain?”

“not now that you’re here,” he says, and he hears you scoff. “what? don’t believe me? it’s the truth, your presence instantly cures all my ails.”

“if only it worked like that,” you jest, and he continues. 

“seriously, though. I’m feeling better than I should given the circumstances.”

“or maybe you’re just loaded up on pain meds,” you giggle. 

“yeah, maybe I am, but at least that means they’re working.” 

after your conversation dies out, you both go quiet for a while, your eyes shutting as you lay with him. even though the circumstances under which you’re here are far less than ideal, you’re still elated to see him, to be able to spend time with him. 

you hope it’s not one of the last times you get to have this. you still hope that you get to have this forever, until the end of your days you wish you could be wrapped up with him. 

who knows if that’s in the cards for you, though. 

when his eyes have fallen shut and you hear the soft sound of his breathing telling you he’s asleep, you carefully stand from the bed, trying not to jostle him as you make your way to shut the door and turn off the lights. 

he just barely stirs when you get back into the bed beside him, rousing just enough to wrap his prosthetic arm around you once more and pull you in tight before dozing off again. 

you look at him carefully as he sleeps, as though memorizing the sight of his beautiful face, the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks. the bags under his eyes have improved slightly since the day before, and you’re still cautious to reach out and touch his broken arm. 

you wish more than anything that you could stay and take care of him until he’s all better, to watch him carefully and make sure he doesn’t do anything that might make his injuries worse. even if you’d been here on Monday when the accident happened, you know there would have been nothing you could have done about it; you couldn’t have stopped him, couldn’t have protected him from it, no matter how much you wish you could’ve.

there’s no bigger wish in your heart for him to have nothing but the best. 

yet here you are, telling him you want him to uproot his entire life just to make you happy. in hindsight, it was a far bigger ask than you made it out to be, yet for some reason you couldn’t see that. perhaps you’d been blinded by the fact that now that you’re together, and now that you’ve survived the absolute worst situation that could have possibly happened when you were discovered by your parents, there was nothing else bigger than that in your head that you believed could tear you apart. that if you could survive being found out, you could survive anything. 

you just wanted to have everything, for it all to be perfect. 

yet you know the world isn’t perfect, and it’s never fair. it’s not fair that the love of your life is a man you never should have gotten with, and it’s not fair that you both can’t just be normal. 

you’re going to have to leave him tonight, and it’s going to hurt, knowing that you won’t have clarity on where you stand and what the future holds. it’s going to be painful knowing that you won’t know the next time you’ll get to see him, the next time you’ll get to touch him, if you accept the job and don’t come back to New York in the near future. 

it’s going to absolutely destroy you if this doesn’t work out, you think to yourself. 

but even deeper down, you know that you’ll survive. you know that you’ve suffered heartbreak because of Bucky before, and if it happens again, you know you’re going to survive it again. 

you just have to hope that it doesn’t come to that. 

✦ masterlist ~ series finale coming soon. ✦

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because you get to have this whenever you want. it’s so much fun to pour gasoline onto the fire, to instigate him to put you in your place whenever you need him to.

especially when you’ve woken up at five in the fucking morning, a searing need brewing between your legs as you watch him sleep so peacefully beside you. a peace that you’re ready to disturb in order to get what you want. 

you know it will work. it always works with him, because he knows exactly what you need, and he’s more than happy to provide. 

his eyes remain shut as you watch him, your tongue darting out to lick your lips instinctually as you push yourself away from your sheets to sit up and look down at him. one of your hands carefully reaches out to brush his hair out of his face, resting the threads of his hair gently behind his ear, careful enough not to wake him. your other hand finds its way between your legs as you softly apply pressure over your clothing as you begin to weep with need for him. 

you love having him here. you love waking up with him, love getting to have every spare moment with him when you’re not working now that he’s done. 

you love being able to get absolutely railed without having to wait weeks on end for it and being upset when the moment is over, knowing you won’t get to feel him inside you again for another few more weeks. 

both your hands position themselves at your waist, quietly peeling fabric from your skin. first, removing his boxers that you’ve worn in favor of your own clothes, then considering removing his t-shirt that you nearly drown in. 

no, you decide, electing to keep it on. you’d rather give him the joy of getting to peel the cotton out of his way, watching as each inch of your skin is revealed to his gaze. 

unwrapping you like a present that you’re happy to give to him at all hours of the day. 

you find yourself hovering over the bed next to him as he lays on his side, one of your arms pressed into the pillow to hold up your weight as your other hand reaches to press back between your legs, finding that you’re beginning to drip with need for him. your fingers trace between your folds aimlessly, staring down at his sleeping face as you softly caress your sensitive skin. 

a small whimper, nothing more than a short, sharp gust of air falls from your lips as your fingertips press shallowly inside yourself. your breathing grows heavier as your fingers dip further inside and your head drops with the influx of pleasure. you gently breathe his name out as you hold back a far louder cry of desperation. 

that’s when you hear his own breathing deepen, his eyes twitching as he begins to stir. 

“James,” you moan the second he stirs, all while you continue to touch yourself. his gorgeous blue eyes open to look up at you, your gaze finding his as you whine, “‘m so fucking horny, need you to–”

“couldn’t fuckin wait?” he groans as his hands come to your waist, gripping tightly and looking you up and down. your face is scrunched up tight with pent-up desire, and his shirt is still draped over your skin. the vision of your hand between your legs is hidden by the fabric as gravity pulls on it enough to block his view. 

“no, I couldn’t,” you whimper, gritting your teeth as you plunge your fingers back and forth, the pleasurable sensations making you more desperate. 

before you can speak again, his flesh hand removes itself from your waist and reaches to yank your hand away from your aching cunt. 

“no, please–” you whine when the contact is lost entirely. 

“so cockhungry,” he mutters as he lets go of your hand, confident that you know better than to try and touch yourself again. and, of course, he’s right. 

your cries fall on deaf ears for the time being as you fall onto the bed next to him, both of your hands reaching to grab at his arms, his shoulders, his neck, whatever you can find, but he’s not having it. he moves to kneel next to you, staring down at you as you whine and plead for him. 

“hands and knees,” he orders you, watching and waiting for your compliance. he’s generous this morning, granting you more time than he should allow you to follow the instructions he’s given you. 

when you finally do as you’re told, you feel him pressing up against you from behind, his bare chest up against your clothed back. metal fingers brush your hair away from your neck to reveal your soft flesh to his gaze. his lips press against your skin as it’s bared to him, and he gently begins to nip at you, each motion slow and gentle in his tired state. 

“really had to wake me?” he mumbles, hoarse. “don’t know how to get yourself off?” 

you whine low in response. “it’s not the same,” you breathe, trying to press your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure. “you jus’ feel so much better.” 

the words please him as both of his hands begin to roam underneath the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, pushing it up and out of the way. his hands drag it to your shoulders and help you shift so he can remove it entirely, tossing it somewhere on the floor. before you press your weight back against the bed with your palms, he draws your arms behind your back and suddenly pushes your face into the pillows. you tilt your head to the side enough to have a slight view the wall, and so that he can hear the sounds you make unmuffled by the pillow below you. 

“you ought to do this again. wake me up with your cunt all wet and ready for me to use,” he murmurs slowly, quietly, as his eyes trace over the planes of your back all the way down to where your ass presses against his bulge. 

a groan from low in his throat emanates in the room, stirring your own need once more as you try to grind back against him. 

“no,” he scolds you, his hands on your hips digging deeper into your skin, forcing you to stop moving entirely. 

you want to beg, want to whine and plead and ask as nicely as you can for him to take mercy on you and finally touch you. 

except where’s the fun in that?

“maybe I should have just gotten myself off,” you bite, not giving him the chance to say a single word before continuing, “I might as well go back to sleep if you aren’t gonna–”

his sudden movements interrupt you, catching you off guard to your pleased surprise. within an instant, he leans in against you once more, both hands shooting out to grab you and drawing you slightly back towards him. his metal hand settles over your lips, effectively shutting you up, while his flesh fingers wrap around your throat as a warning measure. 

“brat,” he grits into your ear, beginning to grind his hips against your bare skin. “always playing fucking games with me.” 

you whine softly against his hand as he continues rutting up against you from behind. your neck cranes back as he holds you tightly in place as he uses your body to pleasure himself, leaving you to suffer beneath him. 

your eyes roll back in your head as he continues to breathe roughly against your ear. you’re still beyond desperate for him to touch you, but fuck, it’s so hot when you successfully test his patience and push him past his breaking point. 

as his movements against you grow rougher, his hand harshly removes itself from your lips, allowing you to take a deep breath. his metal fingers then settle over your eyes, instead, craning your neck back even further as his flesh hand on your neck gently tightens and softens its grip as though determining whether or not to press further.

“you love this,” he murmurs, knowingly. “when I wrap my fingers around your neck. when I use you like you deserve. you love it, don’t you?” 

“mm-hmm,” you agree, gently nodding your head yes under his grip. except as your lips part to speak, his fingers tighten just enough to stop your words in their tracks, unable to break free and fill the quiet air. 

all you hear is the soft clicks of your throat under his hold. 

he softly chuckles in response, the sound right up against your ear. 

“you’re just as insane as I am,” he utters, pressing his fingers tighter against your eyes and around your neck. you try to lean back against him, aching to be as close as possible even in your compromised state. 

as he leans in further, resting his weight against you to grant you the proximity you so desire, he whispers to you, “only makes me want you more.”

you whine out softly when he says it, the sounds barely passing your lips as they’re cut off before they can even fully formulate. his hand on your eyes falls away for a moment, and as you begin to blink the blurriness away, his hand comes down hard on the flesh of your ass.

“even when you’re being a fucking brat,” he continues. “like right now.” 

he lays a few more spanks on your skin, listening carefully to the noises that die in your throat. you try to speak again, try to beg him, “please,” but it’s of no use. 

you’re at his mercy, and it’s exactly what you wanted. 

you get to have this whenever you want, now, you recall. you both get to have each other because he’s finally done leaving for weeks on end at a time. he’s here, safe with you, and you’re safe with him. 

he’ll always keep you safe, the only person you trust this wholly with your life. 

his hand finally ceases its motions, gently rubbing your skin in small circles to calm you. “you want me to fuck you?” he offers, and you nod your head yes as best you can. 

“you think you deserve it?” he questions afterwards. 

you both know the answer to that one. 

you nod once more, trying again to push back against him and encourage him to give in. 

when both his hands fall from your skin entirely, you know you’ve won. you hear him shoving fabric out of the way, the sound of him removing his shorts and boxers so you can finally feel him like you’ve craved this whole time. 

you moan softly when his hands come to rest on your upper thighs, urging you to part your legs for him. when you do it without hesitation, you’re soon rewarded with the head of his cock notching itself at your entrance.

before he pushes forward, he speaks up once more. “y’know you’re a little brat?” 

“your little brat,” you tease back, pushing yourself up onto your forearms. with the sound of your taunting, he finally lets out a real, guttural moan as he finally buries himself inside you. 

it feels like home when he’s inside you, around you, near you. he’s your safe place. 

and it’s so much fucking fun. 

“again,” he orders as his weight rests atop you, his voice right in your ear. 

“yours,” you whisper out as your hips push back against his as he thrusts in and out of you. “m yours, James, always.” 

as one arm holds up his weight as he hovers above you, his other wraps itself around your waist, tugging you in as close as possible. the sound of his breathing fills your ears as he fills you, each movement of his hips against yours a blessing. it’s only ever this good with him. 

you’ve been on edge for a while now, dying for release, so much so that you’re already close to orgasm. 

“can– can I?” you plead with him, to which he responds with nothing more than a grunt. it’s him granting you permission, even as his words fail him as he loses himself in the feeling of you. 

when it hits you, it’s an all-encompassing feeling of pleasure and satisfaction laced with the joy you feel just from being with him. 

no matter how much he pisses you off, you love him more than life itself. 

the cries that emanate from your throat are whiney and desperate as you fall over the edge. the blinding sensations erase all thoughts from your mind other than how good you feel as he fucks you through it, continuing to hold you down and taking you even as the pleasure borders on painful as you come down from your high.

“fuck, it’s too much,” you begin, only to be shushed as he keeps moving against you with vigor. 

“you can take it,” he assures you. as though he knows what’s good for you, as though he knows what your body needs and wants more than you yourself do. 

because when it comes to this, he does. 

soft whines continue to boil over as he keeps going, his own motions beginning to grow erratic as he gets close. “mine,” he mutters as his peak approaches, repeating it over and over again under his breath as though it’s a mantra. 

you grit your teeth as you’re thrown quickly into a second orgasm, trying and yet failing to beat down the screams you let out as it hits you all over again. his own release comes in time with your second as he sheathes himself fully within you, filling you until you feel his warmth in your belly.

as you both begin to come down from the high, he hurriedly turns the both of you onto your side before collapsing into the bed, avoiding crushing you beneath him. when he pulls out of you a few moments later, he quickly replaces his cock with two metal fingers to keep you plugged and full, unpleased by the thought of you wasting a single drop of his cum.  

“who do you belong to?” he utters in your ear as his free hand grips your hair to hold you in place. 

“you, James,” you assure him. 

“good. mine,” he repeats yet again as he begins to adjust your positioning, putting you on your back before pushing your thighs apart and laying between them. it’s the last word you hear before his tongue comes to rest on your clit, before it replaces his fingers inside you, “mine.”

your eyes fall shut as he softly works you over with his mouth, except you know better than that. you know better than to think that he’s doing it for you, no; he’s cleaning you up, staking his claim on your cunt, on your body and your soul as he tastes you, his favorite meal. 

he continues licking you without aim, without any purpose as you begin to fall back asleep underneath him, letting him do as he pleases with his mouth between your legs. 

your heartbeat in your chest finally begins to slow after a few minutes, your mind listening as you feel it pound slower in your chest and you begin to doze off to sleep. sleep in which you know your mind will not dream, not when you’re living your dream of having him home with you for good. 

all the time you’ve spent wondering about the bad things that might come upon him, all the hopelessness you’ve felt when he’s gone, it’s finally come to rest. your nihilistic view on life finally came to rest upon his entrance in your life, giving you purpose and happiness unlike any you’d ever felt, regardless of all the darkness that brought your relationship to light. 

darkness that he protected you from. 

a little while later, when you rouse from your slumber once more, you feel his arms wrapped around you. his body encompassing yours, holding you close, reminding you of all the good things in life. of the fact that him being with you has given you reason to believe that there’s more to live. 

what happened in the past can stay in the past. 

you have him now, you think, as you excitedly fall back into a dreamless sleep.

you don’t need to dream when you have everything you could ever want here with you now. 

✩ masterlist ✩

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But every comment, every jab, every teasing flirt he threw at you for the fun of it didn’t just make you angry, didn’t just make you hate him that much more. 

No, it made you want more. More of his attention and more of him. 

Somewhere along the way, the wires in your brain had clearly gotten crossed. You’d somehow managed to mix up your hatred for him with attraction every time he flashed that egotistical smirk at you, every time he called you those stupid, demeaning pet names like princess and sweetheart. 

It shouldn’t do anything to you except anger you and encourage you to slit his throat. 

Instead, it encourages you to play right into his hand. To give him the exact reaction he wants, because the more you give in, the more attention he’ll continue to give you. 

The truth of your feelings underneath your layer of contempt for him was stupid and beyond humiliating to accept, yet you were nothing more than a victim to the inner workings of your brain, to the way your body desired to be closer to him. 

So no matter how he toyed with you like your feelings were his own personal playground, you could never bring yourself to stop him. 

Which is probably how you ended up here: laying naked in his bed, his huge figure hovering over yours as you continue to allow him to play with your mind, and now your body, however he pleases. 

“Wish you could see yourself now, sweetheart,” he goads as one large hand holds your wrists down, pressing them into the pillow right above your head. “All laid out for me. At my mercy, yeah? How a pretty girl like you should be.” 

The words make you grit your teeth as you force yourself to swallow your own response. He’s still trying to piss you off, still trying to elicit a reaction. 

In many ways, he’s predictable. You should have expected that he would keep up the act even once he got you into his bed, but this new situation is uncharted territory. You can’t be entirely sure what will happen next. You can guess what he’ll do if you snap back at him; maybe he’ll spank you for it, or maybe he’ll overstimulate you until you’re crying. 

You really want to find out.

But you’re also desperate to see the lengths he’ll go to to get what he wants from you. 

His knees are planted firmly against the mattress, your legs spread out and lying on either side of his. You couldn’t try to shut them if you wanted to; your strength is no match against his.

His free hand traces featherlight touches up and down your torso and his gaze breaks away to follow the path he creates on your skin. The look on his face is one of both self-satisfaction and genuine enjoyment. 

Satisfaction that he’s finally got his toy where he wants it, that you’re more than willing to debase yourself for him. 

Enjoyment that he’s about to seek between your legs, forcing as many moans and screams from your throat as he can before your voice fails you entirely. 

“Don’t know why you’ve been playing so hard to get when you’re so easy,” he continues, roughly pinching at your nipple as he speaks. The sudden action sends a jolt through you as your back arches from the bed, your mouth betraying you as you whimper in response. 

You want to tell him you’re not easy. You’re not, you’re not. The dignified part of your mind wants to snap back and argue with him as you always do, because how dare he? 

It doesn’t matter if he might actually be right, that maybe you are easy. You’re always easy when it comes to him; easy to rile up, and clearly, far too easy to get into bed with. 

You most certainly won’t admit the truth to him. He doesn’t need the ego boost. All the proof he needs is already right in front of him as you lay here and let him do as he pleases, letting him hold you down and degrade you as such. 

You’re already giving him more than enough. 

“Come on, doll. Admit it,” he goads, leaning in to nip at the flesh at your neck and down your collarbone, your guard lowering with each motion. You have to bite your own lip to try and drown out the whimpers bubbling in your throat, swallowing the words that are just dying to come out. 

Except you can’t let them out. You don’t know what you’ll say, what you’ll give to him in doing so, whether it’s a reason to punish you or a reason for him to lord his ego over you even further. 

“Aww, now she’s real quiet,” he whispers ever so faintly in your ear, a shiver running through you as he does. “What happened to that fiery spirit, hmm?”

When you still don’t respond, he pulls back to look at your face once more. His fingers continue to pinch your side a few more times, trying to draw your words out. It’s of no use as you continue to keep your lips sealed. 

“Need me to force it out? “S that it, sweetheart?” he questions you. 

With each passing moment, his words continue to go to your head, making you more and more liable to give into him. To give in and give him exactly what he wants. 

You can tell he’s getting fed up with your lack of compliance. He’s not pleased, and you don’t know anymore if you’d rather let him keep trying to goad you on or if you’d rather finally listen to him.

His hand finally comes to your jaw, roughly grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. Up until now, you haven’t held eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. You’ve been too busy staring at the ceiling or the back of your skull with how your eyes keep rolling into your skull with each touch of his skin against yours. 

The suddenness of the action shocks you back to yourself, and you find yourself eye to eye with him. He’s so close to you that you can feel his breath on your skin, and you squirm underneath him as you crave the contact between your legs where you need it most. 

“There she is,” he mutters, his eyes roaming over your face before meeting your gaze once again. As he continues on, you hear the way he begins chuckling low in his throat. “You can’t escape this, princess. Come on. It’s no fun if you don’t play along, hmm?”

There it is again. The reminder that you’re his own personal game, and all he has to do is push your buttons just right to get what he wants from you. 

You’ve never been quite this good at holding back. 

Your breath shakes as a brazen moan falls from your lips, and the smirk on his face that follows sends a spark between your legs. The same smirk you see whenever he knows he’s successfully made you mad, the same one he flashes whenever he knows he’s winning your interactions.

Because that’s what it feels like to be around him. Like you’re always losing against him in a game you didn’t ask to play, while each win only encourages him to keep screwing with you. 

You feel his hand on your wrists remove itself as he continues to hold your jaw in place and forces you to look at him. You’re not quite sure what he intends to do; he’s been torturing you for what feels like hours, already. He may simply be trying to put you on edge, building your anticipation and riling you up only to make you that much more desperate until the point you give in. He may continue to lay torturous touches up and down your breasts and stomach, teasing the idea of giving you more while never actually granting you the pleasure you so desire. 

It’s a shock when two fingers come to rest on your clit and gently trace circles into your sensitive skin. 

The cry you let out in response is deafening. You lean into the touch where he holds your face and your newly freed hands come to tangle in his hair, grounding yourself against him. 

“You want me to keep going, you better start talking,” he threatens. “Tell me how long you’ve been waiting for me to fuck you, hmm?”

You whine again as your hips rut up against the featherlight touch of his fingers between your legs. The threat actually works, and against your will, you finally speak up. “Since we met,” you admit. Your voice comes out hoarse, simply another sign that he’ll take as an ego boost thanks to the fact that he’s finally broken you. 

He rewards you by pressing his fingers up more firmly against your clit, the pleasure growing more enjoyable than torturous. 

“You this easy for every guy you meet?” he asks before reminding you, “Eyes open, sweetheart. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” 

You breathe heavily as you blink your eyes back open, completely unaware they’d fallen shut. 

“No, just you. Just you,” you breathe out. You’ve lost nearly every inhibition that’s stopping you from ruining yourself for him, you think. It’s a dangerous position for you to be in. 

“What’s that, sweetheart? Come on. Say my name,” he orders. 

With each instruction, each response you give him, you feel your dignity slipping further and further away from you. 

The pleasure he gives in return feels worth it. 

“Ben,” you say, and he tsks in disapproval.

“Try again,” he instructs, and you simply whine in response, trying to hold onto the last of your integrity. 

When you don’t immediately comply, he withdraws his fingers from your clit entirely, the loss making you whimper and squirm beneath him once more. His hand quickly comes down harshly on your cunt, the sound of the slap emanating through the room and forcing a loud cry from your throat. 

“Quiet,” he hisses at you. He shakes your head to jolt your eyes back open yet again, and when you blink the blurriness away, you see his smirk is now replaced with a look of anger. 

“You wanna fucking play games with me?” he barks. “Let’s see how well that works out for you.”

He lays another two smacks against your sensitive skin, and with each one, the spark of pain mixed with the mild pleasure it brings messes with your mind even further. 

That’s what he always manages to do: he screws with your head, causing you to become beyond angry and beyond enamoured with him all at the same time. The pain and the pleasure mixing until you don’t know what’s good for you anymore.

“Try again,” he orders you, giving you no room to argue with how stern his voice is. 

Except you’re still too busy squirming and fighting with yourself, trying to rut up against nothing as you seek out any kind of sensation between your legs. Too busy being selfish instead of listening to instructions.

His instinct tells him to keep spanking your dripping pussy, to grip your face tighter in his hold and threaten you into compliance. That’s what he should do; that’s what you would expect of him, because you know him by now. Always pushing and pushing until he gets exactly what he wants out of you. 

He’s predictable. 

Or so you thought. 

After a few long moments of deliberation, of his eyes watching you writhe beneath him as you crave more, he takes another approach. Abandoning his usual tactics in order to encourage the response he wants from you, further messing with your mind as he continues to surprise you.

He adjusts his positioning above you, moving until you feel a clothed knee pressing up against your cunt. You gasp in shock as your hips automatically begin trying to seek out more.  

“Nuh-uh,” he whispers softly, a clear contrast from his previously unforgiving tone. His free hand comes to rest on your abdomen and presses with enough strength to hold you to the bed, preventing you from continuing to move. Before you can complain, he speaks up again, still far softer than before. “Hey, hey. Look at me.” 

Something about his gentle tone breaks through the fog of want and desire in your head, and you respond shortly after, opening your eyes with a pout on your lips.

“You wanna get yourself off on my thigh, don’tcha?” He breathes, eyes looking back and forth between yours with what appears to be genuine sympathy in his eyes. 

You know better than to trust it, and yet you go along with it regardless.

“Please?” you whimper, hoping that resorting to begging will be enough for him. That the word, no matter how simple it may be, is enough to show him how desperate you are. How he’s already broken you enough. 

You should know better by now. 

“Be good,” he says, far too calmly. His nose bumps against yours as he maintains his hold on your chin, tilting your head ever so slightly towards him. He still has that look in his eyes as he holds your gaze, and you can’t resist. 

It’s another tactic, another game. 

But you’re helpless against it. 

“Daddy,” you whisper, barely audible under your breath as your eyes flick down to his lips before meeting his eyes again. In the same instant, his knee presses firmer against you, allowing another burst of pleasure to flow through your veins in reward. 

“There you go, sweetheart,” he coos, before ordering you, “Again.”

If you weren’t already completely out of it, you might pick up on the way his voice actually sounds as though he’s affected by the sound of you calling him that. If your mind wasn’t already long gone seeking pleasure against his clothed knee, you’d see the way his pupils dilate and his eyes go nearly black. How he has to bring his free hand to palm at the bulge underneath his pants. 

You know you’ll regret this tomorrow. 

But right now? 

“Please, daddy?” you begin, cut off by your own whines as he begins moving his leg against your cunt. 

“Tell daddy what you want,” he goads, “and maybe I’ll be generous.” 

“Please, I want–”

“Come on. Try harder.” 

“–I want you to fuck me, please–”

“Not good enough. Told you to be good,” he says, as though scolding you once again, and you nearly start crying. 

You’ve been here for far too long, waiting and begging for something, anything. Yet he continues to press you for more, more, more.

Just as you’re about to whine, or tear up, you’re not entirely sure, he interrupts you. 

“You can do it. Promise I’ll give it to ya, just tell me what you want from daddy, baby,” he urges you. 

You thought he’d run out of faux sympathy already. 

This time, the words don’t come out forced, don’t come as a result of his incessant pestering. 

“Just wanna come on your cock, daddy,” you whisper, letting your head fall back against the pillow when his grip loosens just enough to allow for it. “Dream about it… get off to the thought of it.”

After many nights spent alone with your dildo, pretending like you weren’t thinking of him and pushing the fantasies to the bottom of your mind, you never fathomed actually admitting the truth to a soul. Especially not him. 

But of course, you should have seen this coming. He was always going to pull it from you one way or another, because he never fails to distract you from all rational thought in favor of appeasing him. 

When his lips press against yours, you’re taken aback for a moment. For such a predictable man, you’d have thought something as intimate as a kiss would be too soft for him, too far below him. 

It feels like heaven. 

Or perhaps he’s simply the devil in disguise, feigning angelicism to manipulate your poor mind yet again. 

As his tongue slips into your mouth, his knee pulls back from its seat between your thighs, and you whine against him in protest. Before your hands can find their way to his shoulders to push him back and allow you to complain, two of his fingers find their way inside you, pressing up against that spot you can never quite reach yourself. 

You clench around his fingers, all the while his free hand is working to unbuckle his belt and push his pants down to his knees. 

When he finally does pull back from the kiss, he groans from deep in his chest. “Such a tight fuckin’ pussy,” he mutters, diverting his gaze to look at the sight between your legs. “Gonna fill her up, just how she deserves it.” 

“Please, Ben?” you ask, your fingers grabbing at the base of his neck as you try to draw him back in to kiss you once more. You feel like you’re beyond begging, simply pleading with him at this point. 

You don’t know how much longer you’ll last with how exhausted you are if he doesn’t give it to you now. 

To both of your benefit, he finally gives in, unable to wait any longer himself. He kisses you again, rougher this time as he takes everything he can get from you. 

“Lay back and let me show you what you’ve been missing out on,” he tells you with a smirk, and before you can even snap back, you can feel the head of his cock notching against your entrance with his fingers still buried inside you. 

“You’re not–” you try, to no avail.

“Hush, now,” he chides, crashing his lips to yours again to shut you up as he begins to sheath himself inside you alongside his fingers that he hasn’t bothered to pull out. 

A miniscule part of you almost wishes he wasn’t as well-endowed as he is, if only to prove that his ego is only as massive as it is to overcompensate for what he’s lacking down below. 

The rest of you is beyond overjoyed and yet overwhelmed by the beautifully painful sting as he works you open slowly, feeding you inch after inch without stopping. 

You try to breathe through your nose as you kiss him, your arms wrapped entirely around his neck by this point as you hold him close. It takes all your effort to keep on as he makes a mess of your cunt, stretching you beyond anything you’d ever taken before. His fingers don’t budge as he keeps opening you up to take more and more of him. 

“Fuck, Ben, is it in?” you whine out, and his responding laugh gives you your answer. 

“Nah, sweetheart, but I’ll go easy on you for now. We’ll make it fit eventually, huh?” 

It almost offends you how soft he speaks to you, how the words don’t sound as condescending as every other comment he’s ever made to you. 

“I can take it,” you argue back, but he stops you immediately. 

“No. Not today,” he says firmly, giving you no room to argue with him. 

You finally look at him, look into his eyes once more as though in question. Once again, he’s proved you wrong: perhaps he isn’t as predictable as you thought. 

His eyes dart back and forth between yours a few times, and before you can clock the uncertain emotion you see in them, he looks away again. As you follow his line of sight, you see his wet fingers coated in your slick as he sinks them into his mouth, licking them clean.

Your lips part in amused surprise as you watch the scene play out in front of you, your mind conjuring images of his tongue between your legs and tasting you, making you come undone with just his mouth.

When he finally pulls away and brings his fingers back down to your skin, his hands suddenly find your hips, holding you in place as he readies himself. Without hesitation, your lips find his again, and he takes it as his go-ahead to finally give in and fuck you properly.

He swallows each and every moan you let out as he moves steadily against you. He hears each and every one of them, listening carefully as you respond so well to him, as your cunt opens up to take him with ease. 

You would have thought he’d be more vocal during the act, continuing to talk down to you and further humiliating you for letting him use you and your body for his pleasure. Instead, he kisses you diligently, like it matters in equal measure as how good he can make you feel with his cock. 

It’s quiet, save for the sounds of squelching between your bodies, the sounds emanating from your throat even as they die against his mouth. The scene is a far stark contrast to a few short minutes ago, you think. 

It almost feels like more than a game, more than a good time. You almost feel like you might finally be seeing the most authentic version of him. 

Tomorrow, you’ll remind yourself that you’re an idiot, and that he’s the most heartless man you know. 

For now?

“Are you– are you ready?” he mumbles against your lips, and you can finally discern the tone of his voice. He’s close. 

The ego boost you get from knowing that that’s all you should be criminal. 

“Yes, fuck,” you reply. “Please?” 

He doubles down on his motions, pressing you firmly against the bed even as his nose brushes against yours in earnest. 

All it takes is the sound of your name falling from his lips for you to cry out, his hips stilling as he holds you on his cock while your orgasm crashes over you in time with his own release. You barely hear the way he groans over the sounds of your blood pulsing in your ears, your own desperation too prevalent. 

You’ll have to get him to make those noises again when you’re more coherent. 

He all but collapses on top of you as you both begin to come down from the high, your chest struggling to rise with your lungs as his weight presses against you. 

That’s when you remember that he’s still fully clothed while you lay naked below him. You’re not even given the chance to enjoy the afterglow before beginning to feel self-conscious again, remembering the circumstances under which you’ve just allowed him to fuck you. The lens through which he sees you. 

You want to say something, snark at him now that he’s finally gotten what he wanted from you. It would be so easy to snap at him now as you feel all your hurt coming back all at once. 

Instead, you choose to stay silent. Saying anything to him now will do nothing but encourage him, give him another chance to win the never-ending game of your relationship. 

You wish you had it in you to stop letting him win, to stop giving in for the small amounts of attention he gives you. You wish you had it within yourself to refrain from letting this happen again in the future for the sake of your own dignity, for the sake of not letting yourself get played all over again. 

But when it comes to him, you simply can’t stop yourself, even if it means continuing to debase yourself for his entertainment. You’ll only ever be that for him: entertainment, a source of amusement. 

A game. 

Maybe it’s time to stop trying to convince yourself otherwise. 

✦ masterlist ✦

despite your history, despite your terrible public breakup, you still can’t resist him. he’s too ingrained in your mind, branded on your soul. he’s become a part of who you are whether you like it or not.

you certainly do like it when he’s on top of you, weight pressing yours into the mattress, his cock buried balls deep into your aching cunt. 

“Ben,” you whine with each thrust, “you gotta– you gotta move, please?”

he chuckles softly against your ear at your pleas before pulling back just enough to look at your face, to admire the way your brows are furrowed and how your eyes are shut so tight. the sight of you coming undone underneath him never fails to make his cock twitch inside of you and make his ego soar with pride. 

“how bad do ya want it?” he asks you, and even with all the blood rushing in your ears, you’re still able to make out the condescending way he says it. the way he talks down to you like he just knows you need something from him, and he’ll make you grovel before you get it. 

part of you wants to bite your lip and stick it out, let yourself suffer and maintain your dignity instead of degrading yourself just for your own sexual satisfaction. 

but you’re weak, and his demeanor only makes you that much more desperate.

“please?” you whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders tighter, nails beginning to dig into his skin. your voice is high and fractured with each word you speak, giving him that much more of an ego boost. 

“nuh-uh. come on,” he goads, one hand reaching between your bodies and alternating pinching your nipples to torment you. each motion makes you gasp in surprise, yet he continues to hold you in place, not allowing your hips to move an inch. not allowing you to seek any more pleasure than what he wants to give you. 

you willingly try again, hoping he’ll be more lenient the more you beg him. “please, Ben? I need you, need you to move…”

“and why’s that?” he torments you once more, forcing you to speak the words he wants to hear in order to please him before he finally pleases you.

“because you’re the only one,” you whine out, all in one breath. “only you make me feel… good. please? 

he slowly pulls out of your aching cunt before snapping his hips back into yours, eliciting a loud moan from low in your throat. 

it’s beyond embarrassing. it’s beyond humiliating as he forces you to admit the truth to him, that you only ever feel good when you’re with him. even after breaking up with you, even after forcing you out of the public eye, after every fight and argument you had about your position in power. 

it’s still only him for you, now and forever. 

you try to tell yourself you’re better without him. but are you? are you truly better off without him, even when your body is screaming that it needs him and him only?

it doesn’t matter that everything he did was intended to protect you, a non-superpowered human. 

it matters that he did it without your permission. 

and yet your anger towards him means nothing when you keep letting him into your bed and into your pussy, unable to say no. 

“please, Ben,” you beg. “I just want you. just you, please.” 

what you don’t know is the pang in his heart at the sound of that. 

he’ll never get you back, he knows that. but he’ll do anything he can get away with when he’s fucking you to make sure you know who you belong to.

“that’s a good girl,” he coos, trailing off with, “such a good little girl for me…”

he begins eagerly moving against you once more, and a relieved sigh falls from your lips as your arms wrap themselves tighter around his shoulders. 

he brings you more pain and stress than anyone else in your life.

and yet, right here, right now, he’s the only one who can relieve you of that stress. turning off your brain and letting him take over, take control. 

you can tell yourself all you want that this is the last time, but it never will be. 

you can’t possibly be better off without him when every thrust is like pure euphoria. and you know you’ll never give it up.

not for anything.