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imaginedisish · 7 months ago

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I'm Not In Love (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: Okay, so this if my first fic in over a year, and it's also my first Wolverine fic...so please be kind. I'm just getting back into the groove. Expect it to possibly be a little rough. This is big time inspired by "I'm Not In Love" by 10cc. This fic is also thanks to a request I got from an anonymous user! Thanks for the idea, anon! Hope it's okay! Enjoy guys.

Summary: After harboring a crush on Logan for months, things finally come to a head while on an overnight mission.

Warnings: SMUT. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. There's like no plot here just smut, Unprotected PIV sex (wrap it up), Oral (f!receiving), AFAB reader, Sizekink!(this was a specific size kink request, and so the reader is therefore described as being smaller than Logan/his shirt being big on her), cursing, praise kink, OOC!Logan (just putting this out there because I haven't seen the X-Men movies/read X-Men comics in forever and I'm probably giving him terms he doesn't use/having him act in ways he might not typically), feelings, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, one bed muahaha, probably grammar errors, think that's it?

Word Count: 3,162 I got carried away

He was driving you absolutely crazy. Logan. Logan fucking Howlett, with his cocksure attitude and self-satisfied smile. Maybe it’s the way he thinks he’s always right. Maybe it’s that stupid stubbornness, that prowl he does when he walks across a room to meet you. To mock you. His whole being towering over you—his musky, pine-scented cologne filling your lungs. He’s everywhere—and not just metaphorically—literally and physically. His giant frame shadows yours, and you can’t help but admit that there’s something about it…something about him.

You want him. Bad. And although you won’t admit it, you’ve wanted him for months. And so, as of lately, he’s not so much a nuisance as much as he’s a distraction.

You just had to be sent on this mission with Logan—this ridiculous two-day stake-out that you could have done on your own. You’re certainly strong enough; your telekinetic powers and regenerative abilities are enough to handle any situation. And yet, here you are, walking up to a motel with Logan fucking Howlett.

His frame practically consumes yours as he stands behind you on the sidewalk. You swear you can feel the ghost of his fingertips against your waist, impatient and ready to guide you forward. You silently wish he would—wish he would grab your hips and take you down that alleyway and—

“You okay, darlin’?” His voice is gruff against the shell of your ear. “You seem awfully distracted.”

You swallow your embarrassment and hope he won’t pick up on how fast your heart is beating. “I’m fine, just tired,” you mutter, lying straight through your teeth. You can feel his smirk against the side of your head. He has to know what he’s doing. He has to know how much you want him.

He chuckles and his chest vibrates against your back. “Too tired for the mission, bub? We’re almost at the motel, don’t worry.” The condescension in his voice is palpable. He knows exactly how to get under your skin. You’re putty in his hands.

He steps out from behind you, and before you can mourn the loss of the contact, he grabs your hand and leads the way through the doors of the motel. “This okay?” He whispers in your ear, his massive hand giving your smaller one a squeeze. All you can manage is a nod as you approach the front desk. You know it’s just to support your cover—you and Logan are posing as a married couple—but you can’t help but hope it means more. You need it to mean more.

God, you are so fucked.

You’re so distracted thinking about how close Logan is to you that you almost miss the moment when the worker at the front desk says the only room left has just one bed.

You crane your head to look up at Logan, who you find is already looking down at you.

“That’s perfect,” he says, his eyes still on you. His stare doesn’t budge as the man behind the front desk slides the key towards the two of you. Logan grabs the keys and finally breaks the moment. His hand is still holding yours as he navigates the two of you toward your motel room.

The room is…small. There’s one queen bed in the center, a bathroom on the other side of the room, and an old box television resting on an even older-looking oak dresser. On the bright side, the place appears to be clean.

“I should freshen up,” you say, taking off your shoes. Your hand slips out of Logan’s as you pad over to the bathroom with your bag.

The bathroom isn’t horrible either. Dated, but clean. You brush your teeth and wash your face before undressing and searching for your pajamas in your bag—which, naturally, you forgot to pack.

“Ah fuck,” You mutter louder than you meant to.

You hear Logan stirring in the other room, his footsteps quickly approaching the door. “You okay?” You can sense the concern in his voice, and you can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, just forgot to pack something to wear to bed.” There’s more shuffling on the other side of the door. You hear Logan’s bag zip.

“You want my shirt?” He asks, standing just outside the door now.

“I’d feel bad, then you—” Your protests are ignored as he opens the door just enough to toss his Calgary Flames t-shirt onto the bathroom sink, closing it tightly once the shirt lands. You smirk as you walk over to the shirt and put it on. The hem lands at the middle of your thighs. Logan really is massive, you think to yourself.

You take a deep breath, slowly twist the knob of the bathroom door, and head outside. Logan is lounging on the chair next to the dresser, his eyes on you as you place your bag down on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Th-thanks for the…” You stutter, trailing off as you nod down to the shirt.

Logan smirks as he pushes himself out of the chair and makes his way toward you. You think you see him take you in, look you up and down, but that can’t possibly be.

He shakes his head as he stops at your side. You swear you hear him mutter a low fuck under his breath. “You look good.” But he doesn’t stop for long. He pushes forward and into the bathroom. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he mumbles as he shuts the door behind him.

“Let’s just share the bed,” you shout back, unsure of where the confidence to say that came from. But there’s no response, just the running of water from the sink.

You sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for what feels like forever, but Logan doesn’t take long at all. After a few minutes, you hear the sink shut off and the door creek open.

You shake your head as you stand from the bed to face him. “By the way, you’re not sleeping on the floor, don’t be ridic—” You’re too stunned to say another word. You’ve seen Logan shirtless before, sure, but not like this. Not in just his boxers. Not in a room with him, alone, for an entire night. You need to relax, to calm down, but there’s nowhere else to go, and nothing else to look at. You know he can your heart beating out of your chest now.

He steps toward you, engulfing you with his presence. You stare up at him. “Am I really that scary?” He closes the distance between the two of you.

You try to play dumb. “W-what are you talking about?”

“Every time I get close to you, that little heart of yours practically explodes.”

You swallow roughly. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about, Logan.” But your shaky voice gives it away. You know exactly what he means.

His arms snake around your waist, resting on your lower back. “Yeah, you do, darlin’,” he says. “You afraid of me or something?” God he is so fucking cocky, you think to yourself.

“’M’not afraid of you,” you whisper. “Could never be afraid of you.”

He smiles and walks you to the edge of the bed, your knees threatening to buckle under the pressure. “What is it then, hm? You like how big I am? That it?” Your eyes frantically search his face for some sort of excuse, some sort of denial. But he can read you like a book. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” He’s towering over you, caging you in.

“It’s more than that,” you admit.

He cocks his head to the side. “Oh yeah? What?” He won’t let that be enough—you know he won’t. He’ll tease it out of you. His presence is dizzying and distracting. You’re not even sure you can form another complete sentence.

“I-it’s just you,” you finally choke out.

But it’s not enough for him. “What about me?”

Everything, you want to say. You want to tell him how you feel. “Logan, I…” But you can’t. I’m not in love, that’s what you’ve been trying to convince yourself of for months.

“Go on, say it. What’s got you going?” He tightens his grip around your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently along your back. He leans down, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you take a deep breath. He’s everything and he’s everywhere. He’s in your head and in your hands. You can smell the musk and the pine and a hint of mint and that extra thing that is just distinctly him. He’s warm and his breath ever-so-lightly tickles your ear as his forehead rests against yours.

And then finally, it comes out.

“I want you, Lo.”

You open your eyes and immediately notice the change in his expression. That cocky grin is gone. He isn’t teasing anymore. This is something else. Want. No, stronger than that. Desire. Adoration. Longing. Like those four words undid something in him. Untangled some knot that had been there for far too long. Almost like he thought you maybe wouldn’t want this. That maybe someone wouldn’t want him.

So, you say it again. “I want you, Logan.”

He shuts his eyes. “Fuck.”

And then he’s pushing you down onto the mattress. His lips find their way to yours, crashing like the world is about to end. You can feel his hunger, his desperation. He rests one hand next to your head for balance and slips his free hand underneath the shirt he lent you. He’s exploring the curves of your body, the dips and turns, eventually pulling the shirt up and over your head.

He comes up for air as his fingers play with the clasp of your bra. You watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “This okay?” He asks, waiting for your approval. You nod and the hooks are immediately undone. You arch your back so he can slip the bra off. “Fuck, pretty girl,” he mumbles. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His hands find their way to your chest, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing you, pinching lightly.

“Lo, please. Need you,” is all you can say.

He trails a line of kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, the center of your chest, his mouth traveling achingly slowly until finally landing on one of your tits. He kisses your nipple before taking it into his mouth, biting lightly and licking the hurt away.

“Please,” you beg again.

He comes up for a moment. “Please what?” He asks before moving on to the other side.

“Need you so bad,” You whimper. But he doesn’t stop. “N-need you to touch me.”

He pauses again. “Think I’m already doing that, darlin’. Gonna have to be more specific.”

“Fuck me, please.”

He shakes his head. “Wanna make you feel good first, pretty girl.”

You sit up a bit, ready to protest. “But you are. You’re making me feel so—” You’re cut off by the sight of him staring up at you as he trails kisses down your stomach, stopping at the top of your panties. He grabs your hips and pushes you further into the center of the bed. His fingers slip under the hem of your panties, waiting for your approval. You nod, and he practically tears them right off you.

Logan kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly charting a path toward your core, his thumb tracing circles on the other thigh. You’re already squirming under his touch. “Lo,” You whimper. “Please—Fuck!” Without warning, his tongue licks a long stripe up your folds to your clit. His lips lock around it, sucking softly, his fingers suddenly teasing your entrance before slipping a finger inside.

“So tight darlin’. Gonna feel so good,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations of his deep voice sending a jolt up your spine.

He’s taking his time, tasting you, savoring you. His tongue laps at your cunt, licking slow circles as his finger pumps in and out. You need more.

“Lo,” You call out, your back arching in pleasure. But he doesn’t answer. He keeps going as if he’s gotten lost in you, as if there’s nothing that can possibly be said to bring him back. “Lo, please,” you moan again.

He chuckles against your core. “Please what, pretty girl?” He mumbles. You can feel his smirk against you.

“M-more,” you beg. You can feel his smirk grow wider as his motions stall. “No don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He looks up at you, his finger buried deep inside your cunt, his lips just inches from your clit. “Wanna take my time with you, darlin’.”

“Y-you c-can,” You stutter. “W-whatever you want. Just need more.”

“More?” He repeats, arrogantly tilting his head. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

“Yes, please.” But you know by the look in his eyes that you’re getting more than you bargained for.

He adds another finger, pumping in and out faster than before. His lips latch onto your clit, sucking roughly. It’s overwhelming, and you know he isn’t going to let up. His tongue draws circles around your core, flicking harshly before ruthlessly sucking again. You can feel a third finger prodding your entrance before slipping in and stretching you out.

“This what you wanted?” He teases.

“Lo, I—” It’s too much, you can’t speak.

“I’ve got you darlin’. I’m right here. You’re doing so good for me.” His words by themselves practically send you over the edge.

“’M’so close Logan,” You whimper, spurring him on. His pace quickens; his circles become harder. You can feel your walls tightening around his fingers.

“I know, pretty girl. Wanna feel you come on my fingers. Can you do that for me?”

You can’t even speak anymore. All you can manage is a hum that passes for an affirmative. He pumps in and out of you, still alternating between sucking your clit and circling it with his tongue.

“Look so beautiful like this darlin’. So fucking beautiful,” He husks. And that’s all it takes to make that liquid heat, that tension building in the bottom of your stomach, cut like a knife, pouring out of you. Your vision blurs as you let yourself go. You chant his name like it’s a prayer, a spell, something otherworldly. He finally slows down, letting you ride out your orgasm.

He pulls out and away from you, crawling up your body so that he’s on top of you. He’s absolutely huge; his arms rest next to your head, caging you in. “You alright sweetheart?” He asks, one hand coming up to cup your cheek as he presses a chaste kiss against your forehead.

“Hm,” You hum. “Like you like this.”

There’s that cocky smirk again. “Like what?”

“O-on top of me,” You admit freely now. Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, but he quickly pins them above your head.

He smiles widely, his forehead coming down to rest on yours. You can feel his erection press against your core through his boxers. And—fuck—he’s big. “Gonna fuck you like this then, okay pretty girl?”

“P-please,” you stutter.

He sits up, pulling his boxers down, revealing just how big he is. You swallow harshly, sitting up and watching as he casts his boxers to the side. He doesn’t let you watch for long. He pins you down again, one hand keeping your hands above your head and supporting his weight, while the other guides his cock to your entrance. His slides against your folds before slowly sinking inside you. You can’t help but arch your back to meet his chest.

Everything is slow. He’s taking his time again, letting himself feel every inch of you, giving you the chance to adjust to the size of him. His free hand reaches in between your bodies and finds your clit, drawing slow, gentle circles.

His forehead rests against yours as he thrusts into you. “Wanted this for so long,” he confesses, his thrusts growing faster. “Always wanted you, darlin’.” You can feel your heart burst in your chest as his lips meet yours. You can feel his hunger, his desire.

“Wanted you too,” You whisper against his lips between kisses.

His cock rubs against your walls, hitting that sweet spot every single time. He’s massive, stretching you out with each pump. He builds speed, his thrusts growing rougher as his fingers circle your clit faster.

He whispers praises in your ear. “You feel so good, pretty girl. So fucking tight. Need you, darlin’. Always.”

Always.

It’s all too much. The words, the vulnerability, the feeling of him rutting into you with no end in sight. The promise of something else, something more.

“Logan, I’m gonna…” You trail off, your walls tightening around him. It’s all so overwhelming. But if you’re being honest, you never want it to end. This. This feeling. Him inside you. Him around you.

He curses under his breath, his thrusts becoming sloppier and faster as he chases his orgasm. “I know darlin’. Wanna feel you come on my cock.” He keeps his fingers steady on your clit, circling roughly, chasing your orgasm too.

“Lo,” You mumble. “It’s so good. Y-you’re so good, so b-beautiful.” You’re a bumbling mess, but you want him to feel good too, to know what he’s doing to you, to know that he deserves this. Deserves to be wanted.

You feel wetness on his cheeks as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. “Always wanted you,” he whispers again against the shell of your ear. “Always gonna want you.”

The tension snaps, and you feel blaring white heat ripple through your body. Logan somehow buries himself deeper inside you as you come, your walls squeezing him tighter.

“F-fuck,” he groans. “Where do you want—”

You cut him off this time. “Inside, please,” you pant. “Safe.” He curses under his breath and calls out your name as he fills you up.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

His thrusts slow down as he finishes, and he slowly pulls out of you. But he doesn’t pull away. He keeps you close, moving you both towards the headboard. It takes a minute, but he manages to keep you close to his chest as he undoes the covers and gets you both inside them.

Logan holds you tightly, peppering kisses against your temples every now and then.

He’s the first to speak. “When I said always…” He trails off. You brace yourself for the worst. It was just the heat of the moment, bub. ‘M’sorry I said it. This shouldn’t happen again. It was a one-time thing and I—

“I meant it.”

You look up at him, eyes wide. He smiles. But it’s not that cocky smile, not that self-satisfied shit-eating grin. It’s that other thing again. Longing.

“I meant it, too.”

tags: @cypherpt5fttaehyung

#logan howlett x reader #James Logan howlett x reader #Logan howlett smut #Logan howlett x reader smut #Logan howlett x you #Logan howlett x you smut #James Logan howlett smut #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine x reader smut #wolverine smut #Logan howlett x reader one bed #wolverine x reader one bed

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heartthrobin · 7 months ago

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

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thebarneschronicles · 7 days ago

Text

Closer To Home V

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 14.6k

Bucky Barnes has always been a man of few words, but his silence is starting to sound like goodbye. You’ve felt the shift—his touch still lingers, his kisses still steal your breath, but something is missing. Something unspoken. Nights spent tangled in his sheets aren’t enough to silence the question that haunts you: Is he staying because he wants to, or because he doesn’t know how to leave?

You love him. You’ve loved him since the beginning. You’ve given him every piece of yourself, waiting for the moment he finally stops holding back. But love alone has never been enough to keep him. And if you ask for more—if you finally demand an answer—will he give you his heart, or will he give you an exit wound?

Trigger Warnings: emotional distress, angst, and relationship struggles, jealousy, and abandonment issues, emotional withdrawal, implied PTSD and survivor’s guilt, explicit sexual content (light dominance, possessiveness, overstimulation, and loss of control), moments of mental and emotional turmoil.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: WELL, that only took fucking forever, huh?! I was stuck with this one cause I didn't wanna put my babies through this, so I'm warning you in advance: it's a sad one. There is a happy ending and there will be more to come tho, cause they are my faves and I already wrote most of the next part. Let me know what you think! B xx

The absence of warmth against your side was what pulled you from sleep. It wasn’t a noise, not the creak of the floorboards or the shuffle of movement—just the missing weight of his vibranium arm draped over your waist. Your body instinctively sought his, reaching out into the space where he should be, but all you found was the lingering heat he left behind.

Blinking groggily, you turned your head, the edges of sleep still clinging to your vision. Bucky stood in the middle of the bedroom, bathed in the dim glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. His broad back was to you, muscles shifting as he pressed his hands to his hips, scanning the room like he was searching for something.

He hadn’t noticed you were awake.

Burrowed in the covers, you let yourself watch, a slow, lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took in the sight of him—naked and utterly unbothered. The smooth expanse of his back, the flex of his arms, the curve of his ass—God, the man was a work of art. And he moved so quietly, his steps barely making a sound as he finally zeroed in on what he was looking for: his clothes, strewn carelessly across the floor from the night before.

You held back a disappointed sigh when he picked up his boxers, sliding them on with quick efficiency, hiding away what you had been thoroughly enjoying. The words left your mouth before you could stop them, still thick with sleep.

“Nooo…” you whined, the sound stretching out lazily as you buried your smile into the pillow.

Bucky startled, turning sharply toward you, his brows lifted in surprise.

You grinned, eyes half-lidded, voice teasingly slow. “I was enjoying the view.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Jesus, you’re such a perv.”

“And you’re depriving me of my morning entertainment,” you pouted dramatically, propping yourself up. “Can’t a girl ogle you in peace?”

Bucky scoffed, slipping into his sweatpants as you openly mourned the loss of his skin. He closed the distance, stopping right in front of you, his warm hands finding your bare shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze.

“There’s nothing to ogle,” he muttered, feigning modesty.

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, reaching up to cradle his face, fingers tracing along his stubbled jaw. “There’s so much to ogle. And I’m not just talking about your ass…”

Bucky groaned, shaking his head, but the way his lips twitched betrayed him. You could feel the heat blooming across his cheeks, and it made you grin. He was adorable when he got flustered, like he still wasn’t used to the way you looked at him.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but his hands betrayed him, sliding down your back in slow, lazy strokes. His palms ghosted over your waist, your hips, before settling at the curve of your ass, squeezing just enough to make you hum in contentment.

“And yet, you keep groping me.” You arched a brow, biting your lip to contain your grin.

“I’m a weak man,” he admitted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You make it too easy.”

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your bodies pressed close in the stillness of the night. But there was something different about the way he held you. It was still warm, still affectionate—but it wasn’t as effortless as before.

Bucky was pulling away.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a way most people would notice. But you had. You felt it in the hesitation of his touch, the way his fingers brushed over your skin like they were memorizing instead of claiming. The way he would hold you like this, then seem to remember something—something that made his grip loosen instead of tighten.

You told him you loved him, and he hadn’t said it back. Not in those words.

He’d said he cared. He’d said he felt the same. But the words never passed his lips, and the longer they lingered unspoken, the heavier they became, like stones sinking between you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your steady breaths and the faint rustling of fabric as he absently played with the ends of your hair. His fingers traced slow, idle patterns—distracted. Elsewhere.

“Were you sneaking out?” you murmured.

His exhale was slow, measured. “No.”

You hesitated, tilting your head slightly to catch his gaze. “Am I allowed to ask where you were going, then?”

Bucky hummed against your skin, lips skimming along the side of your neck in an unhurried, open-mouthed kiss. It was a distraction—one that might have worked if you weren’t already searching for the cracks forming between you. A pleasant shiver ran down your spine, making your fingers tighten in his hair, but it didn’t ease the hollow ache settling in your chest.

“Just out for a call,” he said, voice low and warm.

You huffed softly, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. “To who?”

“Sam.” Another kiss. Another distraction. “He wants to talk about a trip to D.C.”

Your body stiffened. Just like that, the haze of warmth and sleepiness vanished, replaced by something sharper. Bucky must’ve felt it, because he pulled back, brow lifting slightly as his hands skimmed over your sides in a soothing motion.

“D.C.?” you echoed, your voice sharper now.

His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “Relax. It’s not for a mission. I don’t know any details yet. Something to do with Sharon.”

Sharon.

You forced your face into something neutral, but the name sliced through you like a blade, leaving something raw in its wake. Sharon Carter.

You didn’t like her. Hell, you didn’t like the idea of Bucky flying off to see her, but you knew better than to voice it.

Saying it out loud would only make you sound… ridiculous. Petty. Jealous. Desperate. And while all of that was true, it wasn’t something you were ready to confront.

So, instead, you exhaled slowly, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw, willing yourself to let it go. “Go on, then.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you back into his warmth. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You forced a small smile, curling deeper into the covers. “I’ll be waiting.”

But even as you said it, you knew the unease twisting in your chest wasn’t going anywhere.

Sleep eluded you. No matter how many times you shifted, flipped the pillow, or tried to will your mind into silence, it didn’t work. So you gave up.

With a sigh, you pushed back the covers and padded out of the bedroom, your body heavy with exhaustion but your thoughts too restless to let you sink back into unconsciousness. The apartment was quiet, the air still carrying the remnants of Bucky’s warmth.

A note sat on the kitchen counter, the edges curling slightly as if time had already started to wear it down. His handwriting, neat but with the occasional jagged letter, spelled out: Went to grab breakfast. Be back soon.

You stared at it, the words lodging themselves somewhere deep in your chest. Too short. Too impersonal. Something about them felt off, but you shook your head and set the note aside, forcing yourself not to spiral.

This was ridiculous. Everything was fine. Bucky was fine. He wanted confirmation of your feelings, and you had always given him space to process his. Him not saying it back didn’t mean anything—or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. But lately, you weren’t sure if you believed it.

Without him here, you opted for a long shower, letting the hot water chase away the remnants of a sleepless night. By the time you emerged, towel wrapped around you and steam curling in the air, the front door swung open.

Bucky walked in, looking so unfairly good that you almost forgot how to breathe. His hair, slightly longer now, curled at the edges, damp from the morning mist. His blue eyes seemed even brighter against the navy Henley he wore. A pink bakery bag dangled from his vibranium fingers, a Starbucks tray balanced in his other hand, and his phone was pressed to his ear.

“When do you think it’ll happen?” His voice was low, distracted. He kicked the door shut behind him without a second thought, already making his way toward the kitchen where you stood, sipping on a glass of water.

You couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but the pause stretched long, filled with faint static. You leaned against the counter, watching him as he nodded along to whatever was being said.

“I can make it happen,” he finally murmured. “I’ll catch a flight out Wednesday so I can be there after she signs everything.”

Something inside you curled in protest. You turned away, setting your glass in the sink with deliberate care, masking the frown tugging at your lips. You stared out the window, watching the slow trickle of people making their way down the street.

Bucky’s presence warmed your back before you even heard him move. His lips brushed your shoulder first, then a firm squeeze at your waist—his silent way of saying 'hello'. But there was something absent in the gesture, something automatic.

“Hold on a minute,” he said into the phone, pulling it away just far enough to duck down and steal a kiss from your lips. You could taste the chill of the morning on him, the scent of his aftershave lingering. “Got you a bacon, egg, and cheese—and an Americano.”

Your chest squeezed at the ease of it all, because it somehow felt fake. Like he was holding onto a script, playing a part. Ever since that night you had finally cracked, finally told him you loved him, something had shifted. Even the world seemed to be giving you a reprieve—missions were slower, danger a little more distant. Sam had gone home for a bit, and Bucky had been content to let you drag him furniture shopping, helping turn his space into something lived-in.

And yet, you noticed. As much as he seemed to fall into a rhythm, his affections never wavering, he’d become significantly more introspective. You had caught him more times than you’d like to admit staring at you, but not with the soft affection you were used to. It was something else—something heavy. Impersonal. Like he was calculating some kind of risk before he noticed you had seen him and schooled his features back into something resembling the Bucky from before.

Before, you had been too honest. Before, you had let your heart speak before your head could stop it. Before, you had let yourself believe that love—spoken aloud, undeniable—would be enough to keep him steady, to keep him here. But now, you weren’t so sure.

Because ever since that night, something had shifted. He held you close, but there was a hesitation, a quiet space between his words where something unnamed lived. And when he looked at you, sometimes—just for a second—it was as if he was trying to memorize you, as if he was preparing for something neither of you had spoken into existence. Like he was calculating a risk.

Which is why you hated whatever was taking him to Washington. Because deep in your bones, you felt it creeping in—the moment everything changed. The moment he pulled too far away to reach. And you weren’t ready to let him go.

Bucky’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Yeah, she’s here. No, she hasn’t had her coffee yet.” He chuckled at whatever was said on the other end, then shot you a teasing glance that made your heart squeeze. “If you wanna risk it…”

You narrowed your eyes as he extended the phone toward you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He wants to talk to you.”

You let out a long-suffering sigh but took the phone anyway, pressing it to your ear. “Morning, Sam.”

“Mrs. Barnes.” His voice dripped with amusement, and you could practically hear the smirk on his face.

Your nose scrunched and you turned away from Bucky, the weight of his gaze overwhelming. “Don’t start.”

“We both know it’s inevitable. Anyway, listen, Bucky’s flying out here on Wednesday, and I was thinking—why don’t you come with him? Make it a little trip.”

You tugged at a loose thread on your towel, staring into the white of the fabric until your eyes crossed. You weren’t quite sure this was a good idea. “To D.C.?”

“Yeah. I figure if I have to suffer through Barnes brooding about being away from you for more than forty-eight hours, might as well nip it in the bud before he starts sighing dramatically into the phone like a lovesick teenager.”

A snort of laughter escaped you before you could stop it, disbelief making itself known. “I doubt that’d happen.”

“Oh, it’d happen.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flickering to Bucky, who was busy unpacking the food with a neutral expression you knew was entirely fake. He was listening. He was always listening.

“I mean, I could… I’m just not sure if Bucky would agree,” you offered.

“Agree to what?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard every single word.

“Sam wants me to come with you to D.C. Something about you brooding too much over being away from me,” you smiled, but it didn’t hold as you watched him nod.

On the other side of the line, Sam’s voice caught your attention. “Also, if you do decide to come, I would offer my place, but Sharon’s staying with me for a bit and I’ve only got the one guest bedroom.”

Your brows lifted. “Sharon’s staying with you? As in Sharon Carter?”

“Yeah, just until she can figure out her move back to the U.S. She’s getting her pardon, but things are still a bit messy for her.”

“Things are always messy for her,” you muttered, unable to resist the dig. You didn’t miss the way Bucky’s brow lifted at that, but he stayed silent.

Sam let out a long-suffering sigh. “Look, don’t make it weird. I’m just trying to be a good friend here.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Anyway,” Sam quickly continued before you could push any further, “Come with him. Just book a hotel, and I’ll send you a list of good areas to stay in. Easy.”

You hummed, mulling it over. “I’ll have a chat with him.”

“Pfft, don’t chat. It’s decided, you’re coming.”

“Sam—”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. See you Wednesday, Mrs. Barnes.”

You sighed, defeated, as you hung up and tossed the phone onto the counter.

Bucky was already watching you, arms crossed. “So you’re coming?”

“Only if you want me to,” you shrugged, avoiding his gaze.

“I want you to.”

You weren’t so sure you believed him. –

By the time you landed, Sam was waiting in the parking lot of the airport, arms crossed, that signature smirk already in place. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket—but his eyes gleamed with mischief as they landed on the two of you.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sam drawled, pushing off the pillar and strolling toward you. “My favorite couple. How was the flight, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?”

You groaned as Bucky immediately stiffened beside you, his grip tightening around the handle of your suitcase. His reaction was barely noticeable—maybe no one else would have caught it—but you did. Lately, you caught everything.

“Really? We’re starting this now?” you sighed, forcing a lightness into your voice you didn’t quite feel.

Sam shrugged, grinning. “What? I’m just sayin’, y’all are real cozy these days. Ain’t it about time you made an honest man out of him?”

Bucky let out a low grumble but didn’t bother correcting him. He just exhaled, set his jaw, and rolled your suitcase forward without another word, completely ignoring the knowing look Sam shot him.

Something in your stomach twisted. The old Bucky—the one before you’d told him you loved him, before this quiet distance settled between you—would have had a snarky comeback, maybe thrown an arm around you just to make Sam roll his eyes. But now? He just let the comment hang in the air, unchallenged, unacknowledged. Like it didn’t matter.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, past the doubt creeping into the spaces he was leaving behind.

“You’re hilarious, Wilson,” you deadpanned. “Truly, a comedic genius.”

Sam placed a hand over his heart. “I do what I can.”

The three of you made your way out of the airport, Sam and Bucky falling into their usual rhythm—bantering, teasing, Bucky pretending to be exasperated when you could tell he secretly enjoyed it. Except, this time, there was something off. His laughter didn’t reach his eyes the way it used to. His voice was lighter, but not in the effortless way you loved—it was careful. Controlled. Like he was playing a part.

You slid into the backseat of Sam’s truck, the leather cool beneath your fingertips. You weren’t even sure when Bucky had last looked at you, really looked at you.

“So, what do you think?” Sam glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his smirk still firmly in place. “Dinner at mine?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the seat, sounding almost relieved at the change of subject. “Sounds good to me. Doll?”

You nodded, turning your gaze to the window as the streets passed you by.

There was no escaping it. Whatever this was—whatever had shifted between you and Bucky—it was following you.

–

You had tried to keep yourself together. You really had. But by the time Sam dropped you both off at the hotel, the weight in your chest had solidified into something unbearable—cold, heavy, and unrelenting. No amount of forced smiles or easy conversation could shake it.

After a shower to wash the grime from the plane ride, you slipped into bed, exhaustion clinging to you in a way that had nothing to do with the flight. You had hours before dinner at Sam’s—hours you could be spending with Bucky. Exploring the city, tangled up together in bed, finally stealing a moment just for the two of you. No missions. No distractions.

The thought of pulling him down beside you, of pressing your lips to his until he remembered what this was supposed to feel like, nearly broke you. Maybe if you kissed him hard enough, if you touched him the way you used to, you could undo whatever this was. Maybe you could take it back. Tell him you’d been wrong. That there was no love, only lust. That it had never been deeper than that. That way, he could stop retreating into himself, stop looking at you like he was waiting for something to break.

But you couldn’t lie to him. And worse—you couldn’t lie to yourself.

So instead, you curled onto your side, clinging to a pillow as if it could hold you together. The sting behind your eyes was relentless, tears slipping free despite how hard you tried to keep them in. You pressed your face into the pillow, muffling the shaky breath that escaped.

The sound of the bathroom door opening barely registered.

“Tired?” Bucky’s voice was rough, a little hoarse from travel, but it still sent something deep inside you twisting painfully.

“Yeah,” you murmured, keeping your back to him. Normally, you would have turned around, let your eyes roam over the sight of him fresh from the shower, hair damp, towel slung low on his hips. But tonight, you stayed still. Because if he saw your face, he’d see your red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks on your cheek, the truth written all over you.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Is everything okay?”

It was the hesitation in his voice that gutted you the most. The way he asked like he already knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it.

“Sure,” you whispered, nodding stiffly, gripping the covers tighter and pulling them up to your chin. “Just tired from the plane.”

You felt him linger, standing just behind you, close enough that you could hear his steady breathing. But he didn’t push. He didn’t press. He just stood there, silent, before the mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed.

And it hit you all over again—he was right there, but somehow, it still felt like you were miles apart.

–

You should’ve known walking into this was a mistake. You should’ve stayed at the hotel, let whatever happen, happen. Because this? This was torture.

You sat at the table, Bucky to your left, Sam to your right, and Sharon directly in front of you—the perfect storm. You barely touched your food, your grip tightening around your wine glass as they laughed and reminisced, trading stories like they were fond memories instead of fragments of lives torn apart. Steve Rogers. A dingy old car. A kiss. Then Madripoor—how Sharon had ‘saved their ass.’

And Bucky was smiling.

Not the small, weary smiles he’d been giving you lately. This was different—effortless, unguarded. All week, he’d been wound tight, withdrawing, keeping you at a distance. But now, here, with her, he looked… at ease. Like she was giving him something you couldn’t—an understanding, a comfort in the language of battle that felt like home to him, a refuge from the weight of whatever expectations he thought you carried.

You gripped your wine glass tighter, the delicate stem pressing into your palm as you took another sip, focusing on the sharp burn of the alcohol rather than the sound of Sharon’s laugh. It was light, effortless—too damn familiar as she reached out, nudging Bucky’s vibranium arm like she had every right to.

Your jaw locked, a pulse of irritation tightening in your chest as your already crossed legs stiffened further. You were vibrating with anger. It wasn’t even his skin, and still, the sight made something hot and ugly coil in your stomach.

You wanted to slap her hand away. Wanted to tell her to back off. Wanted Bucky to move—just an inch, just enough to show that he felt the weight of her touch the way you did - unpleasantly, unwelcome.

But he didn’t.

“You were such a terrible undercover,” she teased, eyes bright with amusement. “You couldn’t even play a convincing criminal.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I got us in, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and almost got us killed,” she shot back. “I swear, if I hadn’t stepped in—”

“Oh, please,” Sam cut in, rolling his eyes. “Here we go again. Sharon, you act like you were some hero. We handled it.”

“Handled it?” She snorted. “If it wasn’t for me, you two would still be running from bounty hunters in the gutters of Madripoor.”

Bucky smirked. “She’s got a point.”

Your chest tightened.

Bucky’s distance had already been gnawing at you, a slow, relentless ache, and now—watching the easy way he spoke with her, the warmth in his voice—it was too much. Every low chuckle, every lingering glance, every casual brush of Sharon’s fingers against his arm sent another splinter through you.

He’d made no effort to show you were here together since you arrived. No arm around your waist, no glance in your direction, no subtle acknowledgment that you weren’t just someone in the room—you were his. Instead, you felt like an afterthought. Like a shadow. Like a lost puppy trailing behind him, desperate for attention that he wasn’t offering.

It fueled something ugly inside you, something you hated but couldn’t suppress. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t petty or insecure. But tonight, with the weight of everything unsaid pressing into your ribs, your anger and resentment tangled together, twisting into something sharp and unrelenting.

So you stayed quiet. You sipped your wine, kept your eyes down, forced yourself to pretend this wasn’t getting to you. Forced yourself to swallow the lump of frustration in your throat and ignore the irrational sting in your chest.

But the universe had other plans.

“How’s life been treating ya?” Sharon’s voice cut through the air, her lips curling around your name like it was something bitter. “Heard you got promoted to assisting these two. You’ve come a long way since your S.H.I.E.L.D. days.”

Your smile was thin, lifeless. “It’s been fun. I can’t complain. They’re good partners, even though they get on my nerves.”

“I always thought you’d end up in the field eventually. Why haven’t you?”

There was something pointed in her tone, a sharp edge hidden beneath the surface, a provocation instead of a genuine question. You set your glass down with deliberate care, leaning back in your chair, arms folding over your chest. “I prefer research. It’s where I thrive. I can do more for them that way.”

“Guess not all of us are made for the action, right, Buck?”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pushed your glass toward Sam with a curt nod. “Top me up?”

Sam, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. He poured more wine without a word, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he could feel the shift in the air. You took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your throat, trying to drown the simmering anger clawing its way to the surface. But it wasn’t enough.

The irritation was already there, curling under your skin, waiting—begging—to spill over.

“How about you, Sharon?” you asked suddenly, slicing clean through whatever bullshit story she’d been spinning. Your gaze flicked down, zeroing in on her hand resting so casually against Bucky’s wrist.

You hadn’t touched him in hours.

The realization hit like a gut punch, leaving something raw and exposed in its wake.

Sharon blinked, caught off guard for a split second before recovering with a practiced ease. “It’s been alright. I got my pardon, so I’m sticking around for a while. Trying to reconnect with family, settle things.”

“Only family?” You tilted your head, your voice deceptively sweet. Dangerous. “No boyfriends, right?”

Sharon hesitated. It was brief, barely noticeable—but you caught it.

“N—”

“Oh, that’s right.” Your smile was slow, deliberate, razor-sharp. “Last time you had someone, it was your aunt’s sloppy seconds.”

The second the words left your mouth, the air changed. The words landed like a gunshot. The silence that followed was suffocating and the tension went from an undercurrent to a crackling, undeniable force, stretching taut between all of you.

Bucky stiffened beside you. Sam let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face. And Sharon? For the first time all night, she had nothing to say.

Sam muttered a quiet “Damn” under his breath, glancing between the two of you like he was watching a bomb tick down.

You barely registered any of it. The only thing you saw was Bucky reaching for you—his hand shifting under the table, hovering just above your thigh, hesitating, then pulling back, his fingers curling into a fist.

The sting of it reverberated through your whole body.

Sharon, to her credit, recovered quickly. She let out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she leaned back in her chair. “Didn’t realize we were getting into cheap shots tonight. I would’ve brought popcorn.”

You tilted your head, giving her an easy, sharp smile. “I figured you’d be used to it by now. Considering all that time in Madripoor.”

Her eyes flickered, just for a second, before she smirked. “Well, someone had to get their hands dirty while you sat behind a screen.”

“Right. And exactly how dirty did you get?”

Sam exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Alright, we are dangerously close to turning this into a bar fight.”

Sharon waved a hand, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, relax, Wilson. Just catching up with an old colleague.”

You picked up your wine glass, turning to Sam instead. “You’re right, Sam. This has been fun, but I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Bucky’s head turned toward you, brows furrowed. “Doll—”

Downing the last of your wine, you pushed your chair back before he could finish, grabbing your purse. “I’ll head back to the hotel. You guys enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Before he could stop you—before he could reach out and make you stay—you walked away, because if you stayed one more second, you weren’t sure you’d be able to breathe.

–

You were out the door before you could second-guess yourself. Coat and purse clutched in one hand, phone gripped tight in the other, you tapped your foot furiously against the pavement, buzzing with too much—anger, jealousy, frustration, and that awful, gnawing ache in your chest. The street was quiet, the air crisp, but all you could hear was the rush of your pulse as you stared down the road, willing headlights to appear.

The door creaked open behind you. Voices drifted through the night, but only one set of footsteps—or rather, the absence of them—told you exactly who was coming after you.

Bucky.

His presence was unmistakable, looming at your side even as you refused to look at him. The warmth radiating from him was just close enough to feel, but not close enough to touch.

“You should go back inside,” you said, your voice not nearly as steady as you wanted. You reached up quickly, swiping at the stray tear that betrayed you, the other hand gripping your phone like a lifeline.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice measured, calm. Too calm.

“No,” you corrected, jaw tight. “I’m leaving. You can stay.”

He let out a slow exhale, the kind that meant he was reigning himself in. “Come on, don’t do this.”

“Do what?” You finally turned, eyes burning into him.

“This,” he said, running a hand through his hair, frustration creeping in. “Storming out, making a scene. You didn’t have to go after Sharon like that.”

You barked out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I hurt your girlfriend’s feelings. Not like she didn’t diminish my work right in front of you and you said shit.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” His jaw ticked, his voice sharp, but controlled. “And you’re being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?” Your head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “Right, of course. Because I’m the problem. Not the way you’ve been acting. Not the way you let her—” You stopped yourself, swallowing down the lump in your throat, shaking your head. “Forget it.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Let her what?”

You scoffed, looking away. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” His voice was steel now, an edge that would’ve made anyone else back down. But not you. Not when you were already burning.

You turned back to him, fire in your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

For a moment, you were locked in a silent battle that felt heavier than any argument. The weight of his stare pressed into you.

The sound of an approaching car broke the moment, and relief flooded through you so fast it made your legs weak. Without another word, you turned away, your feet dragging as you made your way toward the curb, toward escape.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open again.

“Buck, you forgot your—”

Sam’s voice cut through the night, but you barely registered it. You didn’t stop, didn’t look back.

The second the car rolled to a stop, you yanked the door open, slid inside, and slammed it shut.

You didn’t wait for Bucky.

You didn’t give yourself the chance to.

–

Your body felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by grief, regret, and something even darker that you didn’t dare name. You sank into the chair by the window, your limbs stiff with exhaustion, your chest hollow with the ache of knowing you might’ve just lost him.

The city stretched before you, lights flickering against the glass, a world moving forward while yours stood painfully still. The fancy bedspread, the romantic bathtub, the room with a view—none of it mattered now. It was all just a cruel backdrop to a moment that felt like the beginning of the end.

You would’ve told yourself I told you so if it didn’t feel so vicious, so mercilessly cutting. But you had known. Of course you had known. It was almost laughable, the way your own heart had resisted, the way your mind had screamed at you to be careful when he first asked for this.

He had wanted it. Begged for it.

Something real, something solid. Something to hold onto when the nightmares came, when the weight of his past became too much. And like a fool, you had given it to him, convinced—desperate—that it would be enough to keep him here. To make him stay.

It hadn’t been.

And worst of all, you couldn’t even be angry at him for it.

He had warned you. So many times.

He was scared—of your devotion, of your belief in him, of the way you saw a man worthy of love when all he saw was a ghost of who he used to be. He was scared of your forgiveness, of your patience, of your kindness. Scared that one day, you would wake up and realize he wasn’t enough.

He had told you. God, he had told you. And you hadn’t listened. Because you were naive enough to believe that love—your love—would be enough.

And now, here you were. The irony of it all nearly made you laugh. The first time you ever truly fought felt like it would also be your last. You had feared this moment from the beginning.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your tired eyes, trying to stop the spiral before it completely consumed you. Stupid. Stubborn. Naive. You never should’ve let him convince you. Never should’ve let yourself believe he wouldn’t run the second things got too real.

The soft click of the hotel door unlocking shattered your thoughts, sending your pulse hammering against your ribs.

You held your breath.

You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the city outside, watching the world move on like your heart wasn’t currently breaking into a million sharp pieces. The lights of D.C. flickered and blurred through the film of tears gathering in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not in front of him.

Bucky’s footsteps were slow, measured, like he was testing the waters. Like he knew the wrong move would shatter whatever fragile thing was still holding you both together.

For a long, painful moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—his voice rang out, rough and low. “You left.”

It wasn’t accusatory. Wasn’t even angry. Just... dejected.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your pants, nails biting into your palm. “Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper.

"You didn’t have to," he argued, softer this time.

A humorless laugh scraped its way out of your throat. “Right. I should’ve just sat there while she took her little digs at me, while you let her.”

In the window’s reflection, you caught the subtle furrow of his brows. "I didn’t—"

"You didn’t stop her," you cut in, voice sharp with hurt, shaky fingers pulling at the loose thread on the arm of the armchair. "You didn’t say a damn thing."

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, but even that felt controlled—too careful. Like he was holding something back. “I wasn’t taking her side.”

"Sure felt like it," you muttered, voice thick with emotion.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to argue, but he hesitated. Searching for the right words. That flicker of doubt was enough to send a fresh wave of anguish crashing over you. Your chest ached so deeply, you thought it might cave in.

Letting out a sharp, shaky exhale, you wiped at your cheek, but the tears wouldn’t stop now. Hot and relentless, they spilled over, carving burning trails down your face. You hadn’t even noticed they started falling.

“I’m tired, Buck,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath. “I—I’m sorry I put this on you. All these feelings, all these expectations—” Your lips trembled, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to steady, to breathe. "You told me this was a lot. I should’ve listened. This is not on you.”

“Doll—”

“I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have taken all of this space. In your life.” Your chest ached as you forced the words out, each one a sharp-edged truth. “It’s my fault we’re here.”

Here you were, absolving him again. Letting him off the hook, as if that would dull the sting, as if it would fill the hollow ache spreading inside you. You had wanted—desperately—to prove to him, to yourself, that you could be good for him. That you could be enough. And you meant it. You never wanted to add to his burden.

But your heart didn’t care about intentions. It had its own plans.

“But you shouldn’t have forced me,” your voice cracked. Your breath hitched as the truth clawed its way out. The emotion swelled, sharp and raw, spilling out like an open wound.

Your head dropped into your hands, fingers digging into your scalp, desperate for something—anything—to ground you. “You shouldn’t have asked me to tell you I loved you when you weren’t sure you were ready for it.”

A sharp sob tore through you—too sudden, too raw to contain.

Humiliation burned beneath your skin, prickling hot and unbearable. Unraveling in front of him, breaking in front of him—it was too much. Your body trembled with the sheer effort of holding yourself together, of not crumbling completely under the weight of it all.

“Can you—” You gulped, suddenly unable to sit still. The walls were closing in. The air felt too thick, your skin too tight. You shot out of your chair, stumbling back like distance could somehow lessen the hurt. “Can you leave, please?Can you stay with Sam? I don’t… I don’t want you to see this again.” Your hands swiped furiously at your wet cheeks, as if that could erase everything he had seen.

Still, you hadn’t looked at him. But you saw his boots—motionless. A few feet away. Unmoving. Like he was rooted to the spot.

“I’ll get you an Uber,” you offered numbly, your voice hollow. “Or I’ll get you a room, they have my card at the front desk.”

“No.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, your shoulders caving in under the weight of his refusal. “Please. I want to be alone.”

“No.”

The second time, it was firmer. Unyielding.

Frustration cracked through the grief. You snapped, voice shaking, “Bucky. I’m begging you. It’s hard enough to keep myself together as it is.”

“Then don’t.”

Your breath hitched.

For the first time, you turned to face him fully.

His jaw was clenched tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for you. His whole body was wound so tight, he looked like he might snap in two if he moved the wrong way. But it was his eyes—stormy, tortured, desperate—that sent a shiver down your spine.

It was like they were begging. Like something inside him was splintering apart right in front of you.

“Don’t?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t what?”

His throat bobbed, his fingers flexing at his sides. The words weren’t coming easy—like he had to force them past whatever wall had been built between you.

��Don’t keep yourself together,” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw. “Don’t hide it from me.”

Anger burned its way through the hurt. You hadn’t meant to fight him—not really. You didn’t want to surrender to the ugliest part of yourself, the part that wanted to scream at him, to tell him how unfair it was. That he made you love him. That he let you have him, only to pull himself away.

You didn’t want to say it.

But the words came anyway.

“Is that something you need?” you bit out, blinking hard against the wetness in your eyes, surprising even yourself with the venom in your voice. “To see me in pain because of you? Does it help?”

Bucky flinched like you had struck him, but he didn’t turn away. Instead, he shook his head, something breaking through the torment in his expression as he whispered, “Don’t—don’t push me away.”

You laughed. Hollow and tired.

"I’m not! I am holding on for dear life. But you’re here, right?" Sarcasm oozed from your words. "Just like you’ve been for the past few weeks? Just like you were tonight, when I needed you?"

Guilt flashed across his face. But you didn’t let him interrupt. Not this time.

"You haven’t been here," you accused, the words raw and painful. "Not really. And I don’t know if you even want to be."

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

No reassurances. No denials.

Just silence.

A fresh stubborn tear slipped down your cheek, and you hated yourself for it.

"You don’t even see it, do you?" Your breath trembled. "How you keep me just close enough to feel like I matter, but never close enough to be sure. You show up, you sleep in my bed, you kiss me like—God, like you want me, like you care—and you touch me like— like you own me. Like you’re mine.”

Your voice broke.

Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, twitched violently. His fingers curled, then released. Like his own goddamn body was screaming at him to touch you. To reach for you. To hold on. And he wouldn’t let himself.

"But then I see you looking at me," you continued. "Like, you’re trying to figure out when your window for leaving is. When our time is up."

Bucky inhaled sharply, like he had just been punched in the gut.

His entire body jerked forward.

Like he almost reached for you.

Like he forgot.

"I—" Shaking his head, frustration flickered in his stormy eyes. "I don’t know how to do this," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "How to… be happy. Settled."

"Is that why you pulled away? Because you feel guilty about being happy?"

His silence was answer enough.

"Why?"

Bucky’s gaze dropped to the floor, jaw clenching. You saw it—the moment his shoulders caved, as if the weight of everything he’d ever carried had finally grown too heavy.

"Because… because it feels like I’m moving on from everything." His voice was barely there. "From Steve, from… them. The people I hurt. The ones I lost.” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. You could see his lips were dry, clinging to each other as he spoke. "It feels like I’m leaving them behind. Like being happy with you is—"

"So you think being miserable is some kind of penance?"

The truth settled uncomfortably between you.

"That’s not what I’m doing—"

"Isn’t it?" you asked, softer now. Not even when it hurt you, could you truly be angry at him. "I can see you torturing yourself. Like this somehow balances it all out. Like it pays some stupid karmic debt you think you owe to the universe."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. His hands were trembling at his sides, and you ached to go over. To close your hand around them and soothe the storm. You didn’t.

"Do you… do you even care about me?"

His head snapped up. The sharpness of his gaze was cutting, the blue burning like fire.

"How could you ask that?" Bucky rasped, but his voice cracked, like it was breaking him open just to say it. He pressed forward, his hands lifted—hovering near you—but instead of touching, he dragged them roughly through his hair. "I do—God, I do, doll. I care so fucking much—"

He sucked in a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling erratically. "Then why are you treating that like it’s a crime?"

Bucky shook his head, his breath hitching as he took one step back—and then another, like he couldn’t trust himself to be near you.

"Because what if I mess this up?" His voice was a whisper now, rough and ragged. "What if I let myself have this—have you—and then I fuck up?”

His hands were shaking. His entire body was tense, rigid. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, like he was physically trying to hold himself together.

"Look at you," he choked out, his voice breaking. "You’re already hurt, and it’s my fault.”

“I am not made of glass.”

Bucky laughed, bitter. “Look at my history. Every relationship I’ve ever had has ended in disaster. I either outlive people or they leave or…” His breath caught. “Or I hurt them. Like I’m hurting you now.”

"Bucky… Love isn’t just the good parts. Love… really fucking sucks, most of the time. Because it hurts when the person you love is gone, it hurts when they don’t love you back, it hurts when they don’t want the same things as you. You, of all people, should know that."

Hurt flashed across his features, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. “That’s not fair.”

You shook your head, a fresh tear slipping down your cheek. “What’s not fair is that I told you I loved you, but I still don’t know if you love me back.”

His entire body stiffened. Like the words hit him somewhere deep. “Loved?”

“Nothing’s changed,” you smiled through the tears. “I don't think it ever will. I’m… not even sure I can even love anyone else. You can rest assured there'll always be someone out there who loves you. But... I don't want to be another burden in your already heavy load. If this... if this is over—” you inhaled sharply, too tired to fight back your tears, “then at least let me cry about it without thinking I've added more to your hurt.”

“Over?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it. A warning. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“What is there to break up?” Your shoulders lifted, tension pulling you up by the spine, keeping you tightly coiled. “We never even started. It's been months and I still don’t know what this is. Look, Buck, it’s okay. Really. We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to make it worse than it already is. You’re… you’re free to go if you want. I won’t hold it against you—”

Bucky shook his head, stepping closer, his hands twitching to grab you but wasn’t sure if he had the right. “Quit talking like you’re leaving and sparing me from something.”

The sharpness in his voice took you by surprise, and you flinched, arms coming up to wrap around yourself.

The movement seemed to snap something in him. Before you could retreat any further, his hands shot out, grabbed your arms, his grip strong, grounding and he pulled you closer until you had to tip your head back to look at him. “You think I don’t love you?”

You exhaled shakily, eyes darting anywhere but his eyes. His lips, his temple, the cut of his jaw… anywhere but the blue that seemed to pull you in. “I don’t know.”

"I don’t—” His voice broke, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was trying to force himself to hold it together. "I don’t know how to love someone without being terrified that I’ll lose them.”

His hand left your arms and hovered over the sides of you. He hesitated and then finally both hands slid down the sides of your head until he could cup your cheeks tightly, thumbs brushing over the tracks of tears. "But don’t you ever—ever—think for a goddamn second that I don’t love you."

The words ripped out of him, shaky and uneven. His fingers swiped under your eyes, his breath coming fast and heavy—like the weight of saying it out loud was too much, too real.

Your breath caught in your throat and he searched your face, looking for an answer to a question he hadn’t voiced.

Bucky’s grip tightened, just enough for you to feel the desperation in his touch. “I love you, okay? I love you in a way that scares the hell out of me. I love you so much it makes me sick thinking about what happens if I mess this up. If I lose you.” He swallowed hard, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. “I know I’ve been distant. Shit, I know I’ve been a coward. But don’t walk away from me, doll. Please.”

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, and Bucky watched you, his own eyes glassy, his breathing uneven. “If you need me to say it again, I will. I love you. I love you.”

You let out a choked sound, a sob mixed with a disbelieving laugh. “Then stop acting like you’re just waiting to walk away.”

Bucky seemed to stop breaking.

Before before he could think, his arms slid down and around you in a tight, bruising hug—pulling you toward him so fast it made you gasp when you collided with his chest.

One hand cradled the back of your head, the other locked around your waist, anchoring you to him. His cheek pressed against the crown of your head. His grip was desperate.

When he spoke again, his voice was rough with emotion. “Please, don’t give up on me. I will fight for this. For you. Just—just tell me how. Tell me what I need to do.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body trembling, the cage of his arms not enough to settle the cracks in your foundation. “I don't want you to fight, Buck. You've done enough fighting for a lifetime... I just want you to stop running.”

His breath came unsteady, uneven—like he was grasping for control, like your words had struck a chord buried deep, like you had unearthed a truth no one else had ever dared to see.

You shifted, pressing your cheek to his chest, feeling the warmth of him, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His lips found the top of your head first, lingering there as he breathed you in, like he was grounding himself in your presence.

Then he moved—feverish, desperate—trailing downward. A firm press to your temple, a slow drag of his mouth along your hairline, the heated imprint of his lips brushing over your cheekbone. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t careful. Every kiss landed like a silent plea, a confession woven into the way his lips chased your skin.

His mouth pressed to your cheek, then lower, grazing the curve of your jaw, the column of your throat. A shudder ran through him, his breath hot and uneven as he mapped a frantic path across your skin, like he could make up for every moment he’d hesitated, every time he’d pulled away.

And then—his hands framed your face, tilting your head up, and before you could take another breath, his lips crashed into yours. There was nothing hesitant about it. No slow build, no caution. Just raw, unfiltered hunger. He kissed you like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers, like he needed to feel you, to claim you, to prove to himself you were still here.

His kiss deepened, insistent, tongue gliding into your mouth with a possessive quality, as if he was trying to consume you, body and soul, with the force of it. His hands, still gripping you with a desperation that bordered on frantic, slid down your sides, tightening around your waist. Every kiss, every brush of his lips against yours, was a silent plea, a confession he couldn’t put into words.

Hands to his chest, you could feel the tension in his body, like he was fighting to control something inside himself. His mouth never stopped moving against yours, as if he feared losing the taste of you. His thumb grazed the edge of your jaw, his touch tender but desperate, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

The heat between you both intensified, every moment stretching longer, heavier. His lips trailed down to your neck again, kissing you with the same urgency, and you could feel the tension in his grip, the way his body tightened.

It was a desperate kind of connection, raw and unguarded. His mouth tore from yours, just for a second, long enough for him to drop lower, hands finding the backs of your thighs, fingers digging in, his grip possessive. The metal arm coiled around your neck, not in restraint, but as if anchoring himself to you—like letting go wasn’t an option. With effortless strength, he lifted you, your legs instinctively locking around his waist as your breath hitched.

“Bucky—” His name barely left your lips before he stole it, kissing you again, harder, needier, swallowing the sharp gasp you made when your back hit the wall.

His face buried against your throat, breath ragged, lips finding the curve of your collarbone before trailing lower. The scrape of stubble burned in the best way, and when his teeth grazed your skin—testing, teasing—you trembled.

Heat pooled low in your center and you welcomed the bruising grip of both his hands. It was the roughest he’s ever been with you–like finally, after all of your attempts at showing him, he realized he could really hold on to you. It was glorious. Overwhelming. Life-changing.

“I want—” he rasped, his voice rough, before he gulped down the words.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, the sound vibrating against your chest. “What?,” you breathed, encouraging him to continue. “Tell me.”

His metal hand slid beneath your shirt, the chilled vibranium skimming your ribs. The contrast of heat and cold sent a shudder through you, and you arched into him, chasing his touch. He made a sound, almost guttural, and pressed closer—like he could crawl inside you if he just tried hard enough.

“I want you closer,” he confessed, hips pressing forward against your center and you choked, swearing under your breath. “Can’t get close enough,” he cried out, voice tortured, and you felt it—his desperation, his need, his devotion seeping into every frantic touch.

“Inside,” you gasped between kisses, a whiny, pathetic little sound escaping when you felt how hard he was under his pants. “Get inside me.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he hesitated, forehead pressing to yours as if grounding himself. “Okay,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, his hand leaving your body to find the back of your neck. “Okay. Hold on to me.”

You felt his fingers tighten as he held you close to him, your breaths mingling. Then, with a groan, he moved—metal arm securing you against him as he moved with purpose toward the bed.

The world tilted as he laid you down, your back hitting the mattress before he followed you down like gravity itself pulled him to you. His metal hand spread wide over your ribs as he settled beside you, grounding you, while his flesh fingers traced a slow, reverent path up your thigh, leaving fire in their wake.

“Undress me,” you urged him, impatient, the emptiness between your legs, where he was supposed to be, growing heavier the longer he stalled.

“Maybe we should slow down,” he shook his head, hovering above you, six feet of super soldier clouding your vision, pressing you down, invading your senses. You could feel his hand, teasing the edge of your pants, and you wanted him to rip it. “Let me– let make love to you.”

“Is that what you want?” You asked, seeking his mouth for a searing kiss, and he had to wrap your hands around your neck to force you to break it, both of you breathless and panting. “If that’s what you want then I’ll let you take your time. Is it? Do you want it slow?”

“I don’t know, I don–” Bucky said through his teeth. “No. No.”

Your hand reached for the one of his that hovered hesitantly over the buttons of your pants and you dragged it between your legs, where you were sure he could feel your warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth pulling his bottom lip into his mouth like he was waging a war inside him, trying to decide between going slow, being careful, and something else, something he hadn’t allowed himself with you yet.

The sound that tore from Bucky’s throat made every hair on your body stand on end. It was raw, primal—like he was barely holding himself together, barely restraining the violent desperation thrumming through his veins. And then he was on you, crawling over your body, pressing you down into the mattress, his knee shoving between your thighs, forcing your legs apart.

The weight of him, heavy and warm, sank into you, stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes fluttered shut, chest rising and falling in a rapid, uneven rhythm as you tried—tried—to keep yourself from splintering apart beneath him. Maybe if you closed your eyes, if you didn’t look up at him like this, you could pretend you weren’t already coming undone.

Bucky leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, voice nothing more than a husky rasp. “Wanna know what I want?”

A shudder racked through you at the way his knee pressed tighter against your center, the friction making your hips roll up to chase the sensation, fingers twisting into his shirt.

His hands were already at your jeans, fingers working the zipper down, slipping beneath the waistband as he dragged the fabric lower. “I wanna ruin you.”

You stopped breathing.

“I wanna—” He faltered, his voice hoarse, almost pained.

“Yeah?” Your voice was barely a whisper, hoarse with want. Your fingers twisted into his shirt, yanking him closer, but no matter how much of him you took, it still wasn’t enough. You were drowning in him, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

His eyes, dark and consuming, burned into yours, the blue almost swallowed by blown-out pupils. “So you never want anyone else. So you never leave.”

The words sent a violent tremor through your core, your entire body aching with the sheer intensity of him, the possessiveness in his voice curling around you like a vice.

His hands tightened, wrapping around the waist of your jeans, yanking them down in one firm pull, the fabric dragging off your heated skin. The cold air of the room hit you all at once, raising goosebumps, but the way Bucky’s hands followed the path of your exposed skin, warm and reverent, made you forget everything else.

His touch was possessive, reverent, like he was worshipping the way you fit against his palm. The next thing you knew, your shirt was gone, your bra undone, and you followed every nudge of his hands without question, arching when he needed you to, pliant beneath his ministrations.

His touch burned—traced the plush curve of your ass, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts. You felt stripped bare under his gaze, not just physically, but completely, like he was seeing you through to your soul. His hands roamed, memorizing, before his fingers brushed over your nipples, metal and flesh teasing over the sensitive peaks, sending a jolt of pleasure down your spine.

You were speechless. Mute, save for the sound of your own labored breathing. No teasing. No back and forth. No playful banter to lighten the moment. Just him, devouring you with his touch, his eyes, his sheer presence. This wasn’t the usual rhythm you’d fallen into with him—this wasn’t the flirtation, the teasing, the game of pushing each other to the edge before finally breaking.

This was different. He was different.

Uncharted.

You had been with Bucky before, had laughed with him in bed, teased him until he lost control, pushed each other until you were both teetering on the edge of pleasure—but this? This was a different version of him. Of you. This was Bucky taking. Claiming.

There was something unrelenting about the way he looked at you, something single-minded in his focus. Like nothing else existed outside of this room. Outside of you. It was unnerving. It was intoxicating.

You barely noticed when the last of your clothes disappeared. When his followed. When you were suddenly maneuvered further up the bed, his hands firm, taking what he wanted, what was his.

His skin was hot, firm, pressing against every part of you. His hands were less gentle now, rougher, gripping, kneading, owning. A fresh wave of need pulsed between your legs, slick and desperate, and you gasped his name, reaching for skin, needing more of him.

“James.”

He didn’t answer.

He was already moving down, kneeling in front of your bent knees, reaching for a pillow. His metal fingers wrapped around your ankles, the grip possessive, guiding them up until they rested on his shoulder.

“Keep them up, sweetheart,” he ordered, voice thick with command. Your stomach twisted, anticipation and nerves tightening low in your belly as you obeyed, trembling when his vibranium hand ran over the smooth skin of your calf, all the way to your ankle.

“What’s happening?” you rasped, reaching out, your palm smoothing over the firm muscle of his thigh. You could see him now—see all of him. The strong cut of his shoulders, the sculpted lines of his chest, the hard planes of muscle leading down to his waist, the deep v-line that framed his cock, thick and aching between his thighs.

You were so distracted—so consumed by the sight of him—that you barely processed what he was doing until his hands gripped your ankle and pulled you up, lifting you, shoving the pillow beneath you.

Realization hit you like a lightning strike.

“Wait, Buck—”

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” His voice was deeper now, raspier like gravel. “As far as you can.”

The way he tapped your hip—gentle, coaxing, but expectant—sent shivers rolling down your spine. He’d never been this firm with you before, never this authoritative. You hesitated for only a second, nerves fluttering in your belly as you shifted, knees starting to close on instinct.

Bucky waited. He didn’t push, didn’t rush—just watched. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Waiting. Patient. Certain that you would listen.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to relax, to give him what he wanted. And when you finally opened up, when your thighs parted, wide and willing, he breathed—like he’d been waiting for you to give yourself to him like this.

Your own breath stuttered when his gaze zeroed in between your thighs. You clenched around nothing, your body already reacting to the sheer intensity of his attention, to the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be like this. This wasn’t just sex. This was ownership in a way he never had before.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, reverent. “All for me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, overwhelmed, breath coming in short gasps.

And then—

His mouth was on you.

The first drag of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a firm, unrelenting glide over your slit that made your entire body jolt. A sharp noise tore from your lips, your hands flying to his hair before you even realized what you were doing.

Your back arched off the bed.

“Bucky—”

Your thighs instinctively snapped shut, a desperate moan tearing from your lips at the unexpected shock of pleasure.

He pulled back, and the sound that followed—the filthy, wet pop—made your jaw drop. You barely restrained yourself from rolling your hips up, chasing his mouth, already desperate to feel more.

Bucky hummed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the vibration making you shiver.

“James,” he murmured against the inside of your thigh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, his tongue soothing over where his teeth had nipped. His voice was low, commanding, sinful. “Your James when I’m between your legs, remember?”

Your breath hitched, chest heaving. His voice alone had you unraveling—low and dark, smooth as silk, dripping in authority.

“Y-yes, yes, I’m sorry—”

“Open.” His vibranium fingers tapped your hip, patient but insistent.

You hesitated, your heart hammering.

“Wait, wait, give me a second,” you stammered, shaking. “I—I wasn’t ready…”

You weren’t.

Of all the times you had been with Bucky—hot, desperate, overwhelming—you had never done this. He had never taken you apart like this. You had felt his hands, his cock, the sheer force of his body claiming yours. But his mouth—

His mouth on your cunt—

It was too much.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, brows furrowing, the intensity in his eyes softening. “Should I not…?”

“No, no, that’s not—it’s not that,” you rushed out, shaking your head, your entire body already aching for him again. “Please, I want it, I just—fuck.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting. The words felt thick in your throat, raw, real in a way that sent another pulse of heat between your legs. “I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

That he was going to do it. That he even wanted it.

His expression darkened, something possessive settling over him like a storm rolling in.

“You didn’t know? That I want you?” he murmured, voice a breath away from a growl. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, slow, deliberate, hooking under your knees. He urged them open again, spreading you wide for him. Your cheeks were ablaze. His gaze never left yours, watching, waiting, demanding.

“That I wanna make you mine?”

Your breath caught, your nails dragging over the back of his head, gripping, needing.

“I am yours,” you whispered, voice breaking over the truth of it.

Bucky exhaled sharply, the words hitting something deep inside him, something unshakable.

“Not in every way.” His nose brushed against the slick heat of your slit, and you whimpered, your hips jerking, your legs trembling in his grip. “Not yet.”

Then he pressed his mouth fully against you, the flat of his tongue dipping into your soaked entrance, unrelenting. Your entire body seized, pleasure slamming through you like lightning, sharp and searing, robbing you of breath.

Bucky groaned—deep and wrecked—like the taste of you was something sacred, something he had been starving for. His hands flexed against your thighs, gripping harder, holding you still.

“But you will be,” he murmured, words slurring against you, breath hot, tongue teasing.

One slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. Your thighs twitched, but his hands tightened, keeping you spread open for him.

His tongue flicked over you again, this time more insistent, more focused, more intentional.

“It’s inevitable, sweetheart,” he mused, his voice a low vibration against your core, before dragging his tongue over you again, dipping into you, savoring.

You gasped, fisting the sheets.

“Made for me,” he murmured. His grip on you tightened as he buried himself between your legs, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking, teasing, owning. “Every part of you.”

You sobbed his name, back arching.

“That’s why I had to know,” he said, voice thick, ragged, vibrating against you, filling every space inside you.

“How you taste. How you feel.” Another slow lick, another deep groan from him, another whimper from you. “Because it’s you and me, isn’t it?”

Your whole body was trembling now, breath shallow, eyes unfocused.

“You’re mine, and I’m yours,” he rasped.

You didn’t know how long he stayed between your legs.

Time ceased to exist, reality blurred at the edges, and all that was left was him.

His arms were locked under and around your thighs, strong and unyielding, pulling you closer, keeping you pinned beneath the relentless heat of his mouth, working you through your second peak, then your third—dragging it out until you were wrecked. The pillow beneath your hips tilted you just right, letting him feast on you without resistance, without space, without break. He worked you over with a hunger that bordered on obsession, like he was determined to know every shudder, every whimper, every broken sob of his name.

Every flick of his tongue, every slow, sinful suck at your clit was answered with a different noise—your gasps, your hitched moans, the choked-off pleas that melted into incoherence. Your hands were tangled in his hair, fingers tightening, pulling, but it only spurred him on. The deeper you buried your nails in his scalp, the deeper he pressed into you, dragging his tongue through your slick heat, slow and ravenous.

When you finally unraveled—violently, desperately—you didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt the damp heat of your own tears on your cheeks.

“B-baby,” you sobbed, wrecked beyond recognition, voice cracking on the plea, your legs kicking uselessly against his iron grip. Your back arched off the mattress, your body twisting, shaking everywhere, lost in the intensity of it, your thighs clamping uselessly around his head as he refused to let you go.

He hummed, the vibration of it making your body seize.

“Please, please, James,” you called his name, hoping it’d snap him out of it. “Bucky, come on, please—”

He groaned against you, a filthy, starved sound, and his lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking, tongue teasing, pressure building and building—

You came so hard your vision blanked.

Everything inside you shattered, pleasure so sharp and deep it broke you.

Your body couldn’t take anymore. You were spent, overstimulated, your mind blank, floating between pleasure and exhaustion. The release had hit you like a tidal wave, and it hadn’t stopped, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation, your limbs shaking violently beneath his grip.

“F-fuck, stop, stop, s-stop, please!” you begged, foot pressing weakly against his shoulder, trying to push him off.

He finally relented, coming up with a gasp, like he’d been underwater and he’d finally managed to climb to the surface.

It dawned on you, then, that this wasn’t about pleasure. He wasn’t just tasting you for the first time. He was consuming you.

Mapping every inch of you with his tongue, etching himself into you, branding you from the inside out. And you hadn’t realized—hadn’t even noticed—that he was just as lost in it as you were.

You didn’t see the way his hands were shaking, how his shoulders trembled from the force of holding himself back. You hadn’t registered the choked, wrecked groans spilling from his throat every time he buried his tongue deeper, pressing into you, like the taste of you was breaking him.

Not until he finally pulled back.

Not until he crawled over you, dog tags dragging over your skin and raising goosebumps along the way.

That was when you saw it—the way he was shaking just as bad as you were, his lips kiss-swollen and wet, his pupils blown wide and wild as they raked over you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his mouth was on yours—hot, deep, claiming.

And oh, god—

You could taste yourself on his tongue.

Bucky groaned, pressing impossibly closer, his body covering yours, his cock heavy, leaking and pressing between your aching slit, sinking you into the mattress like there would never be enough of you to sate him.

“Baby—” you murmured against his lips, dizzy, trembling, still trying to recover, but he swallowed the sound whole, kissing you harder, his hands tangling in your hair, tilting your head back so he could take more.

You barely recognized him like this.

Wild. Uncontrolled.

Starving.

He braced himself on his elbows, his nose brushing yours, his mouth still wet with you, his breath hot as it fanned across your lips. He was vibrating with barely contained energy and you could see it, deep in the blue of his eyes, there was something else, something he hadn’t gotten a handle on, clawing its way up to the surface.

His thumb wiped at the tear tracks on your cheeks and you swallowed hard, reaching up to wrap a hand around his wrist, trying to soothe his and your own tremors, still struggling to catch your breath, still spinning, your body too weak to do anything but let him devour you with his gaze. Your thighs, weak, pressed against his sides.

Your hands trembled as they slid over the slick rigid curve of his back, across the unyielding strength of his shoulders and down to his chest. His heart was hammering under your palm, thundering like a war drum, wild and unrelenting.

“You’re shaking.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching as he gulped in air, like he was drowning. His vibranium hand clenched against the crown of your head, fingers twisting into your hair, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Can I—” His voice was strained, like he barely had the air to form the words. He grinded against you, needy, and you shivered.

“Yes,” you whispered before he could finish. The word was soft but firm, a reassurance, a promise. You shifted beneath him, wrapping your legs fully around his waist, pulling him closer. One arm curled around his neck, your other hand still pressed firmly over his heart.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

You obeyed, though it took everything in you not to look down as he reached between your bodies. The first nudge of his tip had a gasp spilling from your lips, the slow, aching press of him sending a shiver down your spine.

His forehead dropped against yours, breath uneven as he eased in, the slickness of your wetness and his tongue making it effortless for his cock to split you open.

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his jaw clenching so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. “Look at you. Always take me so well… made for me, weren’t you, doll?”

“F-fuck, yes, yes,” you gasped, your head pressing back into the mattress.

With the pillow beneath your hips, the angle felt different—deeper, somehow, like he was carving himself into you, and it made your mind swim.

“Yes what?”

“I was made for you,” you nodded, head thrashing as your hips rolled up to meet his. His whole body shuddered.

“Wha the fuck, how are you’re so deep,” you sobbed, overwhelmed. “Holy fuck, I’m–”

Bucky let out a sharp exhale, pulling back and pressing in again, slow, deliberate, pushing deeper inch by inch until he bottomed out. The stretch of him filled you to the brim, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs, every thought from your head, until there was nothing but him.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, shaking, nails scraping his scalp. You forced your eyes open, desperate to see him—

And the sight wrecked you.

His pupils were blown wide, his expression stricken, like something inside of him was breaking apart piece by piece. His body taut like a bowstring about to snap, his breath labored, rattling like it was hurting him to hold it in.

He thrust into you, deep and sharp, hard, his hands gripping at your waist, your thighs, anywhere he could hold onto. His rhythm was frantic, uneven, like he was chasing something he couldn’t catch, something just out of reach. Every drag of him against your walls, every wet slap of skin on skin, every sound ripped from your lips only seemed to unravel him further.

He was gone.

“J-James—” you called, swallowing against the lump in your throat, but he wasn’t listening.

His head dropped against your shoulder, lips pressing into your throat, his breath ragged, body trembling. He pushed your leg up, pressing it to his shoulder and you yelped when he thrust again, and then again, and again, the force behind it pushing both of you up the bed, skin slick with sweat gliding, his movements stuttering—

“Tell me something,” he ground out, his voice cracking like he was holding onto something fragile, something slipping right through his fingers. “Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“You want me?”

“Yes, baby–”

He needed something from you.

Something more than just this.

This wasn’t just about needing you physically—it was something clawing at him from the inside out. He needed proof. Reassurance. A vow sealed in the way your bodies tangled, in the words you breathed against his skin.

“You won’t leave again?”

“I didn’t–”

“Don’t leave m–” And then he thrust so sharply—quick, deep, pushing the air from your lungs, making your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then again.

And again.

Each movement came with a noise, a sharp exhale, a choked-off sound, something fractured, something beyond his control.

Bucky let out a sound—something low and strangled, you felt it in your bones. His hands were shaking, his grip bruising.

You knew it before he did.

His whole body locked up, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow gasps. His eyes were wild, unfocused, his lips parted, but no air seemed to be enough. He was panicking.

You felt the tremors wracking through him, his grip on your hip bruising now, his cock twitching inside you, his thrusts growing frantic, desperate, like he was fighting to stay here, in this moment with you, fighting against whatever storm was raging inside of him.

He had lost himself in you, and now he was spiraling.

“Bucky—Bucky, stop,” you gasped, voice urgent.

You cupped his face, your touch firm but gentle despite the chaotic energy rolling off him in waves, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones, coaxing him back to you, back to himself.

“Baby, James,” you called, louder, pulling him to the surface. “Look at me. Come back to me. Come on, honey, come back to me.”

His whole body shook. He sucked in a stuttering breath, his chest heaving, and finally—

His eyes flickered open.

And god, he looked so lost.

Blue eyes wide, glassy, unfocused, his lips parted like he was about to speak, but no words came out, only a shaky exhale.

“Bucky,” you whispered, relieved, tilting his chin until he was fully looking at you. “It’s okay, ‘you’re okay. You’re not alone,” you whispered, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, over the curve of his jaw, soft, grounding. “I’ve got you. I’m right here, Bucky.”

His breath hitched.

You pressed your forehead against his, noses brushing, keeping him anchored to you, letting him feel you, letting him hear you. “Breathe with me,” you murmured, voice gentle, coaxing.

One breath in.

One breath out.

His chest rose sharply, fell again, but you held him there, hands warm, voice soft, whispering his name like a lifeline, one after the other until he exhaled.

His grip loosened, his muscles uncoiling one by one, his weight settling over you, solid and real, no longer fighting, no longer lost. You felt the moment he let go, the moment the tension bled from his body. You wrapped your arms around him, threading fingers through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, soothing, comforting.

“You’re safe,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the damp skin of his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

For a long time, he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t pull out, the mess between your legs sticky and uncomfortable even though he hadn’t finished and by the time he finally moved, bracing his weight on unsteady forearms, you were sore.

When he looked at you, something inside of him had shifted. You swore you could see it. The way he was looking at you, like you were something sacred, something steady, something he never thought he could have. Like home. And now you were it for him.

His fingers trembled as he reached for your face, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips as if he needed to convince himself you were really here.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was hoarse.

You turned into his touch, catching his palm in yours, pressing a kiss to the center of it. “I’m here.”

His throat bobbed again. His forehead dropped against yours, his breath warm against your lips as he exhaled, slow, measured, steady.

“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely there.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head, your fingers tracing slow, comforting lines down his spine.

A sharp exhale. A quiet, broken sound that he swallowed down before it could form into something more. His hand tightened around yours.

"Will you do something for me?" You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead before your fingers found the familiar chain around his neck. His dog tags. He hadn’t taken them off. You could still feel the sore spot on your chest, where the weight of him had imprinted them into your skin. Branded you. You were sure his name had somehow found its way into your skin like a tattoo. The thought made your breath hitch, made something twist in your stomach.

Your fingers closed around the tags, feeling the warmth of the metal against your palm. "Tell me your name?"

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t question you.

"Bucky," he breathed. His lips were dry, sticking together until his tongue darted out to wet them.

"Full name. Please," you coaxed, fingertips dragging along the chain.

He swallowed, the movement thick, but his gaze remained steady. "James Buchanan Barnes."

"Good," you murmured, leaning up to brush your nose against his, the tight squeeze around your heart easing slightly. "Your rank."

His jaw clenched. "It’s not—" He shook his head, frustration flickering through the blue of his eyes. "It’s not like that anymore. I’m not—"

"I know, my love." Your thumbs caressed his cheeks, grounding him, guiding him. "I’m not worried about that… I’m trying to help. Your rank, please."

A slow inhale. A heavy exhale.

"Sergeant James Barnes."

"Good," you whispered. "And where are we?”

“Washington.”

Pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, you squeezed him into a hug. “You're here. You're with me. You’re safe."

His arms wrapped around you then, pulling you in, holding you close like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing, whispering reassurances against his temple.

"What happened?" you asked gently.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I don’t... I don’t know,” he rasped, his voice unsteady. “I just—” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “I couldn’t get close enough. I tried, but it wasn’t— I don’t know how to explain it. It was like my chest was too tight, my head too full, my body—fuck, my body wouldn’t settle. I just... I got lost in you.”

Your heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his voice, at the way he trembled against you. You cradled the back of his head, anchoring him, holding him steady. “I think you got overstimulated,” you said gently, your lips brushing against his hair. “Too much sensation all at once.”

He didn’t respond right away, but you felt his small nod against your neck, his breath still uneven.

“We should maybe talk about it later,” you offered. “Find a way to help ground you when it happens.”

A long silence stretched between you before he finally murmured, “Yeah. Yeah, that might help.”

Your hands traced gentle patterns along his back, feeling some of the tension still locked in his muscles. “There’s something else,” you said, shifting just enough to meet his eyes. “Buck... is there something you need from me, baby? I don’t want to trigger you, but—” You hesitated, searching his face. “—you were trying to do something to me, get something, and I’m not sure what.”

His jaw tensed, and for a moment, you thought he might shut down. But then he took a slow breath, his eyes dark and heavy with something unspoken. “You told me once this was something you couldn’t walk away from. But you left,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “At the house, you left. And I thought... I thought you realized I wasn’t worth it. I thought I lost you. Then, when we talked, it felt like no matter what I said, I couldn’t hold on to you. You were the only person who ever chose me, scars and all... and I was losing you.” He exhaled, long and slow. “I was scared. And I think—I think I was trying to make you stay. To... I don’t know. Brand you as mine. If you were mine, then you couldn’t leave. Something like that.”

His words cracked you open, and emotion crawled up your throat, thick and suffocating. There had already been too many breakdowns tonight, too much emotion spilling over, but you couldn’t stop the way your chest ached for him.

“Bucky,” you mumbled, shifting slightly, your leg sliding up the back of his thigh, needing to ground yourself in him. “I’m gonna say something, and you can take your time with it, okay?”

He nodded, silent.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “When I left, it wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because I was hurting. I was so scared I was losing you—to your fear, to that fucking bitch Sharon—” he huffed out a laugh, and you pinched his waist. “—that I couldn’t even think straight.” You shook your head, fingers tightening in his hair. “You were pulling away, and I wasn’t sure if... if loving you would be enough. For you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and wounded, but you pressed on before he could interrupt, blinking up at the ceiling, too afraid to look at him. “But I want to be your person. I want to be yours for the rest of our lives if you’ll have me. I really do.”

His breath hitched, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “So this is the part you can't get scared about, okay?” You nodded, closing your eyes. “I’m talking stupid-ass marriage and babies if that’s what forever means to you. Or any other version of it. Not now, because we have so much to figure out still, but… this is it, for me.”

“And I don’t ever want to force your hand. I will never force you into anything, do you understand that?” You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint stubble. “I will ask for what I need, I will lay it all out, but I will never demand something from you that you’re not ready to give.”

You couldn’t help the next part, the jealous part of you still shaken from earlier. “And if you wanted to leave me for that bitch, I’d call you a dumbass and probably punch you and cry myself to sleep for the rest of my life, but if it truly made you happy... I wouldn’t stop you.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours, his breathing uneven, the hint of a smile pulling on the corners of his lips. “Stop talking about Sharon while I’m still inside you.”

“Fine.” You shifted, huffing, annoyed, and he groaned. “Ignore everything I just told you and focus on that.”

He finally laughed then, and you felt yourself relax a little, relieved. “We’re so fucked up,” you breathed out, a mixture of a laugh and a sob, and you squeezed him, your body a cage around his. “Truly, it’s amazing we even got this far.”

“Well, you chose to fall in love with a brainwashed assassin,” he accused, and you laughed again, this time a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Former assassin. Current traumatized hunk. And I did, god, I really did,” you nodded, nuzzling his neck. “And I’d do it again. And again, and again.”

“Good thing there’s only one of me. And only one of you. Only have to go through it once.”

“As many times as it takes, Bucky.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

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yoitsjay · 2 months ago

Note

Hey I absolutely LOVE you…….(r) writing style. Do/Can you make a fic about what makes BatBoys feel like “home” with reader? Like relationship wise. If this doesn’t make sense I’m sorry, this m first time making a request 😭✌️. Ty's!

No it makes sense! Thank you for the request!

Like Home

Summary: How you're the batboys home.

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff

Bruce Wayne:

To Bruce Wayne, home isn't a place. Its you.

Typically Bruce is wary of genuine, committed relationships, his kids definitely warned him about people dating him just for his money, but when he met you, right off the bat you were so different.

From the moment you rushed to pay for dinner before Bruce could was the moment he knew he wanted you.

Home to Bruce is waking up in the morning with you still fast asleep in his arms, lips parted slightly as soft snores escape your lips. Home to him is holding you from behind as you cook breakfast for everyone instead of Alfred.

Home to him is holding you close as he- (we won't finish that sentence)

you, and all the things you do, big or small, mean the world to him, and he wants things to stay like this forever…

Dick Grayson:

Home to Dick Grayson is freedom, or it was until he met you.

He had bumped into you in a coffee shop and you were in a pretty heated argument with one of the other patrons there, defending an elderly lady who was only just trying to buy coffee.

When the guy had raised his hand to you, Dick was about to step in and stop the fight, only to see you deflect the blow, twist the mans wrist and pin him to the wall within seconds.

After that he had to ask for your number.

Then on patrol the following evening, a new hero arrived in gotham, someone oddly familiar to him.

You and Dick started working together on patrol, and in person too, since you had been one of the new interns at Wayne Enterprises, so it was a good excuse to see you more often. Though you both had no idea about each others identities until one really rough battle… and to make a long story short you ended up in his apartment, kissing him when you had accidentally knocked his mask off.

“Dick!?”

You ended up revealing yourself that night, too, and after that, you and Dick started dating. Being with you, fighting alongside you, and cherishing freedom quickly changed to cherishing you, wanting you to be his forever. You became something he wanted to come back to alive every night… and that was good enough for him.

Jason Todd:

You had always been his home. From the moment you met Jason as kids, he always loved you, cared for you, and you did the same.

When he died you were broken, you mourned for who knows how long, and everyone knew that your spark had died along with Jason.

When he came back, you were stunned.

You had just gotten home from work, and noticed your living room window wide open, and in the room itself stood a large man.

You wasted no time in attacking. Jason and you trained together as kids, and after his death you continued training under Bruce and Dick, so you liked to think you were pretty good.

But for some reason your intruder wasnt hitting you back.

He only fell to his knees and he hugged your waist tightly.

“I’m home- im home- im so sorry-” He whispered, and you froze.

“Jason…?”

“Im home baby, im not leavin’ you again”

you both cried, for a while probably, but despite the tears, the trauma he revealed to you, you did nothing but comfort and love him, and hold him close as he cried into your chest about how much he missed you.

he found his home in you a long time ago… “If only i hadnt been so reckless, i would have never lost you-”

“you didnt lose me Jason, ive been here, waiting for the time i could see you again… it came alot sooner… Screw you Thalia Al Ghul, and thank you for bringing my Jason back to me”

Tim Drake:

You had Tim had been dating for a few years at this point, it had been more on the arranged side, Your father and Bruce were really close friends, and they had agreed after finding out that you and Tim were the same age and both single, that you two had to at least meet, and talk and get to know each other.

You agreed, Tim was more reluctant.

Turns out you and him were already friends. You had been close in High School, though you both never revealed much about your family lives, so being rich in Gotham kind of flew under the radar.

You and Tim both laughed about it over lunch, though in that time you really started to get to know each other. Had you always been so beautiful?

After a little bit, he asked you out officially. You said yes, and your relationship evolved into something he couldn't ever give up. Similar to Bruce, he found comfort in the littlest things. The way you held him ran your fingers through his hair and made his shoulders sag in relaxation. That was home to him.

Damian Wayne:

Damian Wayne hated you.

he despised you, and you had no idea why.

You were Alfred’s niece, and after your parents had died you had come to gotham to stay with Alfred since he had become your legal guardian.

You tried to mind your own business, you helped alfred clean, became a maid of sorts to earn your keep, even though Bruce, more than once assured you that you didnt need to worry. You still did.

Damian took advantage of that and took advantage of the whole maid aspect, you did a lot for that guy and yet, he despised you.

Then he found out that you had been asked out on a date by someone from Gotham Academy, a school you both went too.

“You’re not allowed.”

Damian stated as he walked up to you in the manor, and you looked over from where you were cleaning. “Huh?” You questioned, unsure as to what he was talking about.

“Your not allowed to go on a date with that child. Your my girlfriend now.” Damian stated, and your eyes went wide.

You kinda… just couldnt say no.

after that Damian started treating you a lot nicer, he did a lot of small things for you, payed attention to the things you looked at or liked, and more often then not, the same item would be on your bed.

he found comfort in the things you did for him, and you had no idea, but he treated you like dog shit because of his fat crush on you.

what… The… fuck.

Tag list:

All: @only-my-unexistent-fiances @francesfarhadi

Batfam:

Bruce Wayne: @ilaiise

Dick Grayson: @ilaiise

Jason Todd: @ilaiise

Tim Drake: @ilaiise

Damian Wayne: @ilaiise

#fanfiction #batfam x reader #batfam fanfic #batfam #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake

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bookworrm1999 · 15 days ago

Text

A Mark Upon Thee…

18+, Caleb’s name tattooed on MC, first time, dry humping, thigh fucking, tattoos

Words: 2.5k

Caleb pounds you into the mattress because a tattoo of his name on you makes him crazy.

AO3

————————————————————————

Caleb had just brought you back to his home, your things on the floor.

You look around curiously but the house seemed so dull and lifeless.

As if no one lived here at all.

“Do you even live here?”

“I do sometimes, I’m usually on missions, keeping myself busy. Here, give me your hand.”

A bit confused, you give him your hand to hold. He turns you to the door, your back to his chest as he uses your fingertip to add it to the door’s lock.

His breath tickles your neck so you turn your head to look at him a bit.

You hear a sharp inhale from Caleb as he lets go of your hand suddenly.

He lifts a hand towards you neck and brushes some hair back into your bun, his fingertips lingering on the skin behind your left ear.

“What is this?”

Oh, he’s seen it now. After the explosion, you were devastated.

You missed Caleb so much that it was like you were missing a part of your body.

Losing him only made you realize your feelings too late.

As a reminder and a commemoration, you had his name tattooed in calligraphy behind your left ear.

Not many people saw it because your hair usually hid it, it was something usually only for you.

The man you had loved forever enshrined on your body, so that he’d still be with you even after death.

You reach up and lay your hand over his, covering the delicate letters that spelled out Caleb.

A true statement over the claim he had over you.

“I got it after I thought you had died.”

His grip tightens around your fingers still gently laid over your ear.

Heavy breaths made the hairs on your exposed neck stand straight up.

Sending shivers down your spine. He noticed.

Caleb stepped a bit closer, your back barely touching his chest.

The heat radiating from him, the closeness of your bodies, his trembling grasp of your fingers.

The air practically trembled from the energy in the room.

“Why?” He sounds absolutely wrecked, like he had been the one mourning your death all these months.

“I thought I had lost you. You were everything to me and then you were just gone.”

A tear slips from your eye and your chest heaves a bit from the heavy feeling in your heart.

“This was a way to keep you close to me still.”

Caleb lets your fingers go to trace the flowing text, his fingertip going further to glide down your neck.

A heat rose in you and you tried to turn to look at him. His hand stopped you around your waist, his eyes seemingly still drinking in the mark you had made for him.

“Caleb?”

“Do you have any idea what this does to me?”

Well you had an idea of what you’d like it to do to him but the hope of that was small inside you. He had always treated you as a friend but maybe he saw you differently now?

You turned your neck more to glance at his face. The sight of it, it nearly took your breath away.

His eyes dark, pupils dilated, lips pressed together in a thin line, a faint pink flush that traveled from his cheeks to his ears.

Maybe the idea wasn’t so preposterous after all. So you ask a bit slyly

“Oh, do you like it?”

“Like it?” He grunts, catching your eye, giving you a sly smile.

“Oh I more than like it.”

You decided to press him, make the first move in this stalemate. His hand was resting in the curve of your neck and shoulder. Bending your neck to the side a bit, still holding his gaze, you lightly kissed one of his fingers.

Caleb watched you with anticipation, his breath pluming over your exposed neck. Deciding to see how far you can go before he breaks, you reach down with your mouth open and take a finger inside.

His mouth falls open now, eyes going half lidded as he watches you savor his finger like it’s a delicacy.

A low moan escapes him, going straight to your core and igniting the flame.

You bite his finger lightly, swirling your tongue around it, tempting him with where else you could do this.

“Unnngh… haaa… mmm.” Breathy moans escaping his mouth set you on fire.

You arch your back a bit, rubbing your butt into him.

Smiling around his finger with triumph, you felt it, a hard curve nestled neatly into you.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Caleb pushes you into the door, rock hard against you and lifting you to meet him.

Taking his hand away, he returns with his lips, hot and needy against your neck. Trailing open mouthed kisses up to where his name laid upon you.

Trailing his nose up behind the curve of your ear before making his way back down with a hot tongue.

Whimpering at the sensations he was stoking inside you, you ground back into him.

“Caleb please.”

“It’s too late now.”

“No I-“ you gasp as he lifts your hips and tilts them back so that his cock meets your soaked core. “I want this, I need you. Don’t leave me again.”

Caleb groans heavily, leaning against the door and bracing himself with both hands as he grinds into you.

“You don’t know the things you do to me- ugh! Gonna be so good to you baby just- hngh… such a good girl.”

The praise goes straight through you, you reach your hands up to slide over his. Using the additional leverage to continue to grind and soak through his uniform pants.

The white pants did nothing to hide his training cock nor the evidence of your need for him drenched into the fabric.

Every roll slipping against you, your dress that you were now wearing riding up at the hem as it made its way up, now exposing your underwear to him.

The sounds of your frantic embrace squishing, your whimpers, his low moans and the occasional low curse of “oh fuck” espcaping his lips.

The impending wave was cresting inside you as his cock started to slip and slide through the side of your underwear.

The feeling of his bare cock against your folds and teasing your clit sent you over the edge.

Keening, you froze before you started jerking back against him and legs trembling.

You started to slump a little before he picked you up by your thighs, holding them tightly together.

He started fucking your thighs, juices dribbling down your legs as you panted coming down from you high.

“I never thought that- ugh- that I’d ever be here. Wanted it so bad- guh!”

His thick cock head arousing you even now as it popped between your thighs.

Caleb groaned low in this throat, painting your thighs and the door with thick ropes of cum.

He carried you to the couch before his strength was spent, landing you in his lap as you both caught your breath.

“God I’m a mess now.”

Caleb laughed, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You think I’m any better?”

You hum, turning in his lap to face him properly. Holding his face between your hands, you gently caress him. His eyes closed in ecstasy from your touch.

“I love you.” Eyes snapping open to look at you with a reignited frenzy deep inside.

“You love me?”

“Of course I do, you dolt! Why do you think I got your name tattooed on me in the first place? I only realized it after losing you, just how much you meant to me.”

“I love you too.” You lean forward to kiss him gently, the calm after the storm.

But your confession had made him all the more hungry to hold you close.

Still kissing you, he lays you back on the couch. Caleb kisses his way down your neck, your breasts, your belly until he reaches your still wet pussy.

Inhaling like it’s an expensive perfume, he brings his face close and licks a stripe up your folds.

Cleaning your juices from your last orgasm.

Gasping from the overstimulation

“Wait! Not so rough, I’m still sensitive!”

“Good.”

He dives in like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead so he expertly slips off his uniform jacket and unbuttons his shirt.

Leaving his magnificent chest on display for your eyes.

His tongue curls around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. His fingers reach up and delicately brush against you.

Experimentally sliding one finger in, it makes you groan and thrust his face.

A delighted look of bliss settles onto his face as he eats you with precision.

A thought crosses your mind that makes you jealous.

“Have you done this before? Ah!”

He pulls away a bit while still leisurely pumping two of his fingers now in and out of you.

“No, you’re my first everything. I’m just an expert on the subject of you.”

Caleb presses his fingers up into the top of your walls as if searching, ah there it was. He found your g-spot, making you whine and scramble as if you’re unsure to get away or move closer.

“Any other men I should keep an eye out for, squeaks?”

“N-no I’ve never done anything with anybody before. Haaa!”

This seems to delight him as he brings his face back to your clit. Sucking it in and out of his mouth gently while flicking it with his tongue.

He brings you to the brink, feeling the tightening of your walls, he stops.

You whine as he pulls his fingers out.

“What?”

Without a word, he carries you down the hallway to a room that seems a bit cozier than the rest of the empty house.

Plopping you down on the bed, he eyes you like you’re a piece of art displayed at a museum.

“Caleb? Why’d you stop?”

“I want to be inside you.” He goes to the closet and pulls out a box.

“I keep these in here just in case.” Caleb pulls out a condom and looks at you asking with his eyes.

“I want you inside me too. But… you don’t have to wear that.”

Glancing up at him through your eyelashes shyly, you hear his breath hitch in excitement.

“That seems like it could lead to danger.”

“Is it really dangerous if I’m with you though?”

He slips his pants and shirt off, hurrying over to you on the bed, almost tripping.

Cock straining up, an angry red and dripping with precum.

You lick your lips with anticipation.

“How do you want me?”

“On your belly. I want to see my name on you while I fuck you into the mattress.”

This idea excites you as you flip over. Curious how this position was going to work if you weren’t on your knees.

Caleb comes up behind you, hands on either side of you, trapping you in a cage made of him.

“Last chance to go.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?”

He leans down to your ear, the one with his name, and whispers

“I can handle anything if I have you.”

Caleb slides a hand under your stomach, lifting your waist so your your pussy was tilted up at him. Otherwise you were flat on the bed, your breath hot with excitement.

He grabbed his cock, pumping it a bit as he slides the tip around your folds.

“I’ll go slow at first, just tell me if it hurts.”

“No, don’t go slow, fill me up please.”

“Fuck.”

He slides in all the way to your cervix, only a slight pinch before all you feel is the pleasure of being full.

His balls laying heavily right up against your folds and the feeling of them laying on your thighs excites you.

Caleb breathes heavily, his chest pressing you into the mattress as he gets his bearings.

Whining, you push and grind up into him. The pressure and angle, pushing him into your g spot.

“Hold on, or this is will be much shorter than I want it to be.”

“I’d take it as a compliment.”

He snorts into your hair.

“I sure as hell won’t.”

Sliding back a bit before sheathing himself back into your walls, the sensation of him dragging inside you is so good.

It’s a delicate balance, keeping your back arched enough that he doesn’t pop out. But the position is so erotic, feeling him pressing down into you. Fucking you into the mattress, the sheets stimulating your clit but not quite enough.

Caleb’s balls hitting the meat of your thighs every time he thrusts himself into you roughly, god it makes you so feral.

“Let me bite your hand Caleb!” You whine out into the night air.

He stuffs it into your mouth, no questions asked as you bite down into the meat below his thumb.

“Fuck! If I knew it felt this good, I would’ve- ngh- tried to convince you sooner.”

“Would you have snuck in to my room in the middle of the night?”

The fantasy turning you both on as you both started to get close. His cock making a mess of your thighs as the mattress becomes soaked below you.

“God yes, fucking you like this but my hand keeping you from making any noise. So we wouldn’t get caught.”

The thought of getting caught turns you on a bit as you clench your walls around his girth.

He moans and tells you to touch yourself, he’s not gonna last long.

So you slide your hand under you to your clit, rubbing it a few times while feeling his balls slap against you is all it takes.

“Caleb!” You bite down hard on his hand and he jerks, your neck craning just enough for him to see his name on you once more.

Caleb explodes inside you, pumping his cum into you, not wanting to waste a drop.

A few more slow thrusts, pulling you to your sides, keeping you stuffed with his cock still.

Panting together a bit before laughing in delight. You still feel so delightfully full, you rub your stomach, you can feel him through it.

He shudders as he asks

“You good?”

“That was amazing.” You sigh and reach back with your head, searching for his lips. Caleb kisses you as if time has stopped for just the two of you.

He pulls away and noses his name behind your ear.

“I take it that this means you’ll stay.”

“Are you kidding? You’re never getting rid of me.”

#love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #lads smut

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kashverse · 16 days ago

Note

Hello!

Im really interested in Choso’s and YN relationship in you Parents AU (that’s what I’m calling it at least). Poor man could use a break from the chaos that is babykuna.

I was wondering if you could write something YN helping him relax after a day of babysitting Sukuna kids. It looks like it’s a lot for him.

what the hell happened with the babies of the gojo and sukuna household? → read here !! what the hell are the cats listening to? → read here !!

choso does not get paid enough for this. in fact, he does not get paid at all. and while he loves his niece—his little princess, his munchkin—he is still just a man. and by that, he means that he has a limit.

today’s adventures in babysitting included two crying toddlers, an overdramatic maine coon mourning the chaos of his life, a tabby cat that looked ready to commit war crimes, and sukuna popping a tylenol like it was a tic tac. he does not know why babytoru and babykuna were beefing over a slide, he just knows that he was the one left carrying a screaming, sand-covered babytoru back to her father while babykuna sniffled against her own dad’s leg, refusing to apologize. and after all of that, after an entire day of unpaid labor, choso finally drags himself home—shoes scuffed, hoodie covered in child fingerprints, mentally and emotionally drained—and nearly drops to his knees in pure joy when he sees you sitting in his living room.

you, his beautiful, ethereal girlfriend, sitting cross-legged on his couch, home after weeks of being away on jobs, looking like a dream. he barely even has the strength to speak, just lets out a breath of relief, shuffling towards you like a war veteran returning home. “long day?” you murmur, cradling an espresso cup in one hand like the wise, all-knowing woman that you are, watching him with mild amusement as he melts onto the couch beside you, face buried in your lap.

“i don’t know how i survived,” he mumbles into the fabric of your sweatpants, clinging to your thighs like a lifeline. “they were fighting. over a slide. babykuna pushed babytoru, she landed face-first in the sand, ruined her ‘loo-wiss vuhee vu-ton’ dress, and then they both started crying.” you hum in understanding, carding your fingers through his hair while taking a slow sip of your espresso. “ah, yes. the pride of youth.”

he groans. “it wasn’t pride. it was war.”

“you are but a man,” you agree sagely.

“i am but a man.” he sighs, body going limp. “but at least i have you.”

choso nuzzles deeper into your lap as if hoping you’ll absorb all the pain from today. you, his beautiful, always-on-the-go girlfriend, who has been hopping between countries for photoshoots and runway shows for weeks now, are finally home, blessing him with your presence. and oh, how he needs it.

“you look nice,” he mumbles against your thigh, voice muffled but full of reverence. “haven’t seen you in sweats in forever. usually, you’re in those fancy dresses or some… couture thing.” you smirk, taking a slow sip of your espresso. “i do wear normal clothes, you know.”

“do you?” he deadpans, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. “last time you were here, you had a suitcase full of silk and cashmere.”

“a woman has needs.” you shrug.

“my need is you.” he grumbles, arms tightening around your waist. “in sweats. forever.”

you chuckle, setting your cup down to comb through his hair. “well, lucky you. i’m not leaving for another week.” his grip immediately tightens. “a week?”

“a whole week.”

he groans, melting against you like butter on toast. “best news i’ve heard all day.”

“better than the cats liking ‘creep’ by radiohead?”

“by far.”

you pat his head, the ultimate seal of approval. “now, do you want to keep complaining, or do you want me to kiss you until you forget the traumatic events of today?”

he doesn’t even hesitate. “kiss. immediately.”

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reidsbabyhoney · 4 months ago

Text

second chances | s.r.

the one where Spence regrets everything that’s happened in the past six months.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader category: angst, fluff cw: none wc: 3.3k a/n: this took forever to write because every time i tried writing it i absolutely hated how it came out. i’m hoping i gave them the ending they deserved and that you all love it! also please let me know if there's any warnings I should add.

pt.1 masterlist spencer reid masterlist

The entire car ride home was a blur, and you mean that literally. The tears that coated your eyes never seemed to stop even after you arrived back home. The dull hum of the engine couldn't seem to drown out the noise-deafening pounding in your chest.

You couldn't help but replay every moment from tonight on a loop, the gut wrenching realization that Spencer moved on so quickly, so easily. It felt as if your entire world had been tilted on its axis and you were left to live in a reality that didn't make any sense.

Maya. You hadn't been able to look at her without a sharp pang of jealousy making its way though your chest. The way she spoke to Spencer, so casually, so possessively like you were going to take her from him at any second. But in reality that's what she did to you.

You told yourself that you were fine, that you had enough time to move on and get over that relationship, but its clear you were lying to yourself. Every moment you were in his presence were the few moments of bliss where you could pretend everything with him was normal.

You had loved him. You still did. The harsh truth of that might've hurt worse than tonight's events.

Once you finally arrived home you didn't bother to go inside right away. Turning off the car you sit staring at the dashboard, trying to ground yourself in something, anything but the whirlwind of emotions going on in your mind right now.

As your about to open the door, your phone buzzes in the passenger seat. Picking it up you see it's a message from Penelope.

From: Penny

Are you okay, sweetheart? If you need anything I'm just a phone call away. Please don't let his stupidity ruin your night, we all know how much of an amazing person you are!

A small smile painted its way across your features, though drained and not very genuine.

You quickly texted her back letting her know you were okay and just needed some time to process everything. With that you finally got out of the car making your way inside, preparing for another sleepless night.

You had taken the day off. Well technically you didn't request it, it was given to you by Hotch. The team had just gotten back from a long gruesome case and he decided that everyone needed some time to decompress.

It had been a couple weeks since 'The Incident' as Emily has so kindly labeled it. Since then the unkind thoughts hadn't left your mind.

You spent most of the day curled up on the couch barely able to focus on the movies playing on the TV. Your mind was a storm of thoughts that blossomed from that night, though not into flowers, more so like weeds that didn't want to fully be pulled from the ground.

You replayed every word he said that night. Every glance, subtle expression. There was no warmth in his tone, nothing that suggested the gentle, awkward genius who had found solace in your presence.

You knew it hurt, but what hurt more was the realization that Spencer wasn't the only thing you lost that night. You were mourning the loss of what had been, what could've been.

The next morning, you showed up at the office. The decision half-hearted, debating on requesting for another day out of the crowded space. You're not sure what you were expecting, for something to just change overnight, or if you needed to prove to yourself that you could handle it.

You walked in to see the team gathered around the bullpen. Derek was leaning against the counter, talking animatedly to JJ, while Penelope was chattering away in her usual high-energy manner. They all seemed fine, but you knew they could feel your emotions. You had always worn them on your sleeve, and the team was nothing if not perceptive.

And Spencer? He was nowhere to be found.

Your heart dropped, but you quickly masked the disappointment with a neutral expression. You couldn’t allow yourself to think about him right now, not with everything else going on.

As you slid into your chair, you could feel their eyes on you every now and then, but none of them dared to speak up. It was only when the elevator doors opened that you saw Spencer walking toward the bullpen. His usual awkward stride was missing, replaced by something… hesitant. His eyes briefly met yours, but instead of the usual spark of familiarity, there was something different. Something strained.

He was carrying a large coffee cup in his hand, but it seemed like he was just holding it for the sake of holding it.

“y/n,” he said softly, his voice laced with the same uncertainty that had been present in his eyes. You barely met his gaze, your stomach doing somersaults at the sight of him.

“Spence,” you said, offering a forced smile. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing, but you couldn’t let yourself show it.

“I, uh, can we talk?” he asked, his words tumbling out in that way that was so quintessentially Spencer.

Your gaze flickered around the room, but you didn’t want to make a scene. “Now’s not the best time.”

He nodded, but you could see the disappointment in his face. He hesitated for a moment before turning away and heading to his own desk. You didn’t watch him go, how could you?

Hours passed, and the tension between you and Spencer lingered like a heavy fog. Every now and then, you caught his eyes lingering on you when he thought you weren’t looking, but every time you met his gaze, he looked away.

You were exhausted. Your mind was scattered. And when you finally gathered the courage to step away from your desk to grab a coffee, it was then that Spencer decided to approach you.

“y/n,” he called out gently, his voice softer now, less urgent.

You paused mid-step, not sure how to respond. His presence was overwhelming, and even though you wanted to retreat, you knew you couldn’t keep avoiding him forever.

Turning around slowly, you nodded. “Spencer.”

“Can we talk?” he asked again, this time with more sincerity in his voice.

You studied him carefully, unsure whether you could trust yourself to keep calm. “Do we really need to? I think we’ve said everything we need to say.”

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I don’t think we have. At least not yet.” He paused, looking down at his feet. “Please.”

You could hear the desperation in his voice, and for the first time since that night, you allowed yourself to truly look at him. You didn’t know what had changed, but you knew it was something important. You had loved Spencer for so long, and maybe it was time to let him explain himself.

“Alright,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s talk.”

The conference room door clicked shut behind you, and for a brief moment, you felt like you were trapped. The silence was thick, oppressive. Spencer stood by the window, facing away from you, his shoulders tense, his hands hanging stiffly at his sides. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The space between you felt impossibly wide, like an ocean stretching between two distant shores.

You wanted to scream. To demand answers. To ask why. But you couldn’t, because the truth was, you were too scared of what might come next. The flood of emotions coursing through you felt like too much to bear. And the pain? The pain was undying.

Finally, Spencer spoke, but his voice was soft, almost trembling. “I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his words breaking the stillness in the room, but they did little to ease the ache in your chest.

He turned slowly, his eyes dropping to the floor as if he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I’m so sorry. For the way I ended things... for pushing you away.”

His gaze finally met yours, but there was no spark there, no warmth. Just an empty, hollow ache, the same one you felt. The distance between you both was palpable.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was giving you space to breathe… to move on. To get away from the chaos that’s always been a part of my life.”

The words struck you like a punch to the gut. Protecting you? Was that what this was? Did he think he was being noble by choosing to shut you out?

“You pushed me away, Spencer,” you said, your voice trembling with the rawness of everything you were holding in. “I didn’t ask for space. I didn’t ask for you to shut me out. I was here… I've always been here.” The anger, the hurt, it all poured out of you, and you couldn’t stop it even if you tried. “I just needed you to be honest with me. To tell me the truth, not hide behind your fears.”

His face faltered at your words, and for a moment, he looked like he might crumble under the weight of your pain. “I was scared,” he admitted, his voice breaking as if he hadn’t even meant to say it. “I was scared that if I kept you close, I would ruin everything. That I’d hurt you more. I thought if I pulled away, you’d be better off without me. But all I’ve done is hurt you even more.”

The truth of his words hit you like a wave, but it didn’t bring relief. Instead, it left you feeling raw, exposed. How could he think that? How could he think leaving was the solution? You had been through so much together. But the thought of him choosing to walk away, of him choosing her, it crushed you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you, Spencer,” you whispered, the tears you had been holding back threatening to spill over. Your heart was breaking, the weight of everything that had happened too much to carry anymore.

“You didn’t just break my heart… you broke me. I was waiting for you. I thought... I thought we could work through this. But you didn’t give me a chance. And now you’re asking me to just… what? To just forget?”

Spencer’s face crumpled as if your words were a physical blow, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He was broken too, and for the first time, he looked vulnerable, scared even. “I don’t want you to forget,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion.

“I just want a chance. A chance to prove that I’m not that guy anymore. That I’m not the one who left you… that I’m the one who’s ready to fight for us.”

You shook your head, a sob escaping before you could stop it. “I don’t know if I can believe you anymore, Spencer. I don’t know if I can trust you after everything.”

He stepped forward, his hands trembling as they reached out toward you. “Please,” he whispered, desperation creeping into his voice. “I’ve spent every second of the last six months thinking about how much I screwed up, wishing I could go back and do things differently. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, erratic, unsure whether it was breaking or yearning for something—anything that might bring you peace. You knew Spencer had made mistakes, but he wasn’t the only one at fault. You had kept yourself at a distance too, not because you wanted to, but because you were terrified of what this might mean. Of what letting him back in might cost you.

“I’m scared, Spencer,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m scared that if I let you back in, you’ll leave again. That you’ll hurt me again.”

He closed the distance between you, standing just inches away now. You could see the unshed tears in his eyes, the way his face was etched with guilt and regret. He reached for your hand, but instead of pulling away, you let him. You let him hold you, as fragile as it felt, as broken as you both were in that moment.

“I won’t leave again,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear. I’ll fight for you. For us. I’ll fight for as long as it takes.”

The raw honesty in his voice, his words full of pain, of hope. It made something inside you snap. The walls you had built around your heart were crumbling, piece by piece. You didn’t know if you could ever go back to the way things were, but maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something new. Something better.

“I’m not asking for things to be perfect,” Spencer continued, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, the small touch making your pulse race. “I just need you to know that I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You met his gaze then, your eyes brimming with unshed tears, but this time they weren’t just born from hurt. There was something else there. Something like hope. “I’m not ready to forgive you yet, Spencer,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “But I’m willing to try. I’m willing to see where this goes. If you really mean it.”

His face softened, the tension easing just a fraction. “I do,” he whispered, his hand still gently holding yours. “I mean it. More than anything.”

And as he pulled you into his arms, you let yourself hold on, just for a moment. You weren’t sure where this would lead, or if you could ever truly forget the pain. But for the first time in a long while, you weren’t alone. And maybe that was enough.

It was one of those quiet mornings that felt like a small slice of heaven. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft glow through the windows, and the only sound in the apartment was the rhythmic hum of the coffee maker.

The air was still cool from the night before, but the warmth of the morning sun slowly crept in, filling the room with a gentle golden light.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, your bare feet tucked under you, a mug of coffee warming your hands. Your hair was messy from sleep, but you didn’t mind.

You had gotten used to waking up next to Spencer every morning, and the sight of him, still half-asleep, a little rumpled, and incredibly endearing, was one of the small things you’d grown to cherish.

Spencer was at the counter, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he flipped through a pile of paperwork. The clutter of his case files and textbooks was a normal part of your life now, but the way he had rearranged things over the past few months, more neatly than ever before, was a quiet testament to how much he had changed. He wasn’t perfect, but he was working on it. He was trying, and that was all that mattered.

“Y/n?” Spencer’s voice broke the quiet, pulling your attention away from your thoughts.

You looked up from your coffee, meeting his soft brown eyes. He was still wearing his sleep-filled smile, the one that only appeared after a good night’s sleep, when he wasn’t overthinking or buried under a pile of cases.

“I was wondering… would you mind helping me with something later?” His voice was tentative, but there was something else there now, something more confident. He wasn’t afraid to ask for help anymore.

You’d noticed that shift in him over the past few months, the way he wasn’t afraid to lean on you, to let you in when before he would have kept his distance. It had taken time, but now, when he needed you, he knew how to reach for you without hesitation.

“Of course,” you said with a smile, your heart swelling at how far you’d come since that difficult conversation. “What do you need help with?”

Spencer hesitated for just a moment, glancing down at the paperwork. His fingers hovered over the pile, as though unsure how to ask. “I’m working on this case… and I just need to go over the details. I know you’ve got that… special way of seeing things,” he said with a playful grin, using the affectionate nickname you’d earned after countless cases where your instincts had been spot on. “You’re better at spotting the details than I am.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, playfully teasing. “Oh, so now I’m the expert, huh? I thought you were the genius here.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and he shook his head, walking over to the table and taking a seat across from you. He didn’t even try to hide the fondness in his gaze as he looked at you. “You are the expert,” he said softly. “And I’m just the guy who gets to learn from you every day.”

The words lingered between you, warm and comfortable. You reached across the table, brushing your fingers over his hand in a simple, affectionate gesture. A small smile played on your lips as you felt his fingers intertwine with yours, and for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hold anything back. There was no fear of losing each other, no worry that the cracks would reopen. Everything—every single piece of you—had found a place next to him, and for once, it felt right.

“I’ll help you,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “Just like I always do.”

Spencer’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting a quiet sense of gratitude. You knew, deep down, that he wasn’t just thankful for your help with the case. He was thankful for everything—for your patience, for your trust, for the fact that despite all the mistakes and misunderstandings, you were still here. You had come through the storm together, stronger than before, and you could feel it in every touch, in every glance. There was an unspoken understanding between you now. A promise that no matter what came your way, you would face it as a team.

“You know,” Spencer said, his voice low, “I never thought I’d have something like this. Something so... real. So comfortable.”

You laughed softly, the sound light and free, a stark contrast to the uncertainty that had plagued your earlier months together. “I think we’ve finally figured out how to make it work,” you said, your voice steady and full of warmth. “No more pushing each other away. No more running. Just… us.”

Spencer nodded, his gaze softening as his thumb gently traced the back of your hand. “I’m not running anymore,” he whispered, the sincerity in his voice bringing a warmth to your chest. “I’m staying. For good.”

There was no need for more words. You leaned across the table, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was slow and full of meaning. It wasn’t a kiss filled with urgency or desperation, but one of quiet comfort. One of trust and affection. One that said we’re here, and that was enough.

As you pulled away, you saw the same sense of contentment reflected in his eyes, a peacefulness that had taken months to build but was finally here. You didn’t need anything else, because with Spencer, you had everything you’d ever wanted.

The coffee and case files were long forgotten as the two of you sat there, simply enjoying each other’s company. There was no rush to get to the day, no lingering doubt or fear. Just the warmth of his presence beside you, and the certainty that no matter what the future held, you’d face it together.

all notes and reposts are appreciated!! loving you always xx

divider: @fairytopea

tags: @floralemi12 @laviatia-blog @reggieswriter @hazzarules @spencerreidsglasses @notarobotipromise @gghostwriter @taygrls @powerline-valley @october-baby25 @forevermorepassionate

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#reidsbabyhoney #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #fic recs #spencer reid angst #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #angst with a happy ending #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #criminal minds #bau team #fluff

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lex-the-flex · 5 months ago

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Misty Mornings

Origins!Logan Howlett x reader

Summary: On this particular morning, Logan is in need of a shave, and you’re more than happy to take on the job.

Word Count: 650

Warning(s): None, PURE FLUFF! (Cause Logan deserves it). A tiny amount of nervousness.

A/N: If I had a man that would let me do this, I’d be his forever. (Basically a MEGA GREEN FLAG) Feedback is appreciated and enjoy!

The low coo of multiple mourning doves echo across the woods lingering beyond your backyard. The strong scent of the early morning lake balances itself against the soft and subtle fog hovering over the calm water as the morning sun threatens to break the cool air. Pulling your knitted blanket closer, a calm breeze welcomes the ambiance and colors of Autumn to the secluded place you call home.

Being fully engrossed in your novel, you don’t hear Logan walking down the dock. Turning the page, the creaking sound of the wooden deck brings you back to reality.

“Baby?” He asks.

“Hi, Lo.” You respond.

Closing your book, you stand up to greet Logan with a warm hug. Extending on your toes, he briefly presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What are you doing out here? You’ll catch a cold.” Logan replies.

“It’s not snowing yet, babe. Trust me.” You smile, before reaching down to pick up your book.

Offering his hand to you, you close your palm around Logan’s fingers as he leads you back towards the elegant two storied cabin. Folding your blanket, you throw it on the back of an armchair along with your book.

Following Logan into the kitchen, you hop up on the granite countertop, and he turns on the coffee pot. Gazing up at Logan, you hum to yourself at the sight before you.

“What is it?” He asks with a sly grin.

“Nothin’. I’m just not used to you ever being in the kitchen. It’s still strange to me.” You explain.

“Oh, yeah? And how long have we been together?” Logan questions, walking to you.

Placing both of his hands on either side of your hips, you tilt your head backwards and wrap your arms around his large shoulders. Smiling, the two of you just gaze at each other lovingly for a moment, silently enjoying the peace.

Running your fingers through Logan’s thick dark hair, he lightly chuckles when you move onto his slightly overgrown beard.

“Hmm, you need to shave.” You firmly state, tickling his scruff.

“Is that a threat, darlin’?” He teases.

“Maybe… Will you let me trim your beard this time? Please?” You ask.

Determined to get an answer, Logan finally agrees, ultimately losing the never-ending battle.

Leaving you in the kitchen, Logan shortly returns with his shaving kit. Placing it on the counter next to you, he unzips the small leather pouch and takes out a pair of scissors. Handing them to you, Logan carefully returns his hands to your hips, eager to see what you’ll do. Softly cutting off pieces of your lover’s beard, you suddenly become focused on the task at hand, unaware of Logan’s loving and intrigued stare.

HIs light hazel eyes glance deeply along the edges of your face, studying the details of your focused state. Unconsciously wrapping your legs around Logan’s waist, he slowly pulls you closer, wanting to be more intimate. Your heart begins to pound in your chest, nearing the end of your task.

“I”m almost done, babe.” You whisper, flicking away the remnants of his beard.

Finishing up, you set down the scissors and wipe Logan’s freshly trimmed jawline.

“There you go, you’re all nice and clean.” You reply.

“Mmm, thank you, Y/N. It feels so much better already. You should imagine it.” Logan teases.

Lowering his lips to the nape of your neck, Logan playfully kisses the soft skin of your neck. Allowing you to feel the fresh scruff tickle you, a smile creeps on his lips whilst a gentle moan escapes your mouth.

“Okay, cowboy… le–” You try, but can’t.

Unable to push Logan away, you find yourself craving his touch even more. Tangling your fingers in his thick hair, his mouth searches for yours. Kissing you passionately, your fingers grip Logan’s strong muscles whilst he lifts you from the counter and carries you deeper into the house.

wolverine masterlist ~

@dreamliners

@chronicallybubbly

@dontfeedthebigbadwolf

@the-resident-vampire

@ovaryacted

@misssarcasm15

@yellow-eyed-sams-wife

@lost-in-horrorland

@peterparkernotfound

@pcrushinnerd

@quillycrow

@till-hes-90

@the-moth-archives

@stilllivindue2spite

@wolviesgal

@mostly-marvel-musings

#wolverine #wolverine xmen #wolverine fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett xmen #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett headcanon #logan howlett imagine #hugh jackman

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zevrra · 6 months ago

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never forget—

synopsis: where sebastian is actually worried about MC and regrets casting crucio on them caaaause that moment in the game was not enough for me pfft!

tags: 18(+), lil angst, mostly fluff, sebastian(18) x reader, i didn’t know how to end this oops, one-shot, 2k words.

“Crucio!”

The pain that followed that one little word was excruciating.

Yet the spell casted upon you was of your own doing. You, Ominis, and Sebastian had become good friends since your first day at Hogwarts. Always together, always the 3 of you somehow in trouble. Well, mostly you and Sebastian. Somehow Ominis always managed to get out of the trouble the two of you dragged him into. You were Slytherin after all, it was most likely in your blood.

When you first met Sebastian, he had such an eager to learn that his demeanor was contagious. So much so you couldn’t help but also want to gain more knowledge with him over the years. It was all thanks to Ominis from keeping you two from ending up expelled. Your savior in a sense. But ever since the three of you had become good friends, Sebastian never let up about Salazar Slytherin. He was set on finding his Scriptorium, begging Ominis for so long to show him the way. Seeing as he believed finding it would help cure his sister’s, Anne, curse.

When Ominis had finally given into you both and led the way, the three of you worked wonderfully together. Traversing dark and wary caves. Fending off giant spiders, solving puzzles all that good stuff. Until finally you reach a room with a single note, bones buried in dirt, no way out, the word CRUCIO etched into the stone before your feet, and what looked to be a screaming apparition burned onto a mirror.

You sadly read the note aloud for all to hear. Detailing a grim last few words from Ominis’s aunt. Who unfortunately had gone looking for the Scriptorium, alone, and met an untimely fate. You reach out to gently touch Ominis’s shoulder and he stills beneath your touch.

“I’m so sorry about your aunt, Omni.” You mourn. He nods in acceptance. Nothing they did now could’ve changed what had happened to his aunt. He would at least find some peace in knowing what happened to her.

Sebastian is at your side then. Concerned look on his own freckled face. “Ominis…I know it’s hard. But the letter details using Crucio. You’re the best suited for this—“

“No! I won’t do it. To use Crucio you have to mean it. I will not cast that spell ever again…especially on you two.” Ominis steps away from your reach. Closing off from the activity entirely. You didn’t blame him.

You turn to face Sebastian then who looks..almost disappointed with Ominis's rejection. He gestures for you to follow him closer to the wailing mirror. Hauntingly beautiful, even in its twisted state.

“Well, two options. You cast Crucio on me, or I…cast it on you. It’s the only way we’re getting out of here. We can’t die here and now because of—of morals.” Sebastian whispers to you. The thought of dying in that suffocating tomb alone makes your skin crawl.

Ominis had always been vocal about how horrible any of the killing curses were, especially this spell. Seeing as he was forced to cast it when he was younger. The nightmares still haunt the blonde from what you could tell. His sleepless nights. The flinch at loud noises. It was obvious, whatever you decided, that this would forever weigh heavy on your soul. Yet the spell…could come in handy when facing Ranrok. He was your enemy after all.

You hoped it would never come down to using it though.

“Fine. Teach me the spell but you…you cast it on me. I won’t hurt you Seb.” You mumble. And at first, he’s hesitant. His wand slightly swayed before he reluctantly nods. His hands slightly shake as he teaches you the wave of the wand. He had never performed the dark arts before and this could go very wrong or just really wrong. Either way was going to hurt. But you trusted him.

That’s how you ended up in the here and now. Agonizing pain ripped through your flesh like lightning. Flames behind your eyeballs that force them to shut tight. Hoping to ease the pain away. Your teeth gnash against your lip to hold back screams of pain. It does nothing. Dark magic moves under your skin like writhing red and green tentacles. You gasp between almost suffocating screams.

Breathe in, scream, breathe out.

Your back is against the stone, arched, burning hot. Even as Ominis, or maybe it was Sebastian’s, or both of their hands are grabbing at your arms. Cool fingers press into your hot flesh as the boy’s try to lift you from the floor.

They try to comfort you during one of the worst moments of your life. It doesn’t help. They both fumble as they move you into the room that opened up behind the wailing mirror. The pain is nauseating. Every fumble, correction, and movement makes your stomach churn. Threatening to spill out your lunch. Your consciousness is slowly fading at this point. Stars blinking behind your eyelids as you grasp for whatever you can to stay awake.

Through the pulsing pain in your head and ears, you barely hear the two boys arguing. More or less Ominis yelling about how he was right. How this was a stupid idea as he struggles to help carry you. Ominis can’t see where he steps yet he’s trying so hard to save you now.

“You—you’re both idiots!” Ominis snarls. Struggling with words through his rage and panic. “How could you do something like this!”

“I understand, Ominis! Just—just, Merlin, help me! Help me get to the infirmary!” Sebastian spits back as they continue to fumble around, looking for an exit.

The last thing you hear is Sebastian calling for desperate help before the pain becomes too much and finally takes you under. Passing out from the curse spell later than you would’ve liked.

When concussions come back to you, it’s almost unbearable. Your eyes flutter open but fall closed once again. Maybe you could just stay like that for forever. Lying on a cloud, nice and warm, with your eyes closed. Eh, sounds a little too much like death for your liking.

Thankfully, your second attempt at waking up is far more fruitful. Candlelight flickers rapidly at the edge of your feet as your eyes slowly come into focus. You make out the white sheets laying across your body. Feel the firm mattress against your back. Connecting the dots, slowly but surely, that you were in the infirmary.

Your head moves slightly to continue looking around. Hoping a nurse was close by so you could ask for some water or medicine or anything to make the dull ache in your body stop. Instead your eyes find Sebastian.

His unruly brown hair is somehow even messier than usual. He slumps against the side of your bed and from what you can tell, he might be asleep. Seeing as it was sometime during the night. If you had to guess he probably snuck into the infirmary to be at your side.

Suddenly memories of what happened in the Scriptorium come back to you. Sending a harsh chill down your entire body. The cast of Crucio echoes in the back of your mind. You’ll never forget the feeling. Or the look on Seb’s face as he waved the spell and casted it upon you.

‘Crucio can only be cast if you mean it.’ You remember Ominis’s haunting words. Sebastian must’ve meant it. But you try your best to not blame him. He was just trying to get you all out of that stone grave.

“Seb…” You try to speak. Your throat burns as you attempt to rouse the sleeping man at your side. Voice hoarse, borderline gone, from what you can only assume is from the screaming you barely remember doing. “Sebastian.” You barely manage his full name.

His body shifts at the sound of his name but he doesn’t rise. So you make your way to sit up. Although the moment you prepare to sit up, weight shifting ever so slightly, Sebastian shoots up instantly. His pretty green eyes meet your gaze in a wild look. As if he can’t believe you’re awake. Dried drool sticks to the edge of his lips. You can’t help but laugh. Or what you assume is a laugh. To Seb it probably sounds like you’re coughing.

“I—we—are you okay?” Seb stumbles over his words. Knowing Sebastian, he most likely had something planned to say the moment you woke up. Yet now he was almost speechless. For the first time ever.

“I’m o-okay just…w-water.” You manage to mumble. Now he’s quick to react. A glass of water is held out with lightning speed to you and you take it graciously.

After a moment of what felt like an eternity of being parched, you chug the water given to you, before you hand the glass off and sit fully upright. Your fingers lay in your lap, picking at the cotton of the blanket.

Silence falling between the two of you was so uncommon. It almost felt worse than writhing in pain. Not really but the wall built up was hard to ignore. You needed that wall to come down.

“How long was I asleep?” You ask softly. Breaking the silence as your throat is finally feeling better after some water.

“Three days,” Sebastian replies. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t blame him, not really. The guilt must weigh heavy on his shoulders.

Three days. The fact that it had been days since you had passed out in the scriptorium made your gut twist. You can’t even imagine what rumors must have spread among the school. Or the amount of questions the headmaster will be asking you. Oh you were definitely in for some trouble.

“I’m so sorry.”

Apologies were not something Sebastian was known for. The fact that he was apologizing at all was almost shocking. You didn’t have to guess that he didn’t really mean it when he casted Crucio. It was all just a matter of choices, for you all to survive.

“It’s okay,” Your voice is soft as you speak. “I don’t want you to blame yourself. I agreed to it Sebastian,” You remind him. It only makes Seb angrier with himself.

“Of course I blame myself! I could’ve killed you!” Sebastian says in a strained voice. He wants to scream and yell. He wants you to scream and yell at him. For letting him do something so stupid. For not listening to Ominis in the first place. For being too eager.

“It was a matter of life or death Seb you know that—“ You began to say but he cuts you off as he quickly stands from his chair.

“But what if there was another way!? What if I didn’t have to…didn’t want to—I could’ve changed something!” He angrily hisses as he turns his head away from you.

Silences befalls between the two of you again. Stretched longer than previously as you can’t think of something to say. He had three days to beat himself up for dragging all three of you to that scriptorium. You couldn’t imagine how many scenarios he himself had imagined over and over again while in your slumber.

“What if I had lost you?”

The soft words are barely loud enough to hear. Just a whisper under his breath you almost can’t manage to make out. But you do. The somber confession comes at you like a heavy rainstorm. Unexpected, welcoming, lovely, and a little noisy from his previous minor outburst. Building from a small drop to a straight downpour and you’re caught in the middle of it with no umbrella.

Even in the candlelight you see the tips of ears, beat red as he refuses to look at you. Shoulders tense as he tries to will himself to calm down. It was late, you weren’t supposed to be awake, and he wasn’t supposed to be there. It was not the time for this conversation.

Yet it makes you smile anyway. Butterflies jump around under your skin, in your heart, stomach following suit in doing somersaults. You reach with a gentle hand and grab hold of his shirt sleeve, giving it a tug. For a moment he stands completely still. Debating whether or not it was the right moment to hash all of this out. It wasn’t. Yet a second tug on his sleeve has him turning to finally look at you.

This time when you meet his green eyes, his wild look is gone. He looks at you like you’re the cure to whatever alignment he’s currently experiencing. It’s a saddened, sleepless, relieved look. Feeling every emotion he’s ever felt in his life all in the span of a few short seconds.

You smile fondly at Sebastian, praying he could see it in the soft light of the infirmary. “But you didn’t,” You remind him. Almost gesturing to you, him, and your surroundings. “I’m still here, Seb.”

Sebastian simply nods. Not having the courage to speak for it may bring him to tears. Now that would truly be the end of the world if that happened.

You reach for his hand. Reassuring and gentle as your fingers intertwine with his. He’s stiff as a board at your touch. He has always yearned for it but never had the faith to act upon his feelings.

“Plus, it’ll take more than that to get rid of me.” You say hoping to ease the young man’s feelings. At least for tonight.

A squeeze to your hand is the only response you receive as he returns to his seat. He rests your connected hands on the bed before his head follows suit. Instead of returning to the side of your bed he makes himself comfy on your thigh. You smile at the puzzling picture before you.

The great Sebastian Sallow, a man who rarely asks for any help, unless it involves trekking in some dark cave somewhere, was vulnerably sprawled out on top of you.

You stifle a giggle, fearing if he heard you laugh he would assume the worst and pull away. Instead your free hand pushes through his hair. Pushing away dark curly hair from his freckled face.

“You should return to the dorms before the nurse finds you.” You hum as your eyes scan his own closed eyes. Gazing at the lengths of his eyelashes. Every freckle you could see, thinking how fun it could be to count them one day.

“‘Ts fine,” Sebastian shrugs it off. You hear the softness of his breathing, slowly becoming shallow as he falls asleep. Fast asleep in your thigh with his hand tightly wound to yours. You wish you could have a painting done of this moment. Hoping by every ounce of magic in your veins that you never forget this feeling or the sight. And by Merlin does the sight make your heart ache and pound in equal parts.

You just hoped to never go through something like this ever again. Hopefully Sebastian would see how powerful and dangerous the dark arts could be and look for another solution to healing Anne’s curse. Maybe the ancient magic you wield could help next time instead of turning to the unforgiving curses.

#hogwarts legacy #x reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x slytherin!reader #fluff #fluffy zevrra #angst with a happy ending #one shot #i did not proofread this #i am so sorry #enjoy!!!

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parfaitblogs · 7 months ago

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loml ❀ s. reid x reader

in which even six years apart isn’t too much time for spencer to come see you.

pairing: ex!spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst/comfort sort of tags: that freaky shit (soul crushing angst). a lot of nothing. approximately the time morgan left the bau (it's mentioned). spoilers for 5x9 (‘100’) if you haven't watched it yet... fade to black. word count: 1.2k a/n: heyyyy… enjoy my the contents of my sad brain lol. this can kinda be a waiting room pt. 2 if you squint. i’m super sick right now so here’s a draft i wasn’t going to post until august (although it’s july 31 so is it technically august?) because i have no energy to write rn. whoops. enjoyy

Your mother once told you she doesn't think you can be just friends with some people.

They're either there to be in your life forever, souls so deeply woven together that you have to be more than friends. Or they're fleeting, and your lives will line up for a short enough period of time that they'll impact you, and then you'll never see them again.

You wished Spencer Reid was the latter.

Not at first. No, at first he was the man you were going to marry. You were certain of it. Discussing your wedding with your friends because it was going to happen, and you were picturing him at the altar. You had fantasised what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life so many times, dedicating so many hours to the concept of it, that when you lost it, you mourned the loss of it as much as you mourned the relationship.

But Spencer Reid was the former. Unfortunately so. Losing so many years to a man you didn't even speak to anymore, because you just can't get over it. Can't get over how you could give someone so much of you, and they will still throw it all away for a narrative they've made up in their mind. Can't get over the narrative he made up of you.

It was justifiable, you supposed. His boss had just lost his (ex) wife because of the job. It was tough for everyone on the team. You didn't think it was so bad he would freak out as much as he did, though.

Because in his mind you were next. He was going to lose you as well. And even that stupidly large brain of his couldn't see how ridiculous that sounded. He refused to listen to you when all he could hear was the screaming in his head of you being next, and the statistics of female abductions. Statistics that were no different between the day before the incident, and the day he broke up with you. They were just louder to him.

An achingly long amount of time had passed from the last time you spoke to him. A pathetic meeting you had requested two months after the breakup, because your life was falling apart and maybe seeing him would make it better.

It didn't.

You wondered if you'd still be shedding tears over him if you hadn't met him that night.

You heard your name, and so your head lifted from your lap. Right, you thought, bitterly. He was here. In your apartment. The same one he used to sleep at, for days on end.

You knew triggers like the back of your hand. They were usually things that made sense. Loud noises, blood, anniversaries. Could you justify your trigger being a whole person?

You hadn't known he was a trigger until that evening, when he had showed up at your apartment door with a bouquet of flowers that you didn't really want, and an insultingly pretty smile. You had broken down, right there in your doorway, crumpling to the floor in a hyperventilating, miserable heap.

He had held you, and frustratingly so, it helped. He didn't speak when he had done it, until you were calmer and were muttering apologies to him, embarrassment replacing the upset.

At which he shushed you. You listened.

"Why are you here?" you broke the silence that followed his calling of your name, voice shaky.

He exhaled audibly. "I wanted to see you."

"No, Spencer," you sniffled. "You don't get to come over with flowers just because you wanted to see me. Why are you here?"

He fell silent, and you wished you could crawl into his brain to see what he was thinking. You presumed a million things.

"Morgan left," he said, quietly, and you felt your mouth go dry.

"Oh."

Then; your eyebrows furrowed. Because did he really have no one to go to? You stared back at him for a few seconds, and for a moment, you let yourself forget about the weight between you two. Staring into his eyes was an easy way to forget that, apparently. It was comforting for you, but perhaps uncomfortable for him.

Because he cleared his throat, and adjusted his position on the couch. "I didn't know where to go. And you said if I needed anything, you would be there and—"

"—People say that as a courtesy, Spencer," you breathed out.

"I know," he said, quickly. "But I really needed someone, and I genuinely didn't know where else to go."

You couldn't slam the door in his face even if you wanted to. Because now you were registering more than just your own emotions. The red rimming his eyes, the dusting of pink on his nose and above his lips.

So, you nodded your head. "Okay. Come here," you said, opening your arms, and took him in between them. Albeit hesitantly. On both ends.

This time he broke down, and you let him. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, your fingers entangled in his curls, scratching at his scalp in the best soothing motion you could.

He cried until he had dehydrated his body, and your arms had begun to cramp from the position they were in. When he pulled back, your heart cracked a little more at the sight, his face wet with tears that stuck his hair to his cheeks, that you cleaned up.

"I miss you."

You froze. He did as well, but for an entirely different reason. At the idea that he had said it. Not you. Him. The words decorated the air and hung there for minutes as you fell silent.

Finally; "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do," his response was quick, as if expecting you to deny him of his own feelings.

"You're upset, and I'm comforting you. You miss Morgan. Not me. Transference," you mumbled, hands dropping from his face.

"This isn't transference."

"Spencer."

You were right. You knew it in the way his shoulders sagged in defeat, and his lips parted as if to say something, only to clamp shut in mental defiance.

"Maybe," he finally said, quietly. "But I do still miss you."

"It's been five years," you answered. He nodded his head in agreement. You exhaled. "I miss you too, Spencer."

He lips twitched, but never reached a smile. "You aren't seeing anyone, then?" he asked.

"You can deduce that, I'm sure."

You were right, he could, and he nodded his head, lips reaching a smile, albeit sadly. "Yeah. Me neither."

"I also figured," you said. "You would've gone to your girlfriend if you had one."

"I would've," he nodded his head, laughing a breathy, awkward laugh. "Instead I went to my ex-girlfriend."

"You did." More uncomfortable silence, before you let out a sigh. Again. "Movie?"

"What?"

"Do you want to watch a movie?" you say the full sentence, a little slower than what was probably necessary. You knew him well enough to know that he hated talking about his feelings, he was an awful communicator. Had been, your brain screams at you. He could've changed.

It seemed he hadn't, because he nodded his head, a smaller, more genuine smile painted his lips. "Yeah. Okay."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 1 year ago

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The Way I Loved You

Luke Castellan x demeter!Reader

Summary: "But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain / And it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name / So in love that you act insane"

Warnings: angst, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic relationship, fluff ending

Wordcount: 3.3K

Masterlist

A/N A. Yes, it's another Taylor Swift songfic and B. Four fics in five days, I've been cooking

And you were wild and crazy / Just so frustrating, intoxicating, complicated

Ever since Y/N met Luke Castellan, he drove her insane. When they were kids, 13 and 14 respectively, they hated each other. She hated the way he came in and immediately started bossing the campers around. Despite being so young she was the counselor for the Demeter cabin. Her big sister—her only sibling at the time—had tragically died on her way to camp that summer. But instead of mourning the always kind and radiant daughter of Demeter, they mourned the daughter of Zeus no one had ever met. And seeing the way the new boy seemed to soak up the attention made her hate him.

By the time she was 15 they still hated each other but he was all she had. They had both been at camp so long, and lost so many of their siblings and friends, both could hardly remember life without the other. But they still argued like children. So whenever they had bickered so much that Chiron or Mr. D got tired of it, they’d send them to do a chore together. They spent long hours cleaning the showers, stables, infirmary, doing practically every undesirable chore together that they finally started to talk.

Luke got to know her and understand why she hated him. And she had learned about his life and gained sympathy for him.

Soon enough those talks became makeout sessions. They stopped talking but at least they couldn’t fight if their lips were occupied. It was like they were addicted to each other.

Eventually they slid into dating. When they weren’t talking it was great. But someone would inevitably say or do something that made the other mad.

“Why were you flirting with him?” Luke demanded, slamming the door of the Demeter cabin.

“What are you talking about? I was training him. You know? Doing my job!”

“It wasn’t just training and you know it.”

“Gods you’re so insecure and possessive.”

“You’re the one who begged me to commit to you. Of course I’m gonna worry about my fucking girlfriend.”

“I did not beg you.”

“Yes you did. You’re the insecure one. You just needed to put a label on it and screw everything up.”

“You were supposed to meet me by the lake an hour ago!” Y/N stormed into the room.

“Oh crap. I’m so sorry babe,” he apologized. Trying to kiss her and make it go away.

“You do this all the time. I’m never a priority to you!”

“You’re literally my girlfriend. I don’t know what else you want.”

“I’m only your girlfriend because you didn’t want me to date anyone else!”

“Why are you packing?” Luke asked.

“You know my cousin who goes to Syracuse? She invited me up for the weekend.”

“So what? You can go party with frat guys?”

“No, so I can party with girls,” she tried to lighten the mood.

But Luke wasn’t consoled.“I don’t want you going to some college and getting drunk.”

“Why?”

“Because so many things can happen. You could get drugged and taken advantage of. You could get attacked. What are you gonna do if a cyclops sniffs you out but you’re too drunk to realize?”

“You’re not actually worried about that you just don’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you. It’s them I don’t trust.”

“It takes two to tango.”

“Again, you could get roofied.”

“Urgh Luke you’re not listening to me!”

They had plenty of arguments. So much so that the Hermes and Demeter campers had a silent agreement to go to each other’s cabins whenever their counselors started arguing.

But toxic relationships can’t go on forever.

It was Y/N’s birthday. She was turning 18. Collectively Camp Half-Blood made a big deal about birthdays considering that each one literally signified a triumph over death. But Luke couldn’t even be bothered to spend the day with her. When she woke up in his bed, he was already up and putting on his training gear. “‘Morning,” she greeted softly. She tried not to seem too excited about her birthday but all she wanted in that moment was for him to say “happy birthday.”

“Hey,” he smiled. “I'm gonna go train with some of the other campers. The new kids have been excited to watch me fight so…” he said smugly, already halfway out the door. “Just uh make the bed when you leave? Thanks.”

She was left disappointed. Like she always was except for when they were together but not talking.

But almost as soon as she stepped outside she was greeted with several wishes for a good birthday. She nearly cried when she got back to her cabin and found her bunk decorated, small gifts left on her bed from her friends and siblings.

By lunch practically the whole camp had wished her a happy birthday and she was feeling a bit better. She was reading a book she got as a gift, sitting alone at the Demeter table while she ate. Laughter invaded the dining pavilion and she watched as Luke entered along with the campers he had been training. He spotted her, coming over to her table but she didn’t even look up at him.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked. No response. “Why are you mad?” Still no response. After a few beats of silence he tried to change the subject. “So what are you reading?” She just held the book up so he could read the title. “Ah. Where’d you get that?”

By now the other campers had grabbed their food and were walking past the Demeter table. “Happy birthday, Y/N,” they each wished as they passed by. She smiled up at each of them as they passed. She only spared a glance at Luke to witness the expression on his face.

“Are-are you mad because you think I forgot your birthday? Of course I didn’t forget your birthday, babe. I’m just uh… saving my surprise for after dinner.”

“Sure,” was all she said, flipping the page.

“No, no,” Luke insisted, coming around to the other side of the table. He straddled the bench, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her close. As he did so he pressed a kiss against her cheek because she was still focused on her book. “You’re gonna love your gift. I swear.”

Luke spent the rest of the afternoon running around trying to put together a surprise. He got Mr. D to summon a small cake. Fortunately Mr. D was the one person in camp that didn’t know or care that it was Y/N’s birthday so he didn’t ask questions. As for the gift, Luke was lost. Anything in the camp store she’d immediately be able to tell wasn’t something he had thought about and anything he already owned she’d recognize as his.

So he went out to the meadow, picking flowers. She was the daughter of Demeter, of course she liked flowers.

So by the time dinner finished, Luke was pretty proud of what he had pieced together despite his limited resources. After everyone had left the dining pavilion, he brought Y/N to the docks where he proudly displayed his hard work. Except when he handed her the flowers, she looked disappointed. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I know you forgot my birthday. That’s fine. Whatever,” she sniffed passive aggressively. “But you gave me probably the most cop out gift you could think of.”

“What do you mean? You love flowers.”

By now the tears were freely flowing from her eyes. “You know I hate cut flowers because they just die. You could have dug a few up, preserved their roots and repotted them.”

“Okay fine, I’ll plant them.”

But she shook her head. “No, it’s too late.”

“Then I’ll get new flowers.”

“No, not about flowers. It’s too late for us.”

His heart sunk. “What?”

“Luke, I think we should break up.”

“Over a damn gift? Y/N, I’m sorry. I know I dropped the ball but the wrong gift isn’t something you break up over.”

“It’s not about the gift!” she cried. “Luke, we don’t know each other. We’re strangers who are together because it’s convenient. The gift just proves you only know the basics. We’ve been together for two years. Known each other for five. You should know I don’t like cut flowers.”

“So we need to reconnect? We can work through this. Please Y/N, don’t do anything rash.”

She just shook her head again. “You’re not getting it. It’s not even just that we don’t know each other. We can’t talk for more than five minutes before fighting. We’re toxic, Luke.”

“But we’re…”

“Just because we’re all each other has doesn’t mean we’re good together.”

“Y/N, don’t do this. Please.” By now even Luke had a few tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Luke. But this is better for both of us.” With that, she walked away from him for the last time.

He can't see the smile I'm faking / And my heart's not breaking / 'Cause I'm not feeling anything at all

Getting over Luke was the hardest thing she ever had to do. She spent several days crying to her younger sister, Katie. She tried to help her sister but the younger girl couldn’t relate, making Y/N just feel more alone. But then a new Athena camper joined and things got better.

Chiron had basically assigned Y/N to show Ben the ropes around camp. He felt bad for the poor girl. No one liked watching her or Luke sulk around camp.

“Ben, I’d like you to meet Y/N. She’s one of our most senior campers and counselor of the Demeter cabin.”

She smiled at the new boy. “Hi. Do you know what cabin you’ll be in yet?”

“Yeah, uh Athena. She claimed me when the satyrs found me,” he answered, already finding himself interested. Chiron tried to hide his smirk realizing the boy’s quickly growing feelings.

“Well you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Y/N,” Chiron interrupted, “why don’t you show Ben around? Let him know how we do things around here.”

“Uh, sure. C’mon I’ll give you a tour.” As they went around camp, Ben asked her all sorts of things about herself. Favorite color, favorite flower, who her friends were, what they were like, what she liked to eat and more. All the things Luke should have known.

As they kept going through camp, Ben knew he was already falling for her. And not just because Chiron had talked her up so much as they had approached the daughter of Demeter. He thought she was pretty and smart. And she was so kind to him. Plus, everyone around camp seemed to love her.

Ben’s very apparent interest was much to the chagrin of Luke. He had spent the first couple days of his breakup pretending like everything was alright. An act that proved very unpopular with the rest of camp. But the lonely nights got to him and his siblings could hear quiet sobs and sniffles in the night. But almost as soon as he started showing remorse, this new guy showed up and all of a sudden there was a buzz around camp about the new guy who would replace him.

The excited gossip about his ex and the new boy had literally started from day one. He saw them going through the camp tour a few times that day. After all, Camp Half-Blood is big. And Luke just happens to have to go to the same areas his ex does at the same time. But every time he spotted them he couldn’t help but glare at the new Athena cabin member. Every time he sent her a smile or made her laugh, Luke curled his fist impossibly tighter. His fists became almost perpetually white as the blossoming romance grew over time.

As for Y/N, she was finally healing. Not happy, but healing and Ben was helping with that as time went on and they got closer. He was perfect. Sweet, smart, a gentleman. But he wasn’t Luke.

They spent many nights getting to know each other. He knew her birthday, all her favorites, and made an effort with all her friends. Hell he even made an effort with Luke—an effort the Hermes boy did not appreciate—because he knew Luke was still important to Y/N. When he asked her out he did so with a pot of her favorite flowers which he had Argus help him get.

He knocked on the door of the Demeter cabin which was opened by Katie. “Hey Katie,” Ben greeted Y/N’s favorite younger sister. “Is Y/N home?”

“Yeah, she is.” The young girl called for her and soon enough the object of Ben’s affection was at the door.

“Hey Ben. What’s up?” she asked.

“I just wanted to give you this,” he smiled, handing her the beautifully potted flower. “I know I’m no demigod child of the plant goddess but…”

“No it’s great,” she smiled at him. But her heart was sinking. It wasn’t because of the gift, the gift was perfect actually. But if Luke had been the one to give it to her, her heart would be soaring. “Thank you.”

“And I just wanted to ask you if you uh- wanted to have dinner with me tonight?” he nervously asked.

“Oh well I’d love to,” she smiled. “But uh we can’t table hop at dinner. It’s against the rules,” she laughed nervously, hoping that would be enough to dissuade him.

“That’s not a problem. I got permission from Chiron to let us have dinner together. We just have to be out of the dining pavilion before everyone else gets there at 7.”

Dread kept filling her. She was in too deep now. And he had asked Chiron, she couldn’t just shoot him down. “Well then I’ll see you at 6 then?”

The biggest smile broke over his face. “See you then.”

The entire time at dinner, Y/N wanted to cry. This is not what she wanted. Ben was not what she wanted. But she kept forcing a happy face, hoping that if she could convince Ben she liked him too, she could convince herself.

When he brought her out to the meadow and kissed her, she wanted to dig herself into the ground and die. It was a sweet kiss but it just felt wrong… like there was no chemistry or passion between them.

She was so frustrated with herself. As she looked into Ben’s eyes she wondered why she couldn’t just love him back. Here was this incredibly caring guy who was more than willing to give her everything she was asking for but she just didn’t feel anything.

But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain

For Luke, seeing Y/N with Ben made a weird dread fill his chest. To him it wasn’t fair that she just got to move on when she was the one that broke up with him. She should be begging for him back right now. And he hated to admit it but he’d take her back in a heartbeat right now.

So when he found her crying on the beach late one night, he didn’t know what to think. But she was still all he had so he approached. “Hey,” he tried to catch her attention gently.

She looked up at him, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes. “Oh, hey Luke,” she tried to play off her tears. “What are you doing here?”

“Came here to think and then I saw you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” She gave a strained smile that did nothing to hide the puffiness of her eyes or blotchy skin.

It pained Luke to see her like this. Even more so when he knew he was the cause of her tears at one point. “Are you sure?” he asked, sitting next to her but maintaining her space. “We can talk. I promise it’ll just be a friendly conversation.”

She let out the weakest laugh he had ever heard. “I’m fine. You wouldn’t wanna hear about it anyway,” she dismissed even though Luke was the only person she wanted to talk to. He was the only person who could maybe possibly understand. Her siblings were too young and the only other camper their age was Ben.

“Try me,” Luke challenged, scooting the slightest bit closer.

She looked at him for a while before reluctantly speaking. “It’s Ben. I just… he’s such a great guy. He’s nice, and sweet, and such a gentleman but he’s just not…”

“Just not what?” Luke asked a little eagerly. From a distance she had looked blissfully happy and everyone spoke about how well Ben treated her. But hearing that his ex-girlfriend had a problem with the guy she was dating? Luke was a little too eager to hear about that.

“He’s not you!” She finally admitted. She didn’t miss the way Luke seemed to brighten. “He does nice things for me and he’s so sweet and into me but I’m just feeling nothing at all. It’s like there’s no passion between us.”

“Well you were right. We were toxic but we also had a lot of passion,” Luke tried to lighten the mood. “Look, I don’t mean to sweep in on your most vulnerable moment but I’ve been thinking since the breakup and this is the first time you’ve even looked at me so. I know I treated you like shit and was so possessive. I’m ready to actually commit to you and be your boyfriend instead of just slipping into it because we were already making out when we were younger. I want to give you everything the old me couldn’t or wouldn’t because watching you slip through my fingers was the most painful thing I've ever done. Besides, with more effort I think we could make this work because you don’t fight like we did unless you’re in love. People who don’t love each other just let it fade. They don’t fight.”

She looked like she was in severe pain. “Gods, why couldn’t you have said this three months ago?” Her lips were immediately on his. Luke was a little taken aback but kissed her back, glad to have her in his arms once again.

A few moments later they were promising each other eternity with all the passion in the world. “Forever?” he asked through labored breaths, his fingers intertwined with her hair.

“Forever,” she agreed.

The next day Luke was waiting anxiously in the Hermes cabin. Y/N was ending things with Ben but he was still nervous. What if she decided she wanted to stick with the safer option? He didn’t think he’d be able to handle it if she went back to him after last night.

His thoughts were only quieted when the door opened and he found her standing there. He stood up anxiously but hesitated, still slightly wary that she’d tell him she changed her mind. But she walked towards him, immediately falling into his arms. “Forever?” he asked.

“Forever,” she agreed.

Relieved, Luke pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Forever,” he confirmed for himself.

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