#i gave up and wanted to go back to that gif but i could never find it again

[idk-karla]

The Neighbor, pt. 1

Pairing: bucky barnes x single!mom!reader

Summary: Your daughter offers the quiet, brooding neighbor next door a soggy cookie

Author's Note: I'm currently deep in a Bucky rot 😭. This started as an idea and now I have a bunch of half written scenes of FLUFF and protective/stepdaddy bucky. So expect more to come!! or

I’d been living next to him for months. James Barnes. The winter soldier. Ex-Hydra weapon. Reformed avenger. 

He’d move into the apartment next door to mine after Mr. and Mrs. Chen moved out. Their absence hit my four-year-old, Ellie, especially hard, the Chens usually babysat her sporadically throughout the week and even brought her to the farmers market with them every other Sunday so I could breathe for a few hours. Their warm, cluttered apartment had always felt like an extension of ours. Now, it was occupied by a ghost.

I barely saw him. He came and went like a shadow. He was quiet, kept to himself. Never rude, just... distant. Sometimes he would be gone for weeks. I never heard him leave or come back, my only indication was the bike reappearing next to my car after several weeks. I’d never spoken to him. Never really even seen him beside a shadow disappearing into the stairwell or a back turned in the hallway.

Until today. Ellie and I had finished dinner, and she insisted we eat the cookies we’d baked for dessert out on the porch. Her ballet class had run long, cutting into her play time, and she was lobbying hard for some fresh air before bed. Fall was rolling in, the leaves were changing and the breeze had a bite, but the sky was clear and painted pink and orange. I wasn't about to argue with a porch picnic. It was the first nice moment we’d had all week.

He was standing outside. For the first time. He leaned against the railing on his porch, back to us, phone pressed to his ear. The contrast between our two sides was laughable. His was barren,  save for a single lonely plant near the door, probably a gift. Mine was a mess of half-alive plants, a beaten up patio set I inherited from the Chens, and toys everywhere. A bubble gun under a chair, a pink bike halfway tipped over, plastic bins full of glittery chaos. My life spilled onto the porch too messy, too loud. His was still. Silence.

He turned to face as soon as our feet hit the patio floor, eyebrow raised. I offered a small wave as I settled into the patio loveseat with my bowl of melting ice cream. Ellie immediately bolted for her scooter, dessert instantly forgotten.

He gave a curt nod and lifted a hand in return, then turned his back again, lowering his voice.

I watched him for a moment. Not stared, exactly, just... took him in. Broad shoulders. One vibranium arm, one human. Tousled hair that looked like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times. The white Henley clung his body like it was made specifically for him. He was strong. Sturdy. Painfully handsome.

He cocked his head like he could feel my eyes on him and I looked away, ears warming in embarrassment. I went back to watching Ellie suddenly fascinated with Ellie doing laps in her socks, figuring he would just go back inside. 

I was scraping the bottom of my bowl when I heard Ellie’s sweet voice. “Hi Mr. Solider,” She greeted him quietly with a soft smile as she rolled past the edge of our porch and onto his. 

He blinked. “Hi,” he said softly, crouching down to meet her eye level. The phone was gone now. His expression was careful. Like he was trying not to scare her. Like he didn’t know what to do with something so small and soft.

Ellie held out a soggy cookie, clearly plucked straight from her bowl, dripping with pink ice cream. “Want a cookie? Mommy and I made them for dessert!” 

I stood quickly, ready to nudge her back to our side and apologize, but a barely there smile ghosted Bucky’s lips, stopping me in my tracks. 

“Sure,” He took the soggy cookie delicately from her hand. He studied it like it was a bomb, then popped the whole thing into his mouth.

Ellie beamed up at him like he was the sun, making my heart catapult in my chest. “Do you like it?” she asked, practically bouncing in place.

He nodded solemnly, as though she’d asked him something far more important. “It’s very good. Thank you.” Electric blue eyes met mine, making my heart flutter. 

“I um-” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, heart doing an odd little flutter. “She was very excited about them. She mixed the dough all on her own.” 

Ellie nodded enthusiastically, rounding us with her scooter.

“Well you did great.” He commended her before turning back to me, his voice was low. “Better than me. I can barely boil water.”

I smiled, relaxing just a little. “Well, she’s four and already one step ahead of you. Rough competition.”

“Guess I should retire now.” I exhaled a soft laugh, partially in relief at his gentle teasing. His tone was more cautious than playfully, like he was testing the air between us, but it made something warm spark under in my belly.

“Mom says you’re a superhero. Is that true?” The gasp that left my lips was only partially from the wheel that Ellie had just dragged across my big toe. Bucky looked down at my squished toe, back up at me and then down at Ellie like he wasn’t sure how to respond.

His mouth opened, then shut. He shifted on his feet. “I guess? I’m an Avenger.” 

“What do you do?” 

“Fight bad guys.” He said the fact like a question.

“Is it scary?” Ellie’s eyes were wide, a mix of intrigue and horror.

His jaw twitched. “Sometimes.”

She whirled without another word. and darted back inside in a split second. He looked at me, regret coloring his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

I held up my finger. I knew my kid. Ellie hadn’t gotten scared, like he thought. She was going to assemble her own team. 

“She’ll be back,” I said with a smile, and sure enough, she returned a few seconds later with an army of toys in her arms. She laid them on the floor before her and grabbed her favorite rabbit.

“This is Ribi. He keeps me safe when I’m scared.” She waved him in front of her for Bucky to see.

Bucky crouched again, eyes softening. “That’s a very important job.”

“You can hold him if you want. He helps.” She shoved the bunny into his arms before he could decline. He looked at the rabbit like it was a live grenade. My heart tugged painfully at the sight.

Ellie dumped the rest of her toys on the floor and launched into a wild story about how Ribi and Gary the dinosaur battled Dr. Meanieface to save her from his evil tentacles. Bucky didn’t even blink. He nodded along like he was being briefed on a real mission.

Then Ellie leaned into his side and whispered, like she was sharing national secrets. “But Mommy is the best one at keeping me safe. She cuddles me until I fall asleep. She’s scary so the monsters in the closet won’t ever take me.”

“Okay,” I cut in quickly, mortified. “Time for bed.”

It wasn’t time for bed. But she couldn’t read clocks, and my dignity was rapidly crumbling.

“Wait!” Ellie dove into her pile again, digging with urgency. Bucky met my eyes, and something warm and amused passed between us. It made my knees weak.Elllie yanked a sparkly little plastic purple elephant from the pile, nearly slamming it into Bucky nose. Thankfully, he titled his head just in time to avoid the blow. “I got this today! You can have it. For your missions. So you’re not scared.”

Bucky froze, blinking at her like she’d just offered him a piece of the moon.

“I can’t-”

“You have to,” she insisted, thrusting it into his hands. “It’s to keep you safe.”

He looked to me for help, and I just smiled. “You should probably listen. She doesn’t take ‘no’ well.”

“I haven’t named it yet, so you can pick” Ellie added, like a selling point. 

With comical gentleness, he cradled the toy in both hands. “Can you help me pick the name?”

Ellie twirled in a circle, clearly considering the options. “He needs to be strong to protect you. Strong like…”

“Maybe a captain?” Bucky offered, with a little smile.

She nodded, tapping her chin. “What’s his weapon?”

“Um…” Bucky’s eyes met mine like he wasn’t sure how to respond to that question. I sighed. 

“Maybe a sword?” I supplied helpfully.

“Yes!” Ellie shouted. “Captain GlitterSword!”

Bucky looked like he wanted to protest but simply nodded. 

Ellie clapped her hands. “Promise to keep him in your pocket when fighting bad guys?”

Bucky nodded, a serious look on his face like he had just accepted the most important mission ever. Ellie held out a pinky to him, standing up on her tiptoes to reach him the best she could.

“Promise.” She demanded.

Bucky looked at me again, lost, and I shrugged. “You heard the boss.” I mumbled. Bucky wrapped his pinky around Ellie’s- big and small, scarred and soft. I had to look away. She absolutely beamed at him.

“Thanks,” He offered her quietly. Ellie nodded and ran back in the house, satisfied. 

And then we were alone. Bucky stood again to meet my eyeline and we just stood there for a moment. The porch was quiet. The sun was almost gone now, the sky dimming into purple. The air between us hummed.

“Sweet kid.” He finally offered, bedding back down to pick up the discarded toys. It took me a few seconds to get my brain working to bend down and help him. “Thanks for humoring her.” I laughed softly. She was my ray of sunshine.

“She’s good company.” He glanced at me. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You either.”

He stilled, just briefly, like he was feeling something shift between us. Then he nodded once.

“I’ll see you around…” He trailed off, and I realized with a jolt he didn’t know my name.

“Y/N,” I offered.

“Y/N,” he repeated, tasting it like it meant something.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He lingered for a heartbeat. “Night.”

I turned toward the door, heart thudding wildly. I didn’t have to look to know he was still watching me as I went inside.

Part 2

[heavenlybodies333]

They Always Come Back -S.R part II part I

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Detox, Day 3

Of course he wasn’t going to send you to some rehab two states away—he was too much of a federal agent and too little of a father for that. No, he wanted eyes on you. So the same hospital that saved your damn life just happened to have a narcotic outpatient treatment program. And what a coincidence: the director just happened to owe Hotch a favor.

Three sessions a week. Random drug tests. Supervised medication protocol. All of it, specifically requested by your father.

Hotch wants you to “earn back his trust.” What trust? The man never gave you any to begin with.

You’re sprawled on your bed in your dad’s house—the one he barely sleeps in, because he’s always at work or with Jack or too busy running the Bureau to remember he has a daughter bleeding out at his kitchen table.

The ceiling fan makes a gentle clicking noise. The blanket smells like dryer sheets and bleach. Like something designed to erase your scent.

There’s a knock at your door. You don’t answer. But the door opens anyway.

“Don’t you fucking knock?” you mumble.

“I did.” Spencer steps into the room like it still belongs to him. Like you still belong to him.

He’s holding a tray. Soup. Bread. Water. You roll away.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You almost overdosed.”

“And you almost choked me out with your concern,” you snap. “So let’s call it even.”

He sighs. “You know you’re not alone in this, right?”

You glare. “Oh my God. Shut the fuck up.”

Silence. Then—“I have sessions too,” he says. “Hotch thought we could alternate appointments.”

You scoff. “Cute. Co-parenting me now, are you?”

Spencer’s jaw ticks. “I don’t want to parent you,” he says. “I want to fix what I broke.”

You feel your heart twist, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you throw a pillow at the door.

“Get out.”

He does. But the tray stays.

Detox, Day 4

The day starts with a lock on the liquor cabinet.

You didn’t even try to open it—Hotch just installed it like a silent accusation. Like he’s afraid you’ll fall into another bottle the second he’s not watching. Maybe he’s not wrong.

He leaves a note on the kitchen counter before heading out to Quantico:

Be ready at 2:00. Therapy. Spencer’s driving.

Nothing signed. Nothing soft. Just instructions. Like a case file. You crumple the note and throw it away. You don’t get dressed.

When Spencer arrives, he knocks once and lets himself in, again. You’re still in one of your dad’s oversized sweatshirts and no pants, curled in the corner of the couch.

“You’re late,” you mutter.

He checks his watch. “I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. “Do I have to carry you?” he asks eventually.

You arch a brow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” His eyes darken—but he looks away. Like touching you is still sacred. Off-limits. You hate how much that hurts.

You finally drag yourself to your feet, brushing past him on the way to your room to throw on leggings and grab your therapy binder—yes, therapy has homework, apparently—and when you return to the living room, Spencer’s standing by the door, keys in hand.

“Ready?”

“No.”

But you go anyway. The car ride is quiet. You stare out the window while he drives. You count the telephone poles. You bite your nail until it bleeds and then chew the skin beside it.

Spencer doesn’t speak until you’re two blocks from the outpatient building. “Have you thought about what you’re going to talk about today?”

You shoot him a look. “Jesus, are you quizzing me now?”

“No,” he says gently. “Just asking.”

You look back at the window. “I’m going to talk about how I hate being watched like a criminal in my own fucking house. How my dad doesn’t trust me. How the one person I thought gave a shit about me abandoned me the second things got hard.”

Silence.

“Good,” Spencer says quietly. “Start there.”

Detox, Day 6

You told yourself it would just be a walk.

Just one lap around the block. Just enough time to clear your head. Just long enough to feel like something—anything—was still yours to choose.

But your dealer lives three doors down. The universe has made it so easy. But you don’t even make it halfway down the driveway before you freeze.

Spencer’s standing in the shadow of the garage. Arms crossed. Hoodie on. Silent. Watching you like he’s been doing it all night. “You’re kidding me,” you mutter.

Spencer. Fucking Spencer.

“Seriously?” he says, voice low, tense. “After everything?”

“I needed air.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Good,” you snap, “then the disappointment won’t show on your face.”

You turn, fingers curled around your hoodie pocket. But his hand catches your wrist. “Don’t run again.”

You freeze. Your pulse jumps beneath his fingers, warm skin to warm skin, familiar in a way that hurts. “Just—don’t,” he says.

“I’m not your problem,” you whisper, voice catching on the tail end.

“You are,” he replies. “I can’t stop caring about you. Even if I should.”

The breath leaves your lungs.

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t called me,” he says, stepping closer, eyes searching yours. “If I’d ignored it. If I’d ignored you.”

“I didn’t call you. I called muscle memory.” You yank your arm free. “I didn’t want you, I wanted someone.”

“Bullshit,” he says quietly.

You shove past him. “You should hate me,” you spit. “I’d hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you’re more fucked up than I thought.”

You reach the sidewalk. He doesn’t follow. But when you come back ten minutes later—empty-handed, angry, shaking—he’s still there. Waiting. Tears come hot, humiliating, unstoppable. You hate crying in front of anyone—especially him—but the sob breaks free anyway.

Spencer gathers you before the first tear even falls. He pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping fully, completely—like he remembers the exact shape of you. You fist his shirt, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you choke.

“For what?”

“For making you see me like this.”

His lips brush your temple. “I’d rather see you like this than never see you again.”

Detox, Day 8

The boredom is worse than the withdrawals.

No phone. No laptop. No exit.

Garcia blocked everything with a parental lock that should be illegal. You tried to ask her nicely. She sent you a selfie of your own hospital intake form. And Hotch? He’s not around. You think maybe that hurts more than anything.

But of course—you’re not alone. You can’t even fucking leave without someone chaperoning you like a toddler on a leash. And Spencer—of all people—is your assigned babysitter when Hotch is spending his late nights at the BAU.

Today, he’s at the coffee table, unfolding a chessboard.

You groan. “If you say one more line of psychobabble I swear to God I will scream.”

“We could play chess,” he offers, ignoring the threat.

“Or you could take your condescending Mensa-ass brain and leave me alone.”

He smiles, faintly. “There she is.”

You scowl. “Don’t pretend to be proud of my bitchy recovery.”

“Not proud.” He sets the board up anyway. “Relieved. Anger’s better than nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He pauses, then quietly: “Because I didn’t last time.”

The room goes still. You don’t say anything until he makes his move. “Pawn to E4.”

“You’re going to regret this,” you mutter, curling your legs under you on the couch.

Spencer doesn’t flinch when you slam your pawn down in retaliation, nearly knocking it off the board. He just tilts his head, studies you the same way he does crime scenes. Like if he stares long enough, the puzzle will unlock itself.

"You always open aggressively," he says.

You roll your eyes. "Maybe I’m just trying to end the game faster so you’ll shut the hell up."

A small smile tugs at his mouth, and for a second, it almost feels normal. Like you’re back in your apartment, ordering Thai takeout and playing chess in your underwear while pretending the world didn’t exist outside of his hands on your waist.

Five moves later you’ve boxed yourself into an unwinnable position, furious at the board, at him, at the four sober days clawing at your nerves.

“Check,” he adds.

You don’t even look at the board. “Fuck your check.”

“Not quite how the game works.”

“I’m not playing anymore.” You shove back from the coffee table, the chair scraping hardwood as the chess board flies with pieces falling everywhere. The motion rattles a nearly empty mug—the chamomile Spencer made you instead of the glass of whiskey you asked for.

He stands too, blocking your retreat to the hallway. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

“Running again?”

Your laugh is ugly. “What’s the alternative, Spencer? Sit here sober, saintly, and supervised?”

“No,” he says quietly. “Sit here angry. And seen. And safe.”

You hate that his voice cracks on the last word. It makes your throat burn. “M-Move,” you whisper.

“No.”

You shove his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. “Move,” you repeat, louder.

“Hit me if it helps.”

You do. Open palm, center of his chest—the same place you used to flatten your hand when you kissed him in stolen Quantico stairwells. The memory punches the breath from your lungs. His fingers curl around your wrist, gentle but immovable.

“I’m not your problem,” you say again, voice shaking.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “But you called me. You overdosed, and you called me.”

Tears prick hot behind your eyes—rage, shame, want.

“Why, sweetheart?” His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, pulse point thrumming. “Why me?”

“Because I knew you’d come.” It spills out before you can stop it. Your voice is raw. “You always come.”

Something fractures in his expression—relief, devastation, desire all at once. He steps into your space, and you don’t retreat. Your back finds the hallway wall. “Are we both making bad decisions right now?” he asks, breathless.

“Probably.”

“Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head, throat tight.

“Say it,” he pleads, nose brushing yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth crashes to your throat, sucking bruises you’ll have to explain to your therapist. “I should stop,” he whispers against your collarbone. “I have to stop.”

You run your hands through his soft hair, meeting his lips with yours. “No. No you don’t get to, not this time. You left,” you gasp against his lips. “You left and you let him win—”

“I know,” he says, kissing you harder. “I know, I’m sorry—” You bite his lower lip. He moans.

“I needed you.”

“I know.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and lays you out on the couch, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. When he slides his hand under your sweatshirt, you don’t stop him. Your shorts are yanked down your thighs. He groans when he finds you bare underneath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You’re soaked.”

“For you,” you whisper.

He kisses down your neck, your chest, between your breasts, all while his fingers press inside you, curling just right, pulling a cry from your throat.

“I love how loud you get,” he says, biting your inner thigh. “Missed that, too.”

He throws one of your legs over his shoulder. His tongue flicks against your clit and you shudder, a whimper clawing out of your throat as his fingers dig bruises into your thighs to hold you steady.

“Spence—” your voice breaks. “F-Fuck, I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is a low growl against you. “I’m not stopping until you do.”

You come undone on his tongue, one hand yanking his hair, the other clawing at the wall, thighs trembling around his head as he fucks you through it with slow, punishing strokes of his mouth.

When you finally push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation, he rises slowly—mouth shiny, eyes wild.

“You taste the same,” he says, kissing you before you can respond. “Still fucking perfect.”

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him.

He shoves his pants down just enough, lining himself up against your slick entrance as your legs wrap around him like instinct. You’re already whining when he presses forward, slow and deliberate, filling you so deep you choke on it.

“Oh my god,” you sob. “Spence—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants, voice shaking. “Let me take care of you. Let me make it better.”

He does—long, measured thrusts at first, letting you adjust, then faster, harder when you hook your heels behind his thighs. Sweat beads at his temple; you lick it away. Every push rocks the headboard against drywall; somewhere distant you think Hotch will notice dents, but Spencer cups your jaw, forces focus to him.

You sob against his palm, and he lets you speak. “I missed you,” you cry. “Fuck, Spencer—no one’s ever—Jesus—no one fucks me like you.”

“That’s right.” His thrusts get harder. Sloppier. “Only me. Always me.”

You can’t answer. You’re too close. Your back arches as you clench around him, a strangled moan tearing from your throat. “You’re close,” he pants, grinding into you with precision now, every roll of his hips hitting something devastatingly perfect. “I can feel it—fuck—come for me, sweetheart.”

You dig your heels into his back, pulling him deeper, closer, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers tight, grounding you.

He follows with a moan punched from his chest, hips jerking forward once, twice—then stilling as he spills inside you with a breathless, "fuck."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing—ragged and uneven. You can see Spencer looking up at the ceiling with tight shut eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs.

“You always say that,” you whisper, lips trembling. “And then you do it again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Good.”

He leans his forehead to your shoulder. “I need you to stay clean,” he says.

You nod. “I need you to not leave again.”

He kisses the nape of your neck. “I won’t.”

You let him hold you even though you didn’t believe him, because love is the cruelest drug of all.

a/n: I spend too much time with limerence

[gothgoblinbabe]

Sweet Escape (L.H.)

(Logan Howlett)

Haiiiii mommas here to feed yall....X-men 2000 era Logan my beloved 

Idk I’m a sucker for the savior/jealous bf trope. I use it all the time ,I’m sorry this is kinda that because MY MAN WOULD FIGHT FOR ME!! For all of us tbh. you may not need a man to save you but if he's the man? rapunzel in the tower baby, come get me

Summary: A first date doesn't go as expected and Logans here to help

Warnings: SMUT 18+ // fem reader, swearing, cringe flirting, Logan’s a little more playful in this one, lowkey “knight in shining armor saves me” bs but stick w me, making out, oral (fem receiving)

Word count: 10K

�� · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You were looking at your phone screen. The short line of text kept repeating in your mind over and over again.

‘Hey, I’ll pick u up at 8. Wear smthn nice.’

It was a guy you’d met through a mutual friend. You thought he was cute and your friend passed on your number. After a couple days of small talk, he finally invited you on a date. You still didn’t know too much about him, other than the fact that you found him attractive. Truthfully, the whole reason you gave out your number in the first place was because if you wanted to get over your ridiculously massive crush on your best friend, you had to meet someone new. You weren’t even sure if you could call it a crush anymore - you were in love with him, but there was no way in hell he saw you like that. Logan was much too preoccupied with other things. He’d mentioned many times before that he wasn’t looking to be with anybody, and that obviously included you. Still, you stared too long when he wasn’t looking, borrowed his sweatshirts and flannels and thought about him all the time. If it was only a crush, it was the most intense and soul-crushing one you’d ever had. You often tried to dull the pain of knowing he didn’t want you by telling yourself someone else would - except you really didn’t want anyone else. You wanted him to be the only guy to hold your hand, kiss you sweetly, to be who you woke up to in the morning. You only wanted him.

As fate would have it, of course, he had to pop up in the kitchen where you were staring at your phone as you sat at the kitchen island. He was in his usual jeans and white tank, always ridiculously well fitting.

“Hey.”

Logan’s voice startled you and you looked up, snapping your phone shut and practically tossing it onto the counter.

“Hi.”

He quirked an eyebrow and nodded towards the counter that your phone was on.

“Somethin’ I’m not supposed to see?”

Did you want him to see? He was one of your closest friends, and friends shared that kind of stuff, right? The idea of telling him you had a date felt weird. Unfortunately for you, he could always read you like an open book, anyway.

“What, did you get a lil’ boyfriend or somethin’?” he snorted while he looked through the fridge, his back turned to you. Something about his teasing tone irked you and you could feel your face getting warm. 

“Not technically,” you began to speak and he immediately turned around. His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked concerned.

“Wait, that was a joke - do you really?”

You were surprised that he even seemed to care. You figured chit chat about dating was something he’d tell you to save for your ‘girlfriends’, but he seemed completely invested.

“Again, technically, no -“

“C’mon, there’s no ‘technically’, princess,” he reminded you and your stomach felt funny when you heard the nickname. 

“I’m going on a date next week,” you finally managed to say. You waited for him to start the relentless teasing, but it never came. His voice was flat and his face expressionless.

“Who is he?”

“Uh,” you paused for a second, curious about his uncharacteristic behavior, “I met him through a friend, I gave him my number.”

He leaned across from you with his arms on the counter.

“So,” he took a sip of the soda he found in the back of the fridge, “you gave him your number?”

“Yes?”

You were lost on why he was interrogating you.

“You like him?”

“Well, I thought he was cute,” you shrugged, “what’s with all the questions?”

He mirrored the action.

“Just wanna be sure you’re safe, is all.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe when he said that. You weren’t really sure why.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you reminded him and he nodded with a small smile.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you.”

You felt it again, like the weight of the world crushing your sternum.

“I know. I’ll be safe,” you told him and he nodded.

“So, where’s he takin’ you?”

“Good question,” you pursed your lips, “he didn’t say, just that he was picking me up at eight.”

“Hm,” Logan narrowed his eyes, “I don’t like that.”

“What? Why?” you laughed.

“I don’t know - did he even ask you what you like? Where you might want to go? This dude could be taking you to an empty parking lot, for all you know.”

You considered his words for a moment, acknowledging they did hold some truth.

“True. And I don’t know, I figured we’d talk about that stuff over dinner. But really, I’ll be fine - you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Alright,” he sighed, “but you’ll call me if you need me to come pick you up, right?”

“Yes, Logan,” you couldn’t help smiling. The poor schmuck you were meeting certainly had big shoes to fill.

You had an art class to teach the next day with some of the older kids. The semester’s topic was still life and portraits - drawing someone or something from life as realistically as possible. Everyone got to choose whether they wanted to draw an object or a classmate.

It was the first day of the new semester, meaning today was mostly just going to be going over what defined the two and showing examples.

You’d gotten through the first half - still life - and you flipped to a blank page to start the portrait section when you heard the classroom door open and close behind you.

Logan was standing in the doorway with his hands in his jacket pockets. The classroom erupted in an overlapping chorus of ‘hello’s’.

“Hey, you mind if I sit in? I wanna know more about drawing, uh…” Logan squinted and leaned forward a bit to read the white board behind you, “portraits.”

“Sure,” you laughed nervously, “you can take a seat in the back, if you want.”

You tried to return to teaching but paused for a minute, having lost everything you wanted to say the second he walked in.

“Uh, so,” you began, trying your best to pretend Logan wasn’t on a stool in the back with his eyes glued to you, “portraits are pretty self explanatory - you’re drawing someone’s face. Does anyone want to come up here to be an example?”

Logan was the only one to raise his hand.

“Do any students want to come up to be an example?” you smiled.

Still, no one. You sighed in defeat, knowing you were about to be an anxious mess if you had to talk and stare at him at the same time. You knew it would at least be an easy demonstration, though. You’d die before telling him, but you often doodled pictures of him in the margins of scrap paperwork and in the sketchbook you carried with you. You’d memorized every feature of his face by now that you could probably draw him with your eyes closed.

“Alright, Logan,” you chuckled and waved him over. You had him sit on a stool in front of you and told him to keep still.

“What happens if I don’t?” 

“You’re gonna have uneven mutton chops,” you laughed a little and some of the kids followed suit. 

He tried his best to stand up straight and you started to loosely sketch his face.

“So,” you spoke slowly as you drew, “you start with loose shapes - round head, oval eyes, the general shape of the nose - so you know where the features are.”

“Do I really have a round head?” Logan raised an eyebrow.

“Only when your ego inflates it,” you joked, earning a few laughs from the kids.

He rolled his eyes.

You continued explaining the basics and found yourself stuttering and pausing much more than you usually do. It was like his stare was burning holes through you - he followed every movement you made. Even while you were nervous, it still didn’t take you long to make a basic outline of his face that looked almost exactly like him. Practice does make perfect, after all.

“That was fast,” one of the girls in front said, “do you always draw portraits that fast? I don’t think I could do that in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, uh, no,” you looked between Logan and the paper on the easel in front of you, “I just - you know, I look at Logan all the time, I know what he looks like.”

A smile crept onto his face and you realized how that may have sounded.

“Not like I stare at him or anything, I just mean - I mean we’re friends, we work together,” you cleared your throat, “so of course I see him all the time.”

Your face was practically on fire and a couple of the kids in the back were snickering.

“Okay, anyway,” you tried your best to move on, “take as long as you need, you don’t want to rush your work. Just get the basic shapes down, and when you think you’re done with that, let me know so I can let you move on to the next step.”

The kids got to work and chatted amongst themselves, some moving their chairs around to draw each other. You looked back at your drawing and to Logan again.

“Are you gonna show me?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” you sighed, “but it’s not finished, I could do a much better job with more time and if I had-“

“Shh,” he chuckled, “lemme see.”

He hopped off the stool and eagerly came around to stand next to you.

“Holy shit,” he said under his breath with a short laugh, “that’s me!”

“Who else did you think I was drawing?” you joked.

“That’s crazy, it’s like looking in a mirror,” he bent down a little to get a closer look.

“Eh,” you shrugged, “I don’t think it’s as good as I could’ve done.”

“Can I keep it?”

You looked at him with wide eyes, gesturing to the paper.

“You want it?”

“Yeah, It’s awesome,” he couldn’t look away from the drawing, “I’ll pay you for it, if you-“

“No, no,” you waved your hand dismissively, “it’s yours.”

You tore the page at the top and held it out for him to take, but he snatched a pencil from the easel instead.

“Sign it?”

You were smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt.

“Sign it? Logan, what am I, a celebrity?”

“You probably will be if you keep making stuff like that.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and sighed, taking the pencil from his hand and signing your name and the date at the bottom. You paused and stared at the signature, realizing it needed something. You scribbled a small heart next to your name and handed it back.

He took it from your hands and looked it over again.

“A heart, huh?” he grinned, “I don’t think your little boyfriend is gonna like that.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended to be unfazed by his remark.

“Are you done disrupting my class?” you joked.

“Yes, Picasso,” he smiled and waved the paper in his hands, “thank you.”

You nodded and watched him walk out of the room. The rest of the class was a breeze, though you couldn’t shake the excitement of knowing he liked what you drew so much that he wanted to keep it.

Only a day or two later, you were in the library, leaned over your sketchbook and a book of anatomy references, both wide open. You had one pencil in your hand, another behind your ear and an extra one on the table beside you - just in case. The afternoon rain was pelting the outside of the building, echoing the pitter-patter of the drops hitting the ceiling and windows. It was probably a little after classes had finished for the day - maybe three or four o’clock - yet, the overcast sky depriving the day of sunlight made it feel much later. The library was mostly empty, save for a few stray students scattered in the large area, and for that, you were thankful. You loved your students, all the students, really, but it was a gift to be able to work in peace. You could’ve worked in your room, sure, but staying there every time you needed to draw or paint would mean you’d be in there for a lifetime.

“Whatcha’ workin’ on?”

You were startled by Logan’s voice, comically sending the pencil in your hand flying when you jolted. 

“Jesus, fuck,” you sighed and placed a hand over your heart.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were so locked in on that,” he nodded towards the books and leaned across the table, turning the anatomy book to face him.

“I just need more practice,” you explained, picking up the other pencil from the table - this was what the extras were for, anyway - and using it as a pointer on the pages of the book, “I can’t get any of this right for the life of me.”

He squinted, picking up the book to hold it closer to his face. He flipped through page after page until he stopped, muffling a laugh. He was looking between you and the open book, nearly red faced from holding in his laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” you whispered rather loudly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Nothin’, nothin’,” he replied after taking a moment to catch his breath, “I guess I just didn’t realize you were practically that kind of anatomy.”

You picked up on his hint and rolled your eyes. You reached up and pulled the book from his hands, flipping back to the page you were on before.

“You’re an adult, Logan - an old one, I might add - you can’t handle seeing a drawing of a penis? Besides, that’s not even what I’m practicing.”

“Hm,” he hummed, leaning on the table with his hands. He blinked at the sketchbook in front of you and another amused grin spread across his face.

“So, is that the kinda stuff you draw in that little book of yours?” he asked.

You looked up at him with a nearly blank expression, eyebrows raised.

“What, dicks? You think I spend my free time drawing dicks?”

Even in a harsh whisper, your voice undoubtedly echoed farther than you intended.

“Maybe,” Logan shrugged, “I always heard quiet people were supposed to be freaky.”

“Freaky?”

“Freaky.”

“Logan,” you rubbed your eyes and rested your face in your hands for a moment, “did you need something? I’m trying to figure this out and you’re not helping.”

“Ah, fine,” he reluctantly pushed himself from the table, “one more thing, though.”

Before you could even react, he reached over in the blink of an eye and snatched your sketchbook from in front of you. You gasped and jumped out of your chair to grab it from his hands, but he started to back away as he flipped through page after page. Your face began to burn.

“You’ve totally got at least one in here,” he joked, holding it far above your head. You were reaching up in a desperate attempt to grab it. If he saw those drawings you’d made of him, you might as well have just dropped dead on the spot.

“Logan, please, just - there’s some kind of private stuff in-“

He stopped abruptly on a particular page, the amused smile fading from his face ever so slightly. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and your stomach turned. 

“This…” he paused, turning the book around to face you, “is this me?”

Oh, god. You didn’t drop dead like you thought you would. It sure felt like it, though, when your hands started to feel a little numb. 

The two pages were crowded with doodles in ballpoint pen, small portraits and silly cartoons of the shit he did to piss you off. 

“It, uh…” you hesitated, “yeah.”

You didn’t have any option but to be honest - you’re a terrible liar and it was so obvious they were of Logan. They were like photographs,  small moments you’d captured in your mind and tried to recreate on paper later. You knew there was one far into the book of him sitting in the glow of the setting sun, a wide smile on his face that you rarely ever saw. You’d told a joke or said something stupid, did something to make him laugh, and the image was burned into your brain. 

You hoped he wouldn’t flip through the book any further. 

The library had already been silent, but the silence between the two of you standing in the enormous and practically empty room was different. It was awkward, maybe a little tense - you really weren’t sure. One thing you were sure of, however, was that you wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“I just - I - well, I think you’ve..got a nice face,” you shrugged in an attempt to play casual, “that’s all.”

“Mm, so you think I’m cute?” he quirked an eyebrow, flashing a small smile. It brought you relief to see it again. He didn’t seem to be nearly as creeped out as you thought he might’ve been.

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes, “you’ve just got distinctive features, you’re fun to draw.”

“Yeah?” he held out the book and you quickly took it back, “what’s that mean - what are my features?”

“The hair,” you answered instantly, pointing for emphasis, “the mutton chops. The eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Uh-huh,” you finally returned to your original seat and attempted to return to your work. With your hands and mind so hyper focused, you didn’t think much of what you were saying, letting out whatever came to mind with little realization.

“What about ‘em?”

“Pretty,” you said simply with your head still down, “green and brown, they kinda glow in the sun.”

If you’d looked up at him, you would’ve seen the wide smile spread across his face, the kind of smile so genuine that it bared most of his teeth.

“Do they? I guess I never noticed,” he said softly, staring down at you.

When you finally processed his response and tone, you paused, backtracking in your mind to what you had just said. You looked up from your book and held eye contact for only a second before he looked away. 

“Hey, I’ve got a meeting with Charles and I don’t wanna be late again,” he nodded towards the door, “I’ve already used you as an excuse, he won’t buy it a second time.”

“I’m surprised he bought it the first time. What did you tell him?”

He shrugged, backing away and towards the door. 

“I don’t know, I might’ve told him you were teaching me to draw dicks or somethin’.

“Fuck you,” you mouthed as he became further, a smile stuck on your face. When he finally turned and left, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

The day of your date approached fast. Rotating through outfit after outfit, it was an hour till eight o’clock and you still were stuck on what to wear. Jean and Ororo weren’t around tonight, but Logan happened to be home. It was a little odd to ask him for help with an outfit and you knew it, but nerves would always get the best of you. Even through whatever weird feelings you had for him, he was still your close friend, someone who’d been there for you countless times before.

You picked up your phone and pressed the button for his contact. It only rang a few times before he picked up.

“Aren’t you home?” he asked immediately.

“Yes,” you laughed a little, “but I don’t feel like walking all the way down to your room when I’m half dressed.”

That came out wrong.

“Uh, I just - I need your advice on an outfit,” you continued, “I am dressed, for clarification.”

You heard him chuckle on the other end.

“Is tonight your big date?”

“It’s not a big date - just a date.”

“You want me to come to your room?”

“Please?”

It felt a little funny to ask but he agreed anyway, to your surprise.

He was knocking on your door minutes later and you went over to open it, half clothed in a pair of dress pants and an undershirt.

“Hi,” he greeted, eyes instantly dropping to your outfit.

“A little plain for a date, don’t you think? And shouldn’t you wear shoes?”

“Funny,” you scoffed playfully, “listen, I’ve got a couple options, okay? Sit.”

He sat at the edge of your bed as you rummaged through your closet.

“Shouldn’t Jean or ‘roro help you with this?” he asked.

“Yeah, but they’re not here,” you answered while picking out a blouse, “so you’re my gal-pal for the moment. So, what about this?”

You turned and held up the blouse on the hanger. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

“Too green.”

“Okay,” you huffed, pulling out another one, “how about this one?”

“Too purple,” he answered immediately.

You put your fists on your hips while still holding a hanger in each.

“Alright, are you gonna do this with everything I pull out?”

“Maybe,” he smiled, “ya got any dresses?”

“Should I wear a dress?”

You hung the shirts back up and continued flipping through garments.

“What about the little black one with the nice lace thing on the front?”

You were glad you were facing the closet because you were smiling so hard that it hurt. He’d seen you in that dress maybe once or twice but he seemed to remember it well, and that’s what made you giddy. You took the familiar garment from the closet and held it up to your body, turning around to face him.

“This one?”

“Mhm.”

“Why this one?” you smirked a bit, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Looks nice on you,” he answered simply and you couldn’t help biting the inside of your cheek. How badly you wished this date was with him. You were aware of how odd this was, asking the guy you were kind of in love with to help you pick out an outfit for a date with someone else, but you could never really stay away from him.

You thanked him and he nodded, standing up to leave. 

“One more tiny favor?” you asked sheepishly in an attempt to stop him from leaving.

“Mhm?” 

“Stay while I try it on? I wanna know if it looks like it fits right, it’s been awhile since I’ve worn it. It’ll only take a minute, I swear,” you looked at him with pleading eyes, the warm light of your bedroom reflecting in them. 

“Sure,” he shrugged and sat back down where he had been before, waiting while you slipped into the bathroom.

When you stepped out, barefoot in the little black dress, you really wished you had a camera in hand to capture Logan’s face.

He took a long sigh and you almost thought you saw him trail his eyes up and down your figure. He was scratching the hair on his jaw in an unconscious habit, something you knew he did when he was deep in thought. 

“Looks okay?” you asked innocently, self consciously messing with the tight fabric around your middle, “it’s much tighter than it was a few years ago.”

“Looks, uh- it looks like it fits,” his cleared his throat and nodded, finally looking up from your body to your face.

“Yeah?”

You turned around and looked over your shoulder, awaiting his affirmation to wether or not the dress looked right. You bit down an amused grin when you realized his eyes were practically glued to your ass. He was leaning back on his elbows, staring while he seemed to be gnawing at the inside of his cheek. After a second or two under his burning stare, feeling warm and confident, you couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped you.

“Logan?”

He looked like he’d been snapped out of an altered state, blinking his eyes a few times before looking into yours.

“Hm?”

“The back looks okay?”

“It looks- yeah,” he cleared his throat, “looks alright.”

You thanked him and he took a breath to speak again.

“Oh, by the way,” he started, standing from his spot on your bed and walking to the door, “don’t forget what I said before - call me if you need me, okay?”

You nodded and watched him close the door behind him. You ended up being extremely thankful for his offer.

When you’d been told to ‘wear something nice’ you would not have assumed that meant you would be at some dive bar on the edge of town. Your ‘date’ was plastered after about an hour and a half, drunkenly rambling with other patrons and yelling at the TV that displayed the current football game. He even sat with another woman at the bar - you figured he was so drunk that he’d forgotten you were even there. You would have already left, had he not been the one who drove you here. This had to be a date from Hell.

Reluctantly, you pulled out your cell phone and slipped into the ladies room to call Logan when you decided you had enough. So much for dating to forget him - you were quite literally leaving your date to be with him, though it was arguably deserved. You’d handed the bartender a twenty dollar bill to find the guy a ride home, anyway.

You dialed Logan’s number and expected to wait, but he picked up on the second ring, speaking before you even said hello.

“Are you okay?”

You smiled to yourself.

“Yes, Logan, I’m okay. I was just gonna ask if you would mind picking me up. This date may be the worst one I’ve ever been on.”

“Did he do somethin’ to you?”

“No, no - he’s just wasted, hasn’t talked to me in the past forty five minutes and is sitting with another girl at the bar. Not my picture perfect idea of a night out, if I’m being honest.”

“Where are you? I’ll come getcha, honey.”

You hated how the nickname made your stomach feel twisted. You repeated the name of the bar and he sounded like he was going to pop a blood vessel.

“He took you there!? For a first date? That place is always crawling with creeps.”

“Thanks for the comfort, Lo.”

“What a dick,” he grumbled into the other end of the line, “don’t worry, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Thank you,” you sighed in relief, “I owe you.”

“No, you don’t,” he insisted, “you know I’ll always be wherever you need me.”

“Let me know when you’re here, I’ll come out.”

“Alright, I’ll see you soon.”

With that, you snapped the phone shut and went back out to sulk at your table. You weren’t too disappointed about losing the guy himself - he wasn’t anyone interesting - but more with the fact that this was supposed to be your fun night out and it was definitely the opposite.

After about only ten minutes of sitting down, a guy you didn’t recognize sat across from you. He wasn’t too bad looking - expensive jacket, nice hair - but nothing to make a fuss about. 

“You here alone?”

That’s never a question you want to be asked in this place.

“Uh, no, my date is at the bar,” you motioned vaguely in his direction.

“And not with the pretty thing he came with, huh?”

Oh, no.

You sighed and crossed your arms.

“The ‘pretty thing’ called for a ride home. I’m leaving.”

“Aw, and miss out on all the fun?” he leaned forward on his elbows and you sat back, “you can always find another guy in here to take you home.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “not happening.”

“Not even if I buy you a drink?” 

“No chance in hell.”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head, taking a cigarette from his pocket and holding it between his lips.

“No need to have an attitude, baby, I’m just talkin’ with you.”

You had to stop yourself from cringing.

“I’m not in the mood to talk.”

He smiled and lit his cigarette.

“Yeah? In the mood to do somethin’ else?”

“Alright,” you huffed and stood from your chair, grabbing your bag with you, “I’m gonna go wait for my ride somewhere else.”

You swiftly walked away and out the door, leaning against the brick wall of the bar with your arms crossed. It wasn’t too late - probably somewhere between ten and eleven - but the streets being so empty made it seem much later. 

The door swung open and the guy who’d sat at your table emerged from the bar. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and leaned on his shoulder against the wall, inches from you.

“Do you need something?” you narrowed your eyes and prayed that Logan would pull up any second. 

“I can’t talk to a pretty lady?”

He blew smoke in your face and you pretended to be unbothered, though your eyes stung like hell.

“Pretty lady doesn’t wanna talk to you,” you shot him a short, tight lipped smile and turned your view back towards the parking lot. 

“I like a woman who talks back, you know?” he smirked and moved to stand in front of you with one hand on the wall above your head.

“Good, then you’ll love this - fuck off.”

You thought you couldn’t be any clearer, but it didn’t seem to matter much.

“Ooh,” he chuckled, “you’ve got quite the mouth on you, huh?” 

Like an angel sent from heaven, you saw Logan’s pick up truck pull into the lot. You thought you were free, till the creep put his free hand against the wall beside you to cage you in.

“I wonder what else that mouth of yours is good for.”

You felt your phone buzz repeatedly in your purse. You scanned the lot and found his truck again, parked facing you. He was far enough that you could just make out the shape of him in the driver's seat with his phone to his ear. 

“Biting,” you said flatly.

“Hm,” he was still talking with his cigarette held in the corner of his mouth, “I can get behind a little pain.”

Christ. Your phone continued to buzz in your purse.

“Expect a lot.”

“Hey, I don’t need a safe word,” he laughed.

The second your phone stopped going off, you heard a car door slam shut. You looked over to see Logan walking towards the bar and attempted to duck under the guy's arm and go around him, but he was too fast. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’, sweetheart?” he had a hard grip on your wrist.

You could tell the exact moment Logan saw you because he suddenly looked like he was about to slice the guy to shreds. You made eye contact as a silent plea for help, but he was one step ahead of you.

You watched in satisfaction when he finally came up and yanked the guy back by his jacket so hard that he nearly fell on his ass.

“Alright, bub,” he huffed, “beat it.”

He took your hand in his and you were almost too excited by that alone to notice the other guy hadn’t shut his mouth.

“Hey, man, you can have a turn when I’m done with her.”

Logan dropped your hand so he could partially unsheathe his claws.

“You’re not gonna have a fucking ‘turn’ with her, but I’ll have one with you.”

“Woah, woah, woah - alright,” he instantly put his hands up and backed away from you, “hey, man, she never said she had a boyfriend.”

“As if that fuckin’ matters,” he snarled, “she’s not interested.”

You hoped that would be the end of it - the guy would see the sharp adamantium and cower away - but he clearly couldn’t tell when it was time for him to go. 

“C’mon, you’re mad ‘cause she was gonna come home with me?”

“In your dreams,” you scoffed and Logan reached his limit.

You heard the metallic clink of his claws pushing themselves out completely and you instantaneously grabbed his wrist with both hands, to which he looked back at you.

“Not worth it,” you reminded him, “let’s go home.”

He glared at the man in front of him and let you drag him further into the lot, retracting his claws. As soon as you both turned around, the asshole had one last thing to say.

“Bet I could fuck ‘er better than you could, freak.”

You immediately put yourself in front of Logan when he turned around and tried to lunge forward.

“Don’t,” you warned. You were stern, but it was really a plea for him to just walk away. Hearing gross shit like that from men wasn’t new and you wanted to rip the guy to pieces as much as Logan did, but you also knew it wouldn’t be worth it to waste time on someone like him.

Logan was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenched. He could be scary when he was angry, sure, but not when you knew it wasn’t you he was angry with. He reluctantly let you turn him back around with a deep exhale, but not without shouting back over his shoulder one last time.

“No, you couldn’t, bub.”

He slung his arm around your shoulder as you walked to his truck. You felt weak in the knees, like you’d fall to the ground if you couldn’t lean against him. You couldn’t help giggling to yourself like a lovesick idiot with a hand over your mouth.

“What’s so funny, huh?”

He gave you an amused grin and pulled you into him further. He seemingly managed to calm himself down, something very rare for him.

“Nothin’,” you cleared your throat, “nothing.”

“That wasn’t the guy you were on a date with, was it?”

“No,” you shook your head as you approached the truck, “I left him in the bar, the other one just followed me out.”

Logan opened the passenger door for you.

“I guess you’ve got guys throwing themselves at you left and right then, huh?” he chuckled, “doesn’t surprise me much.”

He closed your door and you felt butterflies in your stomach. He was abnormally…flirty, more so than usual. When he had been flirty in the past, you always figured it was only to tease you somehow, as he’d done with plenty of women. 

When he slid into the driver's seat, you expected him to turn the key in the ignition and start the drive home. Instead, the keys rested in his lap.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the date you deserved,” he said earnestly, “I’ll take a guess and say he didn’t deserve you anyway.”

“Hm,” you hummed, eyes locked with this, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

He finally broke eye contact and sighed, pretending to be interested in the mostly empty parking lot. You were gnawing on your bottom lip while waiting for his answer.

“I don’t know - if you’re gonna go out with a guy, he’s gotta be good enough for you,” he shrugged, “not some asshole who sits with another chick while he’s on a date with you or some creep who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“So what kind of guy do you think would deserve me?”

You were nudging yourself over a line you’d dreamed of crossing; that divide between friends and something more, but you had no expectation that he would even entertain the idea. You thought he was the kind of guy you deserved - or wanted, at least. 

He was just staring at you, looking like he was trying to think of something to say. 

“A guy who’d take care of you, I guess,” he sighed, “you can care of yourself, I know, it’s just - you need someone who sticks up for you, loves everything about you, holds your hair back when you’re sick, all that kinda stuff, y’know?”

That last part struck a chord with you. You instantly thought back to the last time you’d been sick. You’d gotten the flu and were practically bedridden for what felt like forever, and with Logan being immune to things like that, he was in your room with you most of the time to keep you company - even when he had to hold your hair so you could vomit in the bathroom. You realized that he was describing himself, though you weren’t sure if that was intentional or if he was truly that oblivious.

“Really?” was all you could say.

“Of course,” he nodded, “I don’t think you deserve anything less.”

You thought over the question you wanted to ask and let it balance on the tip of your tongue. You were a little fearful of the answer you’d get, but it still came out anyway. 

“What about you?”

Logan furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“What about me for what?”

You chuckled nervously.

“What if - I don’t know, what if I wanted some like you and - and not anything less.”

He was only staring, lips parted in what you assumed was surprise.

“That was stupid,” you said immediately, feeling embarrassment flood your body, “I’m sorry, I - it was just a bad night, and -“

“It’s not stupid,” he finally responded, eyes glued to yours in a way that started a fire low in your stomach, “I mean…I can show you how a guy’s supposed to treat you.”

You weren’t sure exactly what he was getting at but it made your heart flutter. With his heightened senses, you figured he noticed it pretty quickly. It wasn’t what you pictured happening when you finally told him you wanted him. You weren’t sure if he meant that he’d show you because he wanted to be with you or he saw it only as a platonic favor.

“You know, nothin’ you’re not comfortable with. I can just help you out a little,” Logan finally turned the key in the ignition, backing out and starting the drive home. You mulled over his words while his eyes remained focused on the road. You still couldn’t decipher what his intent was.

“So,” you paused, “what exactly does that mean?”

You could hear your own nervousness in your voice.

“Just doing boyfriend stuff with you,” he chuckled a bit and you could see the small smile tugging at his lips.

“Mhm,” you hummed and nodded, “so dating without dating?”

“Well,” he took a deep breath, “I guess, but that’s up to you.”

“What’s up to me?”

“If it’s real or not.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You do understand that two people have to like each other to date, right?”

“Ooh, ouch,” he let out a short laugh, “but yeah, honey, duh. Why do you think I offered?”

Your mouth kind of hung open in disbelief, eyes glued to the side of his face. He looked calm as could be, practically smug.

“I’ll do all that dating stuff with you to actually show you how you’re supposed to be treated, but if you wanted that with me for real , I wouldn’t say no,” he continued. He was so damn relaxed about it, as if what he said hadn’t rocked your world.

“Huh,” you still weren’t sure exactly where to start, “and - and, uh, what specifically do you mean by ‘boyfriend stuff’?”

“You know,” he shrugged, “taking you out to dinner, makin’ you feel pretty, going on dates.”

“I’ve never actually been on a real date,” you admitted sheepishly. If tonight was a night of honesty, you might as well confess it all.

“You’re messing with me,” he let out a short laugh and shook his head.

“I’m serious!” you insisted, unable to resist mirroring his smile, “Tonight was supposed to be my official first. I’ve had a couple boyfriends before, but I don’t remember a single one of them actually taking me out on a date.”

“What?” he furrowed his eyebrows and actually took his eyes off the road to see if your expression was serious.

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “I mean, there’s a reason they’re ex-boyfriends.” 

“Damn right,” he scoffed, seemingly agitated, “what the hell did they do then, sit on the couch and watch tv all day?”

“Pretty much, actually, yeah,” you nodded, “that and call me at two in the morning to ask if I can come ‘cuddle’.”

You used air quotes as you said the last word of your sentence, implicating an ulterior motive - sex, of course. 

“I’m gonna bet even sleepin’ with ‘em wasn’t worth the time,” he suggested.

“You’d win that bet,” you chuckled and felt the blood rush to your cheeks, “it would never take more than a couple minutes.”

“Jesus,” he exclaimed, “never? Not once?”

“I don’t think so,” you looked away in thought, “record time is maybe…fifteen minutes? It could be a little less.”

“Did any of ‘em even bother trying anything for you?” he asked in disbelief, “you know, like goin’ down on you and all that.”

You felt your face burning up almost instantly at the question. 

“Well, I - I mean, yeah, yeah - just not till I was, like…” you paused, trying to think of the best phrasing.

“Not until you came?” he asked.

You cleared your throat and pretended to be fascinated by the road in front of you. The tips of your ears were just as warm as your cheeks.

“That, yeah,” you replied in a small voice.

He sighed, furrowing his eyebrows and staring at the road ahead of him. You had another ten minutes left of the trip back home, but Logan pulled over on the side of the road in the dark night. The only things visible, if not in the headlights, were highlighted by moonlight. The chirp of cricket songs filled the air to replace the usual night silence as he turned off the car and pulled the key from the ignition.

“Can I do somethin’ for you?” he turned to you and placed a hand on your thigh, gently kneading your flesh, “you can say no.”

Context clues would have you believe you knew exactly what it was he wanted to do, but reasoning would not let you believe he actually wanted to do that, especially here and now and with you.

“Do what?” You asked softly, curious eyes flickering from his hand on your thigh to his eyes trained on you. He gently slid his hand a little further until his fingers grazed the hot skin of your inner thighs and you instinctively found yourself inching your legs open to accommodate his hand. You could feel the wet patch on your panties already starting to form.

“I wanna make you feel good, show you what it’s really supposed to feel like,” he whispered and you shuddered, lips parting in surprise.

“You - I, uh,” you stammered for a moment when your eyes were glued to his, the hazel shade glowing in the moonlight cast through the car windows, “you can do that.” 

It didn’t feel real, the idea of what you knew he was offering. His eyes, the same ones that glowed in the sun, mirrored the same beauty when bathed in moonlight. This was one of those moments you’d try to capture in your memory to recreate on paper, though you weren’t sure you could do it any justice. Nothing was more beautiful than the real thing.

With a small smile, Logan retracted his hand and slipped out of his side of the truck. He came around to your side and opened your door. Because of the height of the truck, you were almost eye to eye.

“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, right?” he asked sincerely and you nodded, completely entranced by the anticipation of what he was about to do.

He hooked his hands around the back of your knees so he could turn your body in your seat towards him. He lightly nudged your knees open with his thighs so he could stand between them and cup your face in his hands.

“You’re so beautiful, you know,” the moon's soft light illuminated his features, “you deserve to be taken care of.”

You could have cried from his sincerity had you not been too turned on to think. There was no way he was actually going to go through with it. Your heart was beating so hard and fast and he had barely even touched you yet.

He exhaled deeply, never taking his eyes off yours. 

“Can I kiss you?”

There was immediate heat pooling between your legs. Still in disbelief, you nodded, eyes flickering from his parted lips to his hands on your thighs. You’d thought about this so many times - dreamed of it and woke up in a cold sweat - but nothing your mind had ever conjured up could compare to the real thing. The smell of the leather of his jacket and musk overwhelmed your senses and you could’ve just collapsed into him, inhaled his scent until you couldn’t think of anything else and let him do whatever he wanted with you.

“Gotta hear you say it, baby,” his gentle voice broke you from your thoughts and you couldn’t help the sigh that slipped between your lips when he held your chin so you could look him in the eyes.

“You - yeah, yes, please,” you pleaded, your tone of voice much needier than you thought it would be.

His soft lips on yours felt more electrifying than you’d ever dreamed they could. Some people say that with the right person, there are fireworks - bursts of light behind your eyes that coincide with the rapid beating of your heart, leaving you in a euphoric haze - and it was true, having been proven by your best friend’s gentle and loving kiss.

Best friend. He was still your best friend, after all - you just weren’t sure if he was anything more. You reminded yourself that was something you could overthink and dissect later. 

While he continued to lean into your kiss and swipe his tongue into your mouth, his hands snaked higher until they slipped underneath the short skirt of your dress and slowly pushed the fabric to bunch around the very top of your thighs. The tips of his fingers brushed the fabric of your panties on your hips and you gasped into his mouth. He detached his lips from yours with a wet smack. 

“You taste so damn good,” he began trailing open mouthed kisses down your jaw and neck, “bet your pussy tastes even better.”

“Jesus Christ,” you moaned into his shoulder and wrapped your arms around him, digging your fingers into the back of his jacket. His filthy words spoken against your hot skin made you squirm in the leather seat, instinctively hooking your legs around him. It wouldn’t take much from him to turn you into a ruined mess.

“You like it when I talk to you like that?” he asked and you were nodding before he even finished the question.

“You’re so cute,” he continued in a low voice, so quiet it was almost a whisper.

The wholesome compliment caught you off guard and you buried your face against the cool leather of his jacket to cool your warm cheeks.

“Really?” your voice came out small, muffled against him. He pulled back a little so he could lift your head with a gentle grip on your chin.

“Really, baby,” he chuckled a little, “I've always thought that.”

You practically melted into his touch, leaning into his hand when he held your face. You swallowed hard and surprised yourself when your voice came out so desperate.

“I think about you all the time.”

It was a confession you’d usually feel humiliated to make, but everything he was doing almost put you in a different state of mind, completely vulnerable to him.

“Yeah? What do you think about?” his voice was almost teasing. His hands slid around your backside to grab at your ass, pushing you a little further into him.

“Wanted to kiss you,” you managed to say, eyes fluttering closed when he returned his mouth to your neck, “wanted you to - to touch me.”

“I don’t think your date would like hearin’ that,” he replied smugly.

“Fuck him,” you panted, “didn’t wanna go out with him anyway.”

Logan raised his head to look you in the eyes, confusion written on his face.

“Didn’t you ask him out?” he chuckled.

You knew you’d said too much, but you’d already gone this far. There was no turning back, anyway.

“Only to kind of distract myself,” you admitted, looking down at your lap, “I liked you and thought I couldn’t have you, so - so I figured I’d try someone else.”

He was smiling wide and let out a short laugh, shaking his head. You wanted to ask what was so funny, but he caught your lips in another passionate kiss first, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck to push you impossibly further into him.

“Shoulda’ told me,” he spoke between kisses, “can take care of you so much better than any of ‘em could.”

“Please,” you begged, grabbing at the sides of his flannel underneath his jacket to pull his hips further into yours, the cold metal of his belt buckle grazing the warm and sticky fabric of your panties.

“I gotcha, honey,” he hushed, “ ‘s alright, I’m gonna show you what a mans supposed to do for ya’.”

You shivered in his arms and lifted your hips off the seat so he could drag your panties down your legs. He held them up with both hands when he’d unhooked them from your ankles. They may have barely even counted as underwear - a thong with such little fabric that your arousal had soaked right through, leaving the inside of your thighs wet.

“You planned on gettin’ lucky tonight?” he teased but you picked up on the slight jealousy in his tone, “I feel sorry for the fucker who lost out on seein’ these.”

He stuffed them in his back pocket and you opened your mouth to object, only for him to cut you off with another passionate kiss.

“I’ll buy you some new ones, ‘kay?”

You only nodded, caught in his kiss. His hands kneaded your thighs feverishly, all the way to your knees. He nudged them apart even further, pulled you to the edge of the seat and planted a kiss on your forehead.

“Relax and lemme make you feel good, alright? I’ll go as slow as you want me to,” he spoke softly against your lips.

You let out a shaky breath and watched him drop to his knees onto the grass, undoubtedly leaving dark stains on the knees of his jeans. He traced his hands along your calves, your shins, your thighs, up until he had either one of them holding you open on the inside of your thighs. 

“Smell so fucking good. You know I can smell how wet you are all the time, right?” he asked sincerely and your breath quickened. It seemed probable, with his heightened senses - you just hoped every time that he miraculously couldn’t pick up on it.

“When you got in the truck, when I helped you pick out this dress, when we get paired up in training, sometimes even when I’m just talkin’ to you,” he continued, “and I can hear your little heart beat, too - all fast when I come around.”

You would’ve been embarrassed, had his face between your legs not left your mind completely blank. The only thing you could think about was his breath fanning your throbbing pussy.

“What if - what if someone sees?” you stammered but let him push the rest of your dress up to your waist to leave you fully exposed.

“No ones gonna,” he reassured you, “and if they do, might as well give ‘em a show, huh?”

You were speechless. He hooked your legs over his shoulders and spread you apart with his thumbs, the cool air sending a shiver up your spine.

“Fuck,” you heard him mumble under his breath, “she’s droolin’ for me.”

You whimpered, bringing a hand to the back of his head as a way to encourage him to finally do something, anything. You were so wet that the leather underneath you was slick with your arousal. 

“Please, Logan,” you begged, practically pouting at him from your spot above him.

“What, sweetheart? You want me to touch you?”

You nodded frantically, groaning in frustration. You leaned back on one hand while your other was threaded through his hair. The stiff peaks were definitely not going to withstand your tugging and he seemed like he couldn’t care less. He leaned forward to finally glide his tongue flat against you and you gasped.

“Oh my god,” you exclaimed, letting out short gasps of air as he buried his face between your legs.

“Feels good?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

“It - ah - ‘s really good,” you choked, panting as he moved his tongue. He swirled and licked and sucked at the hypersensitive flesh, suctioning your clit between his lips. It had you moaning loudly, unable to hold back the sounds you made when you were being eaten out like you never had been before. Logan was gentle but knew what he was doing, licking and sucking in all the right places and turning you into a dripping mess in the passenger seat of his truck. Nothing any ex boyfriend had tried to do even came close to what he was doing now. His tongue slipped down just a little further to prod at your entrance and you saw stars.

“Need you to remember somethin’, baby,” he grumbled in between planting sweet kisses in the middle of your folds, “who’s makin’ you feel this good, huh?”

“Logan,” you immediately cried, squeezing your eyes shut as you felt his tongue in you, “you, you - fuck!”

Your legs twitched when his teeth just barely grazed your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Good girl, tha’s right,” you could feel his lips curve into a smile.

The tip of his middle finger traced around your entrance and you tried to push your hips forward, eager to feel any part of him inside you, but he made sure to keep his finger just barely there. You were half leaned against the middle console now, sometimes hooking your arm around the top of the seat to keep your upper body’s balance, and you were squirming.

“So fucking wet for me,” he teased, “not one of ‘em ever did this to you?”

You were gasping for air as he stuffed you with his middle and ring finger in one hard push. You could only shake your head, trying to keep your eyes open to watch him but struggling not to squeeze them shut.

“Nah, none of ‘em could,” he paused to spit right on your cunt so he could spread his saliva with his fingers, “not that asshole you were out with, not that prick from the bar - none of ‘em.”

Ordinarily, you didn’t think you would have found that hot - shit talking any other guy who’d been with you while he ate your pussy - but he was certainly the exception. You could hear the squelching sound of his fingers plunging in and out of you intensifying and knew it was from his words. He worked up to a rhythm with his fingers and tongue, making you release a symphony of curses and cries of his name.

“C’mon, baby,” he muttered into you, “gonna make you cum in my mouth.”

“Fuck,” you panted, “don’t - don’t wanna, yet.” 

You were struggling to even form the words on your tongue. 

“It - ah - i don’t wan’ you to stop,” you managed to tell him, tipping your head back.  

“Can take care of you again when we get home,” he grunted, “I’m not done.”

The promise of what was yet to come fueled the raging fire in the pit of your stomach, hotter and hotter until it ran through you to the ends of your fingertips and toes. Ignoring any inhibitions you may have had, you cried out his name between a string of curses and whines. Logan continued lapping at you long after you came down from your high and he finally let you push him off when he was sure he’d licked you clean.

“You taste so fucking good,” he was sucking the remnants of you off his fingers as he stood up, “you wanna taste? C’mere.”

He swiped his fingers along your pussy, collecting anything left in you so he could hold you by your chin and let you suck them clean.

You could feel the weight of his heavy cock in his jeans on the inside of your thigh when he pulled his fingers from your mouth. You desperately wanted to return the favor that he had done for you, but when you rested your palm on the front of his jeans, he pulled it away by your wrist.

“Not yet,” he told you, wrapping his arms around your waist, “ladies first.”

“I already was first,” you giggled, threading your hands through his hair in an attempt to fix it.

“I already told you,” he planted a kiss on your lips, short and sweet, “I’m not done with you.”

You let out a shaky breath and he gave you one last kiss on the cheek before helping you readjust your dress. 

“Are you cold?” He asked, noticing the goosebumps on your soft skin.

“Little bit,” you shrugged, “it’s fine, we’re not far from home.”

“Nah, here,” he slipped off his jacket and held it out for you to put on.

“Logan-“

“Beautiful girl,” he interrupted, mirroring your expression when you smiled at the compliment, “it wouldn’t be very nice of me to let you freeze, now would it?”

You sighed in defeat and playfully rolled your eyes, cozying yourself within his jacket after he closed the passenger side door for you. It smelled completely of him, something that still made your heart race.

When you were both situated back in the truck, he wasted no time starting the engine and pulling out from the side of the road. You couldn’t stop glancing over at his handsome face, the hair on his cheeks still wet and shiny and faint lipstick kisses adorning his cheek and chin. His hand was kneading your thigh again, fingers tracing light circles into the warm skin every now and then to hear your breath hitch.

“You may wanna wipe your face before we get home,” you advised, popping open the glove compartment to search for stray napkins.

“No way,” he chuckled and you turned to him with a dumbfounded expression.

“ ‘m keepin’ you on me for as long as I can,” he explained, licking his lips.

“And your hair? It’s a mess,” you pointed out.

“So?”

“So? They’re gonna connect the dots, don’t you think?”

He gave a slight nod.

“Yeah, maybe. So?”

You blinked. Once, twice, three times before you could speak.

“You don’t care?”

“Oh, I care,” he smiled, “I want everybody to ‘connect the dots’. I get to brag that I’m yours and you’re mine.”

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” 

“ ‘cause I want everyone to know my girls taken?”

“Oh, your girl?”

“Mhm,” he hummed happily, “my girl.”

That just about answered that nagging question that had been popping up every few minutes. You were his, as he was yours.

When the truck pulled into the driveway, you took a moment to attempt to fix your hair and bury yourself inside Logan’s jacket in an attempt to hide the hickies that trailed from behind your ear to your collarbone. 

“You look good in that,” he nodded towards the jacket and spoke in a teasing tone, “maybe I’ll let you borrow it again sometime.”

“Uh-huh,” you replied simply with a playful roll of your eyes, slipping out of the truck. 

“I really hope everyone’s asleep by now,” you spoke quietly as you both walked to the front steps, “I do not want to have to explain everything right now - later, sure, but not at twelve AM.”

As soon as you’d slipped inside and Logan clicked the door shut, Ororos voice cut through the silence of the hall and you muffled a squeal. 

“Hey! How was your date?”

You almost wanted to ask what she was talking about until you remembered. 

“Uh, it - it was something,” you sighed, following her into the living room with Logan right behind you. You immediately saw Scott and Jean sitting on the couch and you cowered a little further into Logan’s jacket.

“You guys took a while to get home. Everything okay?” Jean asked.

“Yeah, yeah, we - um,” you struggled to come up with an explanation until Logan cut in.

“We stopped and grabbed something to eat.”

You had to use every muscle in your body to bite down your smile and stifle a giggle at the irony of his excuse.

Yeah, he got something to eat, alright.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement and kept your gaze on the hardwood floor. 

“Dude,” Scott caught Logan’s attention and leaned forward in his seat, as if he was getting a closer look at him from across the room, “is that - uh, is that…glitter on your face?”

The other two in the room noticed it the second he had pointed it out.

“Could be,” Logan shrugged casually.

“And your hair is all messy,” Ororo chimed in, narrowing her eyes at Logan.  A small smile crept onto her face. She sang your name to get your attention.

“Isn’t it a little warm in here for a coat?” She gestured towards the jacket you had cocooned yourself in.

“Nope,” you answered quickly, “I’m cold.”

“You’re cold, huh?” Jean chuckled. After only a moment of staring between the two of you, you felt a dull ache behind your eyes and shook your head in an attempt to rid yourself of it. 

You’re a bad liar.

The surprise echo of her voice startled you.

“What?” You furrowed your eyebrows and stared in her direction.

“I didn’t say anything,” she shrugged, feigning ignorance.

You narrowed your eyes and purposely formulated a thought you already knew would get a reaction out of her if she could hear it.

God, Scott looks so hot today.

You watched Jeans eyes widen, a gasp falling from her lips.

“Ha!” you raised a finger in her direction, “I knew you were in my head!”

“Take that back!” she pointed back at you.

“Take what back?” Scott asked but you answered before Jean had the chance.

“I was just thinking about something to piss her off,” you looked back at her, “I didn’t actually mean it.”

She sighed in relief and looked like she was going to speak again before she stopped, tilting her head in confusion as she looked at you.

“Oh, so, that’s the reason you’re late,” she realized aloud, pointing to her neck as an indication to check out your own.

Your hand flew to your neck to cover the marks you’d momentarily forgotten were there and you cleared your throat. You turned to Logan in a silent plea for him to think of an excuse. He was standing tall and smiling like an idiot, completely unaware of the conversation because he’d just been admiring you in complete focus.

“Logan,” you said softly, looking at him expectantly.

“Hm?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at your three friends who were awaiting an explanation or excuse.

“Oh, yeah,” he fondly rubbed the side of his face to reminisce about what had taken place maybe ten minutes earlier and hooked his arm around your waist, pulling you against him, “looks good on ‘er, huh?”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the hickeys or the jacket. Probably both.

“I, uh-“ you were wide eyed but he cut you off when he leaned down to plant a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Hey, we’re gonna be a little busy for the next few hours,” Logan began, using his arm around you to drag you towards the hallway with him, “ ‘f you need something, don’t knock on my door.”

“Logan!” you squeaked when he lifted you up to throw you over his shoulder with his palms on your ass, pulling down the short skirt of your dress to cover what was bare underneath. You craned your neck up and attempted to blow fallen hair out of your face. This was certainly noy how you planned out your night, but nonetheless, you were happy.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A/N: thanks for sticking through the cringe and if youve been around since last year during my hardcore Logan phase ilysm so so much

[verricherri]

HIIIII (another ask bc I have ideas)

I need need need sunshine reader who is always bubbly and fun and grumpy rhett and someone suits on reader and makes her sad so now rhett has to fight a batch (maybe slash their tires)

Where Wanting Isn’t Wrong

A/N: when my cherri asks, i DELIVER 🍒💌 did cherri send this like a month ago? …yes. am i sorry i’m late? …also yes 😭 and yes, this is a little long... Warnings: blame the dust, blame rhett, blame me wanting something that’s not easy but real. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The morning smelled like sun-warmed grass and cheap lemonade, the kind the PTA sold in Styrofoam cups for fifty cents, a line of sticky-handed kids waiting while you poured, bright and easy, your laughter ringing out as you ruffled hair and handed out cups with that smile everyone in Wabang knew.

You were a light in this dusty town, the kind that made people pause, made them think maybe today wasn’t so bad. That made Rhett Abbott stop dead in his tracks when he caught it from across the schoolyard.

You didn’t even see him at first. He’d shown up because Perry made him, a truckload of hay bales for the petting zoo you were setting up with your class, because it was the kind of thing you did, volunteering when no one else would, organizing a fundraiser so the kids could go see the state fair, your clipboard clutched against your chest as you gave instructions to parents who never listened.

Rhett tried to drop the bales and leave, quiet, unnoticed, his boots scuffing gravel, hat pulled low, eyes avoiding the way you were bent over tying a kid’s shoelaces with a soft word and a gentle pat.

But you looked up, saw him, and your face cracked into that wide, warm smile, your hand lifting in a wave that made his throat tighten.

“Rhett! Thank you so much for bringing these, we couldn’t have done this without you!”

Your voice carried, soft but somehow stronger than the heat rolling off the asphalt, and he fought the way his stomach twisted, nodding once, tipping his hat without meeting your eyes, his jaw working as he swallowed the words he’d never let himself say.

“Yeah,” he muttered, barely loud enough for you to hear, turning away, wanting to leave before you could get closer.

But of course, you did.

Your boots crunched on gravel as you jogged up, wiping your hands on your jeans, eyes bright.

“Really, thank you. The kids are going to love the petting zoo.”

Your smile didn’t falter, and that was the worst part, the way you looked at him like he wasn’t just Rhett Abbott, the screwup, the one who could never quite get it right.

He shifted, uncomfortable, eyes darting to the kids running past, to the truck, to anywhere but you.

“You need anythin’ else, just let Perry know.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to say something else, but the whistle of a kettle from the bake sale table cut through, and you turned, waving as you jogged back.

“Thanks again, Rhett!”

He watched you go, that bounce in your step, the way you ruffled a kid’s hair as you passed, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, scrubbing a hand over his mouth before climbing back into the truck.

He didn’t look back, but he could feel you, the way you made the world around you warmer just by being in it.

—

He drove back to the ranch, windows down, the wind hot against his face, trying to shake you off, trying to tell himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter, that you were just being nice, that it wasn’t for him.

That you were sunshine, and sunshine didn’t belong to anyone.

—

But later, when Perry teased him over dinner, elbowing him as Cecilia laughed softly, when Amy giggled about how “She is the best teacher, Uncle Rhett, she’s so pretty and nice,” Rhett felt that tightness in his chest again, pushing at the edges of his ribs, a pressure that made it hard to breathe.

“You gonna help out at the fundraiser tomorrow?” Perry asked, eyebrow lifted, grin lazy.

Rhett shook his head, stabbing at his food.

“Ain’t my thing.”

“Could be,” Perry drawled.

Rhett looked up, eyes sharp.

“Drop it.”

Perry put up his hands, still grinning, but Rhett could feel Cecilia’s eyes on him, warm and sad, like she knew, like everyone in this damn town knew, like the whole world was in on the joke except for you.

—

That night, Rhett sat on the porch, beer bottle sweating in his hand, the crickets loud, the stars sharp and clear.

He thought about you, your laugh, the smudge of flour on your cheek from the bake sale, the way your eyes met his and didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t judge.

He thought about the way you’d smiled at him, the way it had made something in him ache so badly he wanted to punch something, or pull you close, or both.

He took a long swig, swallowing hard, letting the bitterness burn down his throat.

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered to himself, leaning back in the creaking chair, eyes on the dark sky.

You weren’t his.

You’d never be his.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting.

—

The next morning smelled like dusty gravel and the sweet tang of early summer, the kind that stuck to your skin before noon. You were there early, pinning up streamers on the chain-link fence around the schoolyard, hair tied back, shirt tied at the waist, humming under your breath as you directed volunteers where to place tables and fold-up chairs.

You were always there, Rhett thought. Always smiling, always making the tired look up and the grumpy pause, even if only for a moment.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He told Perry he wouldn’t come. Told himself he wouldn’t come. But there he was, parked across the street, engine ticking as it cooled, watching you fuss over the lemonade table, your laugh floating over the hum of the small crowd gathering.

Then he showed up.

Caleb. Fresh boots, crisp plaid shirt, the too-bright grin of a man who wanted everyone to notice him. Wanted you to notice him.

He sauntered up, carrying a box of donated snacks, all swagger, throwing a wink at you that made Rhett’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“Well if it ain’t Miss Angel herself, brightenin’ up the whole damn parking lot.”

You laughed, easy and polite, stepping forward to take the box.

“Morning, Caleb. Thank you for bringing these.” “Anything for you, darlin’,” Caleb said, voice too loud, too slick, eyes lingering too long.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t drop your smile, just turned away, gesturing where the snacks needed to go, pulling your clipboard against your chest as you gave instructions to a pair of teens trying to wrangle folding tables.

Rhett watched you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, your shoulders rolling back as you squared up to face Caleb again when he followed too close, leaning in like he had a right.

“Can I help with anything else, sweetheart?” Caleb drawled, leaning against the table, elbows spread wide, like he wanted the world to see how close he was standing.

“We’ve got it handled,” you said, still polite, still warm, but Rhett saw the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers tightened around your pen before you turned away.

Caleb followed you anyway, stepping around a kid with a juice box, flashing you a grin like he thought it meant something.

Rhett’s jaw ticked, heat blooming in his chest, crawling up his throat, bitter and sharp. He forced himself to look away, to focus on the cracked dashboard of the truck, the sweat rolling down the back of his neck, the buzzing hum of the cicadas screaming in the heat.

“Ain’t your business,” he muttered to himself, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

—

But he couldn’t leave.

Couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Caleb hovered, the way you laughed politely at something he said, though it didn’t reach your eyes. The way Caleb’s hand brushed your arm, lingered for half a second too long, your shoulders stiffening before you pulled away, moving to help a kid adjust the sign on the lemonade stand.

It was a small thing, that moment, but Rhett felt it like a punch, the blood rushing in his ears.

—

Later, Rhett moved to the edge of the lot, leaning against his truck, arms crossed, cap pulled low. Watching.

Caleb kept orbiting you, always too close, always talking too loud, throwing jokes your way that made the PTA moms giggle, made the other men smirk, but Rhett saw your eyes darting away, your smile thinning at the edges.

“So, what’s a girl like you do after hours, huh?” Caleb’s voice carried across the lot as he leaned against the fence where you were stapling up a banner. “Grade papers, eat dinner, go to bed. Same as everyone else,” you replied lightly, focused on your task, not looking at him. “Aw, c’mon. A smile like that deserves better than microwaved leftovers,” Caleb pushed, stepping in, shadow falling over your shoulder.

Rhett’s knuckles went white where they gripped his arms.

—

You turned then, looking up at Caleb, your smile polite but your eyes cool.

“I appreciate your help today, Caleb, but I need to focus on getting this ready before the parents arrive.”

“I’m just tryin’ to be friendly,” Caleb said, leaning in, voice dropping, low enough that only you and Rhett, standing far enough to watch but close enough to hear, could catch it. “Unless you’re too stuck up for that, Miss Angel.”

Your jaw tightened. Rhett saw it, that flicker of steel beneath the sweetness, the way you squared your shoulders, chin lifting.

“I’m not interested. Back off.”

For a heartbeat, Caleb’s grin slipped, replaced by something colder before he forced the smirk back.

“Your loss,” he drawled, pushing away from the fence with a shrug that tried to play it off.

You turned back to your banner, fingers trembling just once before you pulled the last staple from your pocket, pressing it into the fabric with finality.

—

Rhett let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, tension snapping along his shoulders as he pushed off the truck.

“Don’t,” he muttered to himself, jaw tight. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

But he watched you walk back to the tables, greeting parents with a smile, letting kids hug your waist, your laugh bright but a little tighter, your eyes flickering once across the lot where Rhett stood, meeting his for half a second before you looked away.

He stayed, arms crossed, boots planted in the dirt, watching as Caleb slunk around the edge of the event, trying to catch your eye, smirking when you turned away, whispering something to another ranch hand who chuckled.

Rhett’s hands twitched, rage simmering under his skin, mixing with something else, something he didn’t want to name. Something like want, like need, like the ache that burned low in his belly every time he saw you smile at someone else.

—

The sun dipped lower, the crowd thinning, the air cooling as shadows stretched across the lot.

Rhett didn’t leave. Couldn’t. Not when Caleb was still there, hovering, eyes on you like you were something to claim.

Not when you were there, sunlight in your hair, holding it all together, holding him together without even knowing it.

—

The fundraiser wound down with the taste of dust in the air and kids running through the last dregs of sunlight, parents laughing, cars pulling out one by one, the lot slowly emptying until it was just you and a few volunteers folding tables, the hum of cicadas rising with the cooling air.

You were tired, but it was the good kind, the kind you earned, the kind that made your skin glow as you wiped sweat from your temple, pushing stray hair from your face while you stacked leftover cupcakes into boxes for the staff lounge.

You didn’t see Caleb watching from the fence, didn’t see the way his eyes tracked the last volunteers as they left, didn’t see how he lingered, waiting until you were alone.

You were humming, the soft song you always sang when you cleaned up alone, because it made the silence feel less heavy.

—

“Need a hand?”

The voice made you jump, the cupcake you were packing toppling sideways.

Caleb.

You turned, forcing the polite smile, brushing frosting off your fingers onto a napkin.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it,” you said, moving to close the box, folding it carefully. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Let a man feel useful.”

He stepped closer, boots crunching gravel, the sun catching the edge of a smirk that made your stomach twist, but you kept your voice even.

“I said I’ve got it.”

“Don’t be like that,” he said, hand reaching out, brushing your arm, lingering, thumb stroking the inside of your elbow like he had a right.

You stepped back, pulling your arm away.

“Caleb, stop.”

“You’re just playin’ hard to get, Miss Angel. Everyone sees it.”

The air felt thicker, pressing against your ribs as you held your ground.

“No. I’m not interested. Leave.”

“Don’t act like you’re better than me,” he snapped, the grin dropping, eyes hard, stepping in until your back bumped the table.

You lifted your chin, letting your eyes flash.

“I said. Leave.”

His hand snapped out, gripping your wrist, fingers pressing bruises before you could wrench away. The world narrowed to the smell of stale cologne, the heat of his breath, the weight of his anger.

“Let go of me.”

“Stop pretending you don’t want this—”

Your knee came up fast, slamming into his thigh. He stumbled back with a curse, loosening his grip enough for you to shove him, hard, your breath ragged.

“Touch me again, and I’ll bury you.”

Your voice didn’t shake. Your hands did.

Caleb’s eyes darkened, rage and embarrassment twisting across his face as he stepped forward again.

“You think you can—” “She said stop.”

The voice was low, calm, deadly.

Caleb froze. You turned, chest heaving, and there was Rhett, standing a few feet away, hands balled at his sides, hat low over his eyes, boots planted in the dirt like he was part of it, like nothing could move him.

Caleb let out a breath, scoffing.

“Oh, this what it is? You lettin’ Abbott here fight your battles?”

You stepped forward before Rhett could, shoulders squared, voice sharp.

“I don’t need him to fight for me.” “Doesn’t look like it,” Caleb sneered. “Get. Out.”

Caleb’s jaw ticked, spit hitting the ground as he glared at you, at Rhett, at the way Rhett’s body blocked your view, even though you pushed forward, refusing to hide behind him.

“Crazy bitch.”

You flinched, but you didn’t step back.

Caleb turned, heading for his truck, muttering under his breath, shoulders stiff with wounded pride.

—

You felt your breath leave your body, knees threatening to buckle, adrenaline making your fingers tingle.

“You okay?” Rhett’s voice, low, careful, like approaching a spooked horse.

You nodded, but your eyes were hot, throat tight.

“I had it handled.” “I know.”

Your eyes flicked to him, the way the tension in his jaw trembled, how his fingers flexed like he was holding himself back from tearing the world apart.

“Don’t—” “Stay here.”

And before you could speak, he was gone, long strides across the gravel, boots thudding, darkness swallowing him as he rounded the corner.

—

You stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, fists tight, the air thick with dirt and the smell of hot metal, your pulse drumming in your ears as you tried to decide whether to scream or keep it together.

You heard it first—a dull thud, a sharp grunt, the scrape of boots on gravel.

Then Rhett’s voice, low, dangerous:

“Don’t put your hands on her again.”

You rounded the corner, heart in your throat.

Rhett had Caleb pinned against the side of his truck, forearm pressed hard against his chest, the other hand fisted in Caleb’s shirt. Caleb’s face was twisted, blood trailing from his nose, his eyes wide with panic.

“Rhett,” you called, your voice hoarse, steady. “That’s enough.”

Rhett didn’t look at you. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on Caleb with a rage so cold it made you shiver.

“You hear her?” Caleb spat blood, trying to shove Rhett off. “Your girlfriend says it’s enough.”

Rhett’s fist slammed into the truck next to Caleb’s head, hard enough to leave a dent.

“She’s not your business,” Rhett said, his voice like gravel.

You moved closer, boots crunching on the gravel.

“Rhett. Let him go.”

His eyes flicked to you then, dark, unreadable, before dropping to your wrist where Caleb’s fingers had left a smear of dirt and red.

Rhett’s jaw flexed once, twice.

Then he stepped back, letting Caleb stumble forward, gasping.

Caleb wiped his mouth, spit in the dirt, trying to cover the fear in his eyes.

“Crazy bastard,” Caleb muttered, backing away.

“Get in your truck and go,” you said, your voice flat.

Caleb hesitated, but your stare didn’t break. He glanced at Rhett, then back at you, before climbing into his truck and peeling out, tires spitting gravel as he fled down the road.

—

The silence that followed was thick, the only sound the rasp of Rhett’s breathing, your own heartbeat loud in your ears.

You turned to him, anger rising to your tongue before you could swallow it down.

“What the hell was that, Rhett?”

He didn’t look at you, hands flexing, blood drying on his knuckles, chest still rising and falling.

“He touched you.”

“I told him to leave. I handled it.”

“Didn’t look like it to me.”

You stepped closer, pointing at him, heat rising to your face.

“You can’t just beat the shit out of people because you decide it’s your business.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment you saw it, the flicker of something raw, unguarded, terrified.

“It is my business.”

You froze, blinking, your hand dropping.

“Why?” you asked, your voice quiet, the anger draining into something you didn’t want to name.

Rhett swallowed, looking away, jaw working.

“Because I wanted it to be.”

The words hung there, heavier than fists.

You opened your mouth, closed it again, unsure whether you were angry or grateful or something else entirely, something that burned in your chest in a way you didn’t have words for.

Rhett took a step back, shaking his head.

“I need to go.” “Rhett—”

But he was already turning, walking toward his truck, boots crunching over the gravel, leaving you there under the harsh glow of the single light above the school doors, your arms wrapped around yourself, the night pressing in, your breath shaking out of you as you watched him go.

—

You didn’t sleep that night.

You went home, showered off the sweat and dust and the lingering scent of stale cologne on your arm where Caleb had grabbed you. You tried to eat, pushed food around your plate until the cat meowed and you set it down for him instead.

You replayed it over and over—the way Caleb’s hand tightened, the fear that turned to rage, the way you’d shoved him off, the way Rhett appeared out of nowhere, fists and fury and cold, hard rage.

And the look in Rhett’s eyes when you asked him why.

“Because I wanted it to be.”

—

You didn’t sleep that night, the ceiling above your bed glowing faintly in the dark, your mind replaying the way Caleb’s hand had clamped around your wrist and the heat of your fear twisting into anger as you shoved him off, replaying the thunder of Rhett’s boots on gravel and the flat crack of his fist against Caleb’s jaw, the way blood had splattered on the side of the truck, the way Rhett’s shoulders had risen and fallen like a man barely holding himself back, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes when you demanded to know why, how his voice had gone low, wrecked, as he’d said, Because I wanted it to be, and how that had settled in your bones like something you didn’t want to carry but couldn’t let go.

You got up before dawn, pulled on jeans and an old T-shirt, hair still damp as you tied it back, the air sticky even in the early morning, and you didn’t think, didn’t plan, just grabbed your keys and drove, the road to the Abbott ranch familiar and empty, the sky slowly bleeding light as you passed fields that glistened with dew, your heart pounding in your chest as you rehearsed what you would say but none of it feeling right, none of it feeling enough.

You pulled up to the ranch just as the sun broke over the fence posts, painting everything gold and sharp, and there he was, near the corral, hammer in hand, fixing a section of fence that didn’t need fixing, his hat low, the muscles in his arms flexing with each strike as dust rose around his boots, sweat already clinging to the back of his neck, his entire body wound tight with that restless energy you had felt in him since the day you met him, the energy that made him look away whenever you caught him staring, that made him leave rooms you entered, that made him clench his jaw when you smiled at other men.

You stepped out, slammed the truck door a little harder than you meant to, the sound splitting the quiet morning, gravel crunching under your boots as you crossed the dirt toward him, the heat of the rising sun pressing against your back, dust swirling around your ankles as you planted yourself a few feet away, crossing your arms over your chest like armor as you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, felt it burn in your lungs as you forced out his name.

“Rhett.”

He didn’t look up, didn’t pause, kept driving that nail into the fence post with methodical violence, the wood splintering as the hammer cracked down again and again, the sound sharp and cruel in the soft dawn.

“Rhett.”

This time his shoulders tensed, the hammer pausing midair before dropping to his side, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he slowly set the hammer down on the post with deliberate care, like he was afraid of what would happen if he let it fall.

When he turned to face you, his eyes were dark and tired, the skin under them shadowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he looked at you like he was bracing for impact.

“What do you want me to say?”

Your throat tightened, but you held his gaze, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“Anything. The truth.”

A harsh sound slipped from him, almost a laugh but empty, broken, as he shook his head, dropping his eyes for a moment before lifting them back to yours, letting out a breath that ruffled the hair falling across his forehead.

“The truth? Fine. I saw him touch you, and I wanted to kill him.”

You felt the words settle heavy in the space between you, the heat of them searing across your skin, anger rising to meet the fear and confusion you hadn’t had the time to process, your hands curling tighter around your elbows as you forced yourself to respond.

“I didn’t need you to do that.”

He scoffed, the sound low, bitter, as he took a step closer, the heat of him meeting yours, his eyes blazing.

“Yeah, you did.”

Your lips parted, incredulous, the flush rising in your cheeks as your pulse quickened.

“Excuse me?”

“You think I don’t see it? The way you’re always smiling, always being nice to everyone, how you act like nothing ever gets to you, like nothing can touch you, but he got to you, I saw it in your face, and I couldn’t—”

You shook your head, cutting him off, your voice rising as your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.

“He scared me, Rhett. That doesn’t mean I needed you to fix it.”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing, his breath coming heavier as he stepped closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could see the way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to calm something inside him.

“I know you can handle yourself,” he snapped, his voice low but shaking, the veins in his neck standing out as he fought to keep control, “but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there and watch some piece of shit put his hands on you like he has the right.”

Your hands dropped to your sides as you took a step forward, refusing to look away, your voice trembling with the frustration and heat that had been building in your chest for months, years.

“Why? Why do you care so damn much, Rhett?”

And there it was, the way he flinched, the way his eyes flickered with fear before he swallowed hard, shaking his head as if he could stop the words from coming out before they slipped past his lips.

“Because I can’t not.”

The silence that fell was so heavy it felt like it pressed down on your shoulders, the air thick and buzzing with everything unspoken, your breath caught in your throat as you tried to find words, but all that came out was a whisper.

“You think you get to just—what, beat the shit out of people who look at me wrong? You think I need that?” “No.” “Then what, Rhett? What the hell do you want from me?”

His chest rose and fell once, twice, before he let out a breath that sounded like it scraped his lungs raw, his eyes closing for a moment before opening again, dark and shining.

“Everything.”

Your heart stopped, the word echoing in your mind, your breath catching as you tried to swallow, tried to push down the way it made your chest ache.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, “not after you’ve spent so long acting like I don’t exist, like I’m nothing to you.”

His eyes shuttered for a moment, his jaw clenching, before he stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, so close you could smell the sweat and soap on his skin, the scent of dust clinging to him like it was part of him.

“I never acted like you’re nothing,” he said, his voice low, rough, every word carrying the weight of something he had tried to bury. “I stayed away because I can’t give you the kind of life you deserve, because you deserve someone better, someone good, and I am not—”

“Don’t decide that for me,” you cut in, your voice sharp, your eyes burning, your hands shaking as you stepped closer, so close your boots almost touched.

“You don’t get to decide what I want, Rhett.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, shaking his head.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“And you don’t know what you’re denying yourself.”

Your eyes burned with the weight of everything unsaid, but you refused to look away, refused to let him shut you out again, refused to let him retreat behind that stoic silence he wore like armor, because you were done letting him hide while you carried the burden of pretending you didn’t see the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, the way his jaw would tighten and his throat would bob when someone else made you laugh, the way he would leave the room with his head down, boots heavy on the floor, because staying was too dangerous for him, too close to everything he spent his whole life running from, and you let the words pour out, your voice low but fierce, layered with the ache you had kept buried for too long.

“You think I don’t see you, Rhett, you think I don’t see the way you watch me when you think I’m not looking, how you find reasons to leave when I walk into a room because you can’t stand to be close, how your jaw clenches so hard I can see it from across the damn room whenever someone else makes me smile, you think I don’t feel it every single time you stand near me, like the air changes, like the world tilts just a little because you’re there, and you think I don’t know what that means?”

His hand lifted then, hesitating in the space between you as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t let himself, couldn’t cross that final distance, before it fell back to his side, fingers curling into a tight, shaking fist, his eyes locked on yours, dark and searching, voice cracking under the strain of all the things he had never let himself say.

“Don’t.”

The single word was a plea and a warning, thin and breaking.

“Don’t what?” you asked, your breath catching as you stepped closer, refusing to give him room to run.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he ground out, each syllable heavy, painful.

“Like what, Rhett?” your voice softer now, trembling but unyielding, your chin lifted as you stared him down.

“Like I’m worth it.”

Your chest cracked open at that, something inside you splintering wide in the quiet between his words, something raw and terrified and real unraveling inside of you as you let out a slow breath that trembled on your lips.

“You are.”

—

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in, stretching between you in the dusty morning air as the world seemed to hold its breath, the whisper of wind across the dry grass and the distant groan of the barn the only sounds that dared to break it, and you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and insistent, thundering in your ears as you watched the way Rhett’s eyes dropped to your mouth and then dragged back up to your eyes with that same war-torn look, like he was fighting a losing battle with himself, with the need that was carved into every tense line of his body, with the fear that clung to him like sweat.

“Don’t,” he said again, softer now, the word so quiet it almost disappeared, but it carried everything he couldn’t say out loud, everything he was too afraid to admit, everything that made him take a half step back even as his eyes pleaded with you not to leave him standing there alone in the wreckage of everything he’d tried to bury. “Rhett,” you whispered, and it came out as a promise and a demand all at once, your own fear swirling in your chest but overridden by the certainty that you weren’t going to walk away from this, from him, not now, not ever. “Don’t,” he repeated, the word a cracked thing, fragile and desperate. “Please,” you breathed, your voice trembling, your eyes searching his, refusing to let him retreat, refusing to let him hide from you, from himself, from the truth that was sitting between you like a live wire.

—

Your hand lifted slowly, fingers trembling with the weight of everything you felt, everything you had kept bottled behind polite smiles and quiet strength, and you reached for him, letting your fingertips brush the edge of his jaw, the roughness of stubble scraping against your skin, the heat of him sinking into your bones in a way that made your breath catch, in a way that felt like it was searing itself into your memory so you could never pretend you hadn’t felt it, never pretend you hadn’t wanted it.

He flinched under your touch, his eyes squeezing shut, his breath leaving him in a shaky exhale like he had been holding it in for too long, like the simple contact of your hand against his face was enough to crack something deep inside him that he had fought to keep locked away, and you didn’t pull back, didn’t let him retreat behind that wall of silence and fear he wore like a second skin, you simply let your palm settle against his cheek, steady and warm, your thumb brushing lightly along the rough edge of his jaw.

“Look at me,” you whispered, your voice low but steady, carrying across the small space between you like a promise and a command all at once, because you were done letting him hide from the truth, done letting him pretend you didn’t see him, didn’t feel him, didn’t want him.

His eyes opened, slow and reluctant, dark lashes lifting to reveal eyes that were glassy and raw, that held fear and longing and something so soft it made your chest ache, and for a moment he just looked at you, breathing hard, like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face in this light, in this moment, like he was afraid if he blinked you would disappear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, barely above a whisper, but it felt like it echoed in the quiet, like it was the only sound that mattered, the only truth you needed him to hear.

He let out a breath, one you felt against your wrist, warm and uneven, and his hand came up, hesitating for a moment before it covered yours where it rested on his cheek, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, not to push you away, but to hold you there, to keep you close, to ground himself in the feeling of your skin against his, the reality of you standing there, refusing to let him hide.

And in that moment, in the heat of that silence, in the roughness of your breaths and the closeness of your bodies, with the smell of dust and hay and the sharp morning air between you, something shifted, something gave way, something finally broke open.

You didn’t know who moved first, or if it even mattered, only that one moment you were standing there breathing the same uneven air, your eyes locked on each other with a desperation that bordered on painful, and the next his hand was sliding up to the back of your neck, his palm warm and rough, his thumb brushing along the line of your jaw as if he was memorizing the feel of you, grounding himself in the reality that you were there, that you weren’t turning away, and your own hand was curling around the collar of his shirt, your fingers tightening in the fabric because you needed something to hold on to before you drowned in the way he was looking at you.

Your breath hitched as his forehead dropped to yours, the brim of his hat brushing lightly against the top of your head before he lifted it off with a clumsy, shaking movement, tossing it aside without looking, his other hand coming up to frame your face, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers, could see the way his eyes searched yours for any sign that you would pull away, that you would leave him standing there alone in this raw, terrifying moment he had tried to avoid for so long.

And you didn’t pull away.

You let your eyes flutter closed, let your lips part on a breath that felt like it carried every quiet wish you had ever made in the dead of night, every silent hope you had pressed into your pillow, every ache you had hidden behind your smiles, and when his lips finally touched yours it was soft, so soft you almost thought you imagined it, the lightest brush of rough lips against yours as if he was giving you one last chance to stop him, to step back, to end this before it began.

But you didn’t step back.

You leaned in, just enough for your lips to press more firmly against his, and that was all it took for something to break open between you, for the kiss to deepen, for the soft, hesitant press of his mouth to turn into something hungry, something messy, something real, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer, closing the last breath of space between your bodies, feeling the solid heat of him against you, the rough scrape of stubble against your skin as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his breath hitching against your lips in a way that made your knees weaken, made your pulse thrum everywhere, made heat bloom low in your belly.

And it happened fast, in the way storms roll in across the plains, unannounced but inevitable, when the air shifts and the pressure drops, when your body knows before your mind catches up that everything is about to change, and you let it, because you’re tired of resisting things that are meant for you.

Rhett didn’t reach for you like a man seeking comfort; he reached for you like a man who had decided to stop punishing himself, his hand sliding into your hair, not gently, but with a certainty that made your breath catch, tugging you forward as he lowered his mouth to yours, not testing, not asking, but taking in a way that made your stomach tighten and your knees soften, your fingers finding the front of his shirt and fisting it just to keep yourself standing upright.

The kiss wasn’t soft; it was alive, a push and pull, his teeth catching your bottom lip as you gasped, your hand sliding up to his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble against your palm as you tilted his face, deepening the kiss because you wanted more, because you were done pretending you didn’t want everything he was trying to hold back.

You felt him exhale against your mouth, a low sound that was almost a curse, almost a laugh, like he couldn’t believe this was real, like he’d spent too long telling himself it couldn’t happen to let himself enjoy it, but you swallowed that sound with your mouth, pressing closer, your hips bumping into his, the sun at your back, the taste of dust in the warm air between breaths, the world beyond the fence line falling away as your lips moved against his.

When you pulled back, it wasn’t because you wanted to, but because you needed to breathe, your lips brushing his as you caught your breath, your eyes meeting his in the narrow space between, and for a moment there was no fear, no running, no doubt, just the two of you, here, now, in this place that smelled like hay and sweat and warm earth.

You smiled, a small, sharp thing, as your thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, your voice low, steady, alive with something that had been sleeping inside you for too long.

“Don’t think too hard about it, Rhett.”

And he let out a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching, and he shook his head once, short, almost like a laugh, before he kissed you again, harder this time, his hand splaying across your lower back to pull you in, to remind you he was there, solid and warm and real, and you let yourself lean into him, let yourself kiss him back like you meant it, like you had always meant it, like you would mean it tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

There was nothing gentle about it, and you didn’t want it to be. You wanted to feel it in your bones, to carry it with you when you left this spot, to let it remind you that some things are worth wanting, worth taking, worth keeping, no matter how hard you’d tried to convince yourself otherwise.

—

It was strange how quiet the world felt afterward, how the air seemed softer somehow, as if the wind itself was holding its breath, letting you have this moment undisturbed.

You didn’t pull away, not fully, even after the kiss ended, your lips swollen and warm, your breath a little uneven as you rested your forehead lightly against his collarbone, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of him grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed until this exact moment. You let your hand settle against his chest, the rough fabric of his shirt scratching your palm as you traced your thumb in small, absent circles, feeling the hard beat of his heart beneath your hand, steady and strong, like a promise you hadn’t asked for but found yourself accepting anyway.

Rhett’s hand didn’t leave your back, his fingers splayed wide, holding you there, not possessive but certain, like he wasn’t ready to let go, like he wasn’t sure how to step away now that he had let himself touch you, now that he had stopped running from what he felt and had let it spill out into the world, tangible and undeniable, painted across the dust and the morning air and the soft heat lingering between your bodies.

Neither of you spoke for a while, and it didn’t feel like silence so much as it felt like a pause, like the world giving you space to breathe, to find your footing again after the rush of something you had both spent too long pretending wasn’t there. You could hear the rustle of the dry grass in the breeze, the creak of the fence settling under the heat of the rising sun, the distant call of a bird overhead, but mostly you could hear him, the low, steady breaths, the way they caught slightly when your thumb pressed a little harder against his chest, the quiet exhale when you shifted just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his face, trying to read him in this new light.

His eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, the harsh lines of his brow eased, the tension that always lived in the set of his jaw loosened as he looked at you, his lips parted like he might say something, like he wanted to, but the words caught, tangled up in everything else he hadn’t said, everything you both already knew.

You were the one who spoke first, your voice low, careful, but steady, like you were testing it, letting it carry between you without breaking the fragile warmth hanging in the air.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

His breath hitched, a small, almost disbelieving smile ghosting across his lips, and he let out a sound that was part laugh, part sigh, before he nodded, once, sharp and certain, his hand tightening slightly against your back as if to anchor himself to the truth of it.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough, the word scraping out of him like it cost him something to say, but there was relief in it too, soft and raw. “Yeah, we are.”

You felt the corner of your mouth lift, a small, honest smile, your thumb brushing over his shirt as you let your forehead rest against his again, your eyes closing for a moment, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, into the reality of this moment you had both been dancing around for far too long.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured, the words teasing but gentle, the kind of soft laughter you hadn’t let yourself share with him before, the kind that tasted like relief and hope.

“Don’t,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in it, and you felt the way his chest shook under your hand when he let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling through you in a way that made your heart clench, made you want to pull him closer, made you want to keep him laughing just to hear it again.

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his, letting the smile linger as you studied him in the morning light, the way it caught on the dark of his hair, the curve of his jaw, the softness around his eyes as he looked back at you like he wasn’t quite sure how you were real.

“I’m not going to break, Rhett,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against the side of his neck where his pulse beat fast and strong beneath your touch, reminding both of you that you were here, that this was real.

His eyes flickered, dark and uncertain, before they softened again, his hand lifting to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering there, brushing lightly against your skin like he was memorizing the feel of you under his touch.

“I know,” he said, the words low, steady, carrying a weight you felt settle in your chest, heavy but not unwelcome. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You let out a quiet breath, your hand dropping from his chest to catch his wrist, pulling his hand from your face only to hold it between yours, your thumb brushing over the roughness of his knuckles, the small cuts and bruises from the fight, your eyes meeting his with a clarity you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You won’t,” you said, your voice sure, your gaze steady, and you saw the way his eyes widened slightly, the way he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He nodded, once, like he was accepting it, like he was letting himself believe it, and you stepped closer, your bodies pressed together in the quiet morning, the heat of him sinking into you as you rested your cheek against his chest, letting your eyes close as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, the warmth of his hand as it settled against the back of your neck, holding you there, holding himself there, in this moment you had both chosen, finally, without fear.

You didn’t need to talk about what came next, not yet, because there was time now, time to figure it out, time to learn what it meant to stay, to want, to keep, and you felt the way his thumb brushed lightly against the back of your neck, the quiet way he let out a breath, his head dropping to rest against the top of yours as he held you, and it was enough.

For now, it was enough.

—

That evening you had parted quietly, the weight of what you’d shared still humming under your skin, and when you woke the next day, you moved through your morning with a soft, uncertain lightness, your chest tight with the newness of letting yourself want something without apology.

The next morning came with a quiet you hadn’t felt in a long time, the kind that settled in your bones, warm and calm, as you moved around your classroom, sliding books into cubbies, checking the small plants on the windowsill, letting the morning light fill the room with soft gold as you tried to keep your hands from shaking.

You heard the knock on the door before you saw him, and when you turned, there he was, standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in one hand, a small clay pot in the other, a tiny green sprout poking out of the dirt, and something about the way he held it, awkward and unsure, made your chest tighten, made your lips twitch into a smile you couldn’t hide.

“For your desk,” he said, clearing his throat, his eyes darting around the room before settling on yours, holding there, soft but steady.

You took the plant from him, letting your fingers brush against his, warm and calloused, and you set it on your desk, turning back to him with a small, real smile that felt like it reached all the way into your chest.

“You’re impossible,” you said, your voice light but your eyes soft, your fingers reaching for the coffee, your thumb brushing against his knuckles as you took it from him.

“Yeah,” he said, his lips twitching, a breath of a laugh leaving him as he scratched at the back of his neck, a flush rising on his cheeks. “But you still want me?”

You didn’t answer with words.

You set the coffee down, stepped closer, letting your fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to you, your lips finding his in a soft, quiet kiss that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate, just was, and when you pulled back, you let your forehead rest against his, your eyes closing as you let out a soft breath, the world beyond the classroom door falling away for a moment.

“Yeah,” you whispered, letting the word hang in the quiet, letting it fill the space between you.

And it wasn’t everything, but it was Rhett's, and that was enough to start.

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MY CHERRIES: veri🍒: @tokkiz @lizzie8878 @mrsparker3696 @pixie2k5 @0urlady0fs0rr0ws421. @amazingishlivy drop your cherries: veri🍒: tag for ALL of that character works

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Summary: Love was never easy then came Bob. You never believed in "right person, right time" or soulmates but maybe that's what this is what's going on.

No major warnings, very soft, meet cute, stranger to lovers, mention of self-doubt

This came to me completely randomly I hope you enjoy :)

Masterlists

♡♡♡♡♡♡

Growing up, you were always told love wasn't something easy. You had to work for love. Love was a difficult and scary thing to find--but if you found the right person, it was worth the fight.

You never found the right person.

Every guy made you nervous--not in a sweet, butterflies-in-your-stomach nervous. More like Shit, don't say the wrong thing. Don’t make a fool of yourself or you’re going to embarrass you forever and he’ll be disgusted, kind of nervous. After a while you just started to believe no guy would actually want to fight to be in a relationship with you.

You never found the right guy.

Not until Bob.

You met Bob by accident. A complete freak accident--the two of you grabbing the same cup of coffee at the exact same time.

“Oh shit, sorry!” you both blurted over each other, hands still touching.

“I-um-you had a caramel latte too?” the stranger asked. You nodded, too scared of hearing your voice stutter in response. He gave a soft, boyish smile and chuckled. “That’s my favorite… Did--I mean was there any difference in your order?” He started inspecting the checkboxes on the cup, hoping for some guidance, since the employees were clearly slammed that morning.

It took you a minute to realize he’d asked you a question — you were too caught in the daze his blue eyes put you in.

“Oh! I, um… I asked for extra caramel,” you said, shrugging slightly. “Sometimes they do it, sometimes they don’t.”

Before he could respond, another caramel latte was placed on the counter. You both glanced around — no one else was waiting. You picked it up and handed it to him. “I think this one’s yours. It isn’t marked with any special add-ons.”

He smiled and swapped drinks with you, then frowned, “Wait… does your drink have the extra caramel you asked for? I didn't see anything marked on that cup” he nodded towards the cup in your hand.

When you checked it you just sighed and shook your head with a small shrug, his frown deepened.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you explained, you were already halfway through brushing it off again when he paused.

You watched as his eyes lit up like some thought just hit him.

“Actually…” he glanced toward the counter, then back to you, hesitant but suddenly determined, “do you want me to ask them to remake it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The drink. With the extra caramel.” He pointed at your cup, then toward the chaotic barista station. “It’s not what you ordered. I can ask.”

You almost laughed — not at him, but at the sheer earnestness of it.

“No, really. It’s fine. I’m used to them getting it wrong.”

“Still,” he said, standing a little straighter, “you should get what you ask for.”

His brows furrowed like the thought genuinely bothered him. You watched as his hands flexed like he was getting ready to go to war over the state of your coffee.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, softening.

He shrugged, still watching you. “Oh I would never do it for myself. I’d just… take the wrong one and drink it.”

You tilted your head. “But for me…?”

He smiled, a little sheepish now and shrugged. “You just, I don't know you looked disappointed.”

You blinked again, caught off guard by how easily he’d noticed.

Most people didn’t. Most people didn’t care to.

You looked down at your cup. Then up at him.

“It’s okay,” you said. “This is enough.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. But next time? We’re going to make sure your coffee is right.”

You startled at the phrase — next time — but he said it like it was natural, not a reach, not presumptuous.

And somehow, you found yourself hoping for it too.

He seemed surprised by what he actually said, he cleared his throat before looking around trying to calm his racing heart. “It's um-like slammed…I don't know if you were going to drink here but we–we could share that table…if you want? Only if you're comfortable with it obviously! I mean you don't even know me, like we're total strangers I-shit I'm rambling aren't I?” He sighs, blushing bright red before he looks back over to you and sees you smiling softly at him. “I don't mind sharing a table, better than sitting in the heat.”

His shoulders relax and smiles back at you, “Lead the way.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡

The table was tucked into the far corner of the café, pressed up against a window that fogged slightly from the contrast of cool air conditioning inside and the heavy humidity just beyond the glass. It wasn’t much–wobbly and barely big enough for the two of you–but it felt oddly… intimate.

You sat first, cradling your cup in your hands, pretending not to notice how Bob hesitated before pulling out the chair across from you, like he was double-checking you hadn’t changed your mind. “This okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s perfect.” He let out a small breath of relief and sat down, setting his drink on the table carefully like it might shatter if he wasn’t gentle. For a moment, the silence was comfortable. The sounds of the café filled the gaps: espresso machines hissing, mugs clinking, laughter from a group near the door. You watched as Bob adjusted the sleeve on his cup, fingers long and a little fidgety.

“I’m Bob, by the way,” he offered, finally looking back up at you. “Just realized I never introduced myself.”

You smiled, giving your name in return, and he repeated it softly like he was testing the feel of it on his tongue. You liked how it sounded when he said it. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t shrink it down like most people did.

“So…” he started, thumb brushing the edge of his cup, “was this part of your morning routine too? Or are you more of a… ‘I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t get caffeine immediately’ kind of person?”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing further. “Definitely the second one today. The heat already tried to kill me on the way here.”

“I get that,” he grinned. “My shirt stuck to my back before I even left my building. Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

You giggled, sipping your not-quite-right coffee despite everything. “Honestly? That’s probably the most relatable thing I’ve heard all week.”

The conversation slipped into something easy after that–back and forth volleys of sarcasm and small confessions. He told you about how he’d gotten yelled at by a pigeon once for dropping a bagel near the subway entrance. You admitted you once accidentally held a stranger’s hand in a crowd for a good twenty seconds before realizing it wasn’t your friend.

Bob had this way of laughing that made your stomach flutter–not loud or boisterous, but quiet and genuine. Like it was a privilege to witness. Like the sound was just for you. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until the baristas started calling out the lunch orders and the café grew louder again.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and winced. “I… should probably head out.”

You nodded, trying to keep the disappointment off your face. He stood, then paused. His fingers tapped against the back of his chair like he was debating something.

“I, uh… would you want to do this again?” he asked, voice softer now, eyes hopeful. “Not like anything weird ‘meet me at 8 a.m. sharp’ type thing or anything–just… sometime? Coffee. Or lunch. Or anything really.”

You smiled before you could even think about it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

His smile bloomed–big, warm, and boyish–and you realized how rare it felt to see someone light up at the idea of seeing you again. He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay. Great. Um… I’ll give you my number?”

You traded phones, thumbs brushing briefly as he handed his over. A small jolt ran through you at the contact. You typed it in carefully, double-checking everything like it was something sacred. When you handed it back, he looked at your screen for a second, then up at you. “I’ll text you later?”

You nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

And you meant it.

As he turned to go, he paused and glanced back at you one last time, flashing a shy grin. “Next time, we will get that extra caramel. I promise.”

You watched him walk away, heart thudding a little faster than it should’ve. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel scary.

It just felt… right. Like maybe, finally, love didn’t have to be something you survived. Maybe it could be something that found you. By complete accident.

At a café.

With the wrong drink… but the right guy.

♡♡♡♡♡♡

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Only Yours

Pairing: Thunderbolts Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You and Bucky have always been best friends—the kind who’d show up at 4 a.m. and never ask questions. But when you show up on his doorstep after another heartbreak, ranting that no one has ever really made you feel wanted, Bucky decides he’s done pretending he doesn’t care. What starts as comfort turns into something neither of you can take back—slow, tender, utterly consuming. He’s determined to teach you everything your exes never bothered to learn. And when you finally let him in, he makes sure you know you’ve always belonged to him.

TW: explicit sexual content (18+), Detailed oral sex (f receiving), Praise kink, possessive language, no dubcon or noncon

Rain sheeted down in silver ribbons across the stoop, drumming against the overhang in a low, relentless roar. You stood there shivering, hair plastered to your cheeks, one hand clutching the plastic handles of a takeout bag that looked like it had been dropped more than once.

Bucky opened the door with the tired ease of a man who’d been halfway to sleep and didn’t mind being woken. For a second, he just took you in—the dripping coat, the smudged mascara, the way your shoulders were hunched like you were trying to fold yourself in half.

His expression softened. That small, tired smile he saved for you tugged at his mouth.

“Jesus,” he murmured, stepping aside without asking anything. “You walk here in the damn hurricane?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just slipped past him into the hallway, your wet shoes squeaking on the wood. The takeout bag sagged ominously as you set it on the credenza.

“I didn’t—” Your voice cracked. You swallowed. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Hey.” He shut the door behind you, the latch clicking home with a finality that made your throat tighten. “You never have to explain. You know that.”

You tried to shrug it off. The motion just made water sluice off your shoulders, leaving a dark patch on the floor. Bucky sighed, reached for the collar of your coat.

“C’mere,” he said, so gently you almost started crying on the spot. His fingers were careful as he worked the buttons free, peeling the soaked fabric down your arms. His metal hand was warm from the radiator—he’d been standing near it before you arrived—and the contrast against your chilled skin made you shiver again.

“Bad night?” he asked, voice low, as he hung your coat on the hook.

You gave a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

When he turned back to you, you were hugging yourself tight, chin tucked to your chest. His gaze flicked over you—your bare arms, the damp cling of your shirt—and something darkened behind his eyes. But he didn’t touch you yet. He knew better than to push before you were ready.

Instead, he nodded once, like you’d confirmed something he already suspected.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

He reached past you, flipped the switch on the little lamp by the door, and the soft glow spilled over both of you. For the first time, you really looked at him. His hair was loose around his shoulders, eyes shadowed with sleep and something else you couldn’t name.

You swallowed again. The ache in your chest pressed up, begging to be let out.

Bucky tilted his head, studying you. “You wanna talk about it now, or you wanna sit?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Only a choked breath.

So he reached for you—slowly, so you could pull away if you needed to—and his big hand curled warm and solid around the back of your neck.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re okay. You’re home now.”

You didn’t pull away from his hand right away. Just stood there, eyes closed, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of him—clean soap, leather, the faint trace of old aftershave.

But the ache wouldn’t stay contained. It pressed up through your ribs until you felt like you were going to splinter apart.

Bucky’s thumb paused at your jaw. “You wanna sit?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant. You stepped back, dragging your palms over your face. “I—fuck. I need to move.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze swept down your dripping clothes and came back up, jaw tightening.

“Hang on.” He turned away, disappearing into the bedroom. You stood there shivering, arms wrapped tight around yourself, until he came back holding one of his hoodies.

“Gimme.” He made a little circling gesture with his hand.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“The shirt. You’re gonna get sick.” His voice was quiet but brooked no argument. “Arms up.”

You huffed, but your hands were trembling as you obeyed. He caught the hem of your soaked shirt and peeled it carefully over your head, warm fingers brushing your ribs. He didn’t linger, didn’t let his eyes drop lower than your face—though you felt the heat of his gaze like a physical thing.

“Shorts too,” he said after a second, even softer.

Your breath caught. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. But then you swallowed and pushed them down, kicking the wet denim into a pile with the shirt.

He held the hoodie open, waiting. You ducked into it, grateful for the dry softness, the way it fell almost to mid-thigh. The familiar smell of him wrapped around you all at once.

“Better,” he murmured, smoothing the sleeves down your arms.

You didn’t quite trust your voice, so you only nodded.

Bucky stepped back, looking you over like he needed to be sure you weren’t about to collapse. His jaw flexed again, but he didn’t say whatever was behind his eyes.

Instead, he gestured toward the living room. “Go on. I’ll pick that up.”

You padded over to the couch, the oversized hoodie swaying against your bare thighs. The TV was still on, some old black-and-white war movie you’d watched together a hundred times, but it sounded thin and far away.

You started pacing in front of the coffee table, arms crossed tight.

“I don’t even know why I’m so mad,” you burst out, voice shaky. “It’s not like it’s the first time. He just—God, he looked at me like I was the problem. Like I’m supposed to be grateful he even tried.”

Bucky came back, arms folded, leaning against the archway. He didn’t interrupt.

“And it’s always the same bullshit,” you went on, voice rising. “They act like they’re doing me some big favor by—by fucking me at all, and then they roll over like they deserve a medal. And I’m supposed to lie there and pretend it was good.”

You stopped pacing, pressing your palm to your forehead.

“Do you know—not a single one of them has ever made me come?” you blurted.

His brows shot up, mouth parting.

You didn’t notice, too caught up in your own fury.

“It’s not that hard,” you snapped. “It really isn’t. But they don’t even try. And when I say something, they look at me like I’m broken.”

You let your hand fall to your side, shoulders sagging.

“Maybe I am,” you said, quieter. “Maybe it’s just me.”

Bucky’s voice was rough when it finally came. “Hey.”

You looked over. He’d pushed away from the archway, his eyes locked on yours, dark with something you couldn’t name.

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head once, deliberate. “Don’t even start thinking that.”

You tried to shrug. “I’m just—I don’t know. Tired. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t matter.”

His gaze swept over you, from your flushed cheeks to the way the hoodie fell around your bare legs. His jaw flexed again, but when he spoke, his voice was soft.

“You deserve better than that,” he said.

Your breathing had gone ragged again, each inhale catching at the top of your chest. For a second, neither of you moved—just stared at each other across the living room, the blue light of the TV flickering over the floor.

Bucky’s eyes swept over you, taking in the tremor in your hands, the way you were hugging your elbows tight to your ribs. His expression softened.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

You shook your head once, but it was halfhearted. When he stepped forward, you didn’t step back.

He reached out and cupped your cheek with his warm palm, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. Up close, you could see how tired he looked—lines etched at the corners of his eyes, dark circles under the lashes. But the way he looked at you—like you were the most important thing in the room—made something twist low in your stomach.

“You’re not broken,” he said quietly. “You hear me?”

You swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah. Sure.”

His brows pulled together, like he could see straight through the lie. But he didn’t call you on it. Just slipped his hand behind your neck, guiding you gently toward the couch.

“Sit down,” he ordered in that soft, rough voice that didn’t leave you much room to argue.

You let him steer you. When you sank into the cushion, the hoodie fell around your thighs like a blanket.

He turned away for a second, picking up the damp bundle of your discarded clothes. You watched him kneel by the credenza to fold them into a neat pile—some ridiculous part of you wanted to laugh that he’d do it so carefully, like it mattered.

When he came back, he held out the big fleece throw you usually stole on movie nights. You hesitated, but he gave you a look that brooked no argument.

“Arms up,” he said again, softer this time.

You obeyed. He draped the blanket over your shoulders, tucking it carefully around your legs, like he was building a little nest he didn’t want you to escape.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Bucky settled next to you, close but not quite touching. His knee brushed yours, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric. He reached for the remote, turning the volume down so the old movie was just a low murmur filling the silence.

You were the one who broke it.

“I just don’t get it,” you said, voice quieter now. “Why is it so hard? To—to care if I feel good?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his hands, flexing the metal fingers once, and you saw the muscles in his jaw work.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

“It isn’t hard,” he said. “They’re just idiots.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you, more a breath than a sound. “Thanks.”

He glanced up then, meeting your eyes. Whatever you saw in his expression made your heart trip over itself.

“You deserve someone who gives a damn,” Bucky said, his voice low and certain. “Someone who—” He cut himself off, looking away.

“Someone who what?” you pressed before you could stop yourself.

His throat worked, like he was swallowing something back.

“Someone who wants to learn every way to make you feel good,” he said finally, not quite looking at you.

The air between you tightened, all the oxygen burned up in a single heartbeat.

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders and stared at the flickering TV, pretending you couldn’t feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin.

The movie flickered across the screen, voices crackling from old speakers, but neither of you were really watching.

You were still holding the blanket closed under your chin, your fingers twisted in the fleece so tight your knuckles were pale. Every breath felt too loud.

Bucky sat there, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. You could feel him trying not to look at you—but failing. Every few seconds, his gaze dragged back up your bare thighs where the hoodie had ridden a little higher, the damp ends of your hair brushing your collarbone.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you like this—sleeping in his clothes, curled up against his side on this same couch—but it felt different now. Like your rant had cracked something open you couldn’t shove back into place.

You took a slow breath. “Sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, his voice low and sharp. He lifted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Don’t say sorry.”

You held his gaze, heart hammering behind your ribs.

“It’s just—” You hesitated, words tangling in your mouth. “I know I shouldn’t dump this shit on you.”

He made a rough sound, almost a laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it.

“You think I don’t want you to tell me?” He shifted closer, not touching you yet, but so near you could feel the heat of him, the steady weight of his attention. “You think I don’t—”

He stopped. His metal hand flexed once on his knee.

“Don’t what?” you breathed.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second. When it came back up, something raw and unguarded shone there.

“You think I don’t wonder what it would be like?” he said, so low you almost didn’t hear it.

Your breath caught.

Bucky shook his head, jaw working. “You sitting here telling me nobody ever bothered to make you come—like it’s nothing.” He let out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “Like that doesn’t make me—”

He stopped again, a muscle jumping at the hinge of his jaw.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t pretend you didn’t understand what he wasn’t saying.

The silence stretched, taut as a pulled wire.

Your heart was thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

When you finally spoke, your voice felt small. “Bucky…”

He dragged in a slow breath, steadying himself. When he met your eyes again, there was something unmistakable in his expression—something possessive and aching and so full of want it made your skin prickle with heat.

He didn’t touch you. But you felt the promise there, unspoken but heavy between you: if you asked, he’d give you everything.

You opened your mouth—then closed it again. Neither of you looked away.

The TV kept flickering, but the rest of the world had narrowed to this: the taste of his name in your mouth, the heat of his gaze on your bare skin, the quiet certainty that nothing between you would ever be the same.

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle, a hush against the windows that made the living room feel even smaller, more intimate. You hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

Bucky’s gaze was still locked on yours, and something about the way he was looking at you made your skin feel too tight.

You shifted under the blanket, your mouth dry. “We should—maybe I should go home,” you tried, voice thin.

He didn’t move. Just tipped his head a fraction, studying you.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

Your heart stuttered.

His jaw flexed once. You watched the muscle jump before he spoke again, his voice so quiet it barely carried over the sound of the TV.

Heat flooded your face so fast it made you dizzy. You pulled the blanket higher, like it could hide you from the question.

“Bucky,” you muttered. “Don’t.”

He didn’t look away. If anything, his focus sharpened, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he blinked.

“Tell me,” he said, and there was no teasing in it. Only something rough and incredulous, like he couldn’t reconcile the thought with the woman he knew.

You swallowed hard, your throat working. “It’s not—God, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said immediately, voice low. “It’s a big deal to me.”

You tried to look away, but his hand came up, warm fingers brushing your jaw, turning you back to face him.

“I need you to say it,” he went on, softer now but no less relentless. “You’ve never—?”

Your breath caught, shame burning through you.

“Not…not with anyone,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “I mean—I can, by myself. But no one’s ever…cared enough to figure it out.”

His eyes closed for a moment, lashes dark against his cheek. You could see the way he inhaled, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to calm himself down.

When he opened them again, they were darker than you’d ever seen, the blue swallowed up by something deeper.

“You just faked it?” he asked, voice rough.

You made a helpless gesture with one hand. “It was easier,” you said, miserable. “Less awkward.”

His thumb dragged slowly across your cheekbone, like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, almost to himself.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you—like you were something precious and breakable and he was furious on your behalf.

So you stared at the floor, heart hammering against your ribs, and waited for him to say something that would let you pretend none of this had happened.

But he didn’t.

He just kept touching your face like he couldn’t stop.

His thumb traced a slow line along your jaw, the gentleness at odds with the hard set of his mouth.

“Look at me,” Bucky said quietly.

You hesitated, staring at the blanket bunched in your fists. But he waited—he always waited—and eventually, you lifted your eyes.

He didn’t soften. He just held your gaze like he was determined to see every part of you you tried to hide.

“You’ve been faking it,” he said, low and certain. “Every time?”

You swallowed, your throat so tight it hurt. “Not…every time.”

His brows pulled together, and you rushed to clarify, your voice a nervous tumble.

“I mean—sometimes it was just easier to pretend. So they’d feel good about themselves. So I didn’t have to explain why it wasn’t working.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slow through his nose. When he opened them again, the blue had gone almost glassy, like it was barely holding something back.

“And not one of them,” he said, voice ragged, “ever thought maybe it wasn’t your fault.”

You tried to shrug, but it looked more like a flinch. “It’s not that big a deal,” you whispered.

“Stop saying that.” His fingers tightened at your jaw, not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel the strength coiled behind them. “It is a big deal.”

You couldn’t look at him anymore. You dropped your gaze to his mouth instead—huge mistake, because you immediately imagined what it would feel like there.

Your voice was small when you finally spoke again. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

His hand slid back, cupping the side of your neck. His thumb rested in the hollow under your ear, and your pulse leapt against it.

“Because you trust me,” he said simply.

Your chest tightened so painfully you had to suck in a shaky breath just to keep from crying.

You nodded once.

“I do,” you whispered.

His thumb stroked your skin in a slow, calming circle, but the look in his eyes was anything but calm.

“I don’t know how anyone could have you,” he said, voice low and steady, “and not want to learn every way to make you feel good.”

Your heart stopped. Just stopped.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t back down.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, your pulse fluttering against his thumb. Neither of you moved.

Outside, the rain finally tapered to a hush, the last drops sliding down the window glass. But the air inside felt thick enough to drown in.

Bucky’s hand slid down, his palm spreading warm and steady over the side of your throat, like he could anchor you in place just by touching you.

His eyes searched yours, quiet and lethal all at once. You knew that look—like he’d made a decision in his head and nothing was going to shake it.

When he spoke, his voice was so soft it barely carried.

“I wanna change that,” he said.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

“What?” you whispered, because you’d heard him but your brain refused to believe it.

His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw again, deliberate, almost tender.

“I want to show you,” he said, each word measured and certain. “How it’s supposed to feel.”

The air whooshed out of your lungs.

“Bucky—”

“I’m not asking for anything more than that,” he cut in, voice low. “Not if you don’t want it. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend it doesn’t make me fucking crazy to hear you talk like you don’t deserve it.”

He leaned in then, just enough that you could feel his breath ghost warm over your cheek. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unflinching.

“You do,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rasp. “You deserve to know what it’s like when someone gives a damn.”

Your hands were shaking again, so you curled them tighter in the blanket.

He waited, silent, like he knew you needed the time to process it. Like he’d sit there all night if you needed him to.

And God help you—he looked so sure. So calm. Like he’d already made peace with crossing the line he’d been toeing for years.

You swallowed, but your mouth still felt too dry.

“Are you sure?” you managed, your voice a whisper.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking in that slow, lethal way that should have terrified you—but only made your whole body ache.

“Yeah,” he said, so soft it was almost a promise. “I’m sure.”

The moment stretched between you, so thick you could barely breathe.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His hand stayed warm against your throat, thumb brushing your skin in a slow, steady rhythm that somehow made it worse—made you feel like you were already his, and you hadn’t even said yes.

Your voice came out rough. “If we do this…”

His eyes never left yours. “Yeah?”

Your throat worked as you tried to find the words. “What if it ruins everything?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t flicker. He just shifted closer, so close you could feel the heat of him soaking through your thin borrowed hoodie, the blanket sliding a little down your arms.

“It won’t,” he said simply.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, gentler now, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt. “Nothing about this—nothing about you—could ever be wrong.”

Your breath shivered out of you.

“And if it’s a mistake?” you whispered.

His jaw flexed again, that slow, deliberate clench that made your pulse stutter.

“Then it’s mine to make,” he rasped, so quietly you felt the words more than heard them.

You tried to look away, but his hand shifted, tilting your face back toward him.

“Hey.” His voice was low, steady. “I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t thought about it. About you.”

Your heart stopped.

“But this isn’t about me,” he went on, eyes searching yours. “It’s about you. You sitting here thinking you’re broken when you’re the furthest damn thing from it.”

Your throat was too tight to answer. You could only stare at him, your whole body strung tight as a bow.

“You tell me to stop, I stop,” he said, each word measured. “You tell me no, it’s no. But if you let me—”

He leaned in, so close his mouth almost brushed your cheek.

“I’ll make sure you never think you’re the problem again.”

The blanket slipped down your arms. Neither of you noticed.

The room felt too small. Too quiet. Your heartbeat was the only thing you could hear, loud and frantic in your ears.

Bucky hadn’t moved. His hand was still cradling your jaw, warm and solid and impossibly careful. Like he was afraid you’d shatter if he held you too tight.

You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry. “Bucky…”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, threaded with something that made your stomach clench.

You made yourself look up. Made yourself meet that steady, devastating gaze.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, the words cracking on the way out.

He exhaled slowly, and the tiny crease between his brows eased.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

His thumb traced the line of your cheek, gentler than you thought anyone that strong could be.

“You just have to trust me,” he said, and the way he said it—calm, certain, like it was the easiest thing in the world—made your breath hitch.

And God help you, you did.

All the fear and doubt and exhaustion folded in on themselves, leaving only the quiet ache you’d been trying so hard to pretend you didn’t feel. The one that had been there for longer than you were willing to admit.

Your voice came out so soft you barely recognized it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t move, didn’t push, didn’t so much as breathe too hard.

“Yeah?” he asked, so low it felt like a secret.

You nodded, the motion small and helpless. “Yeah.”

His eyes closed, and when he opened them again, something in them was raw and unguarded and so full of relief it almost undid you.

“Okay,” he rasped.

He leaned in, not to kiss you—but just to press his forehead to yours, the heat of him sinking straight through your skin.

“I got you,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your mouth. “I promise.”

For a long time, neither of you moved.

His forehead rested against yours, the heat of him sinking through your skin, anchoring you to the moment. You could feel every quiet inhale, every unsteady exhale, like you’d both forgotten how to breathe without each other.

Bucky’s hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking a slow line under your eye. His other arm rested along the back of the couch, but the tension in his shoulders made it feel like he was holding himself perfectly still on purpose—like if he moved even a fraction, he’d lose his grip on the restraint that was barely hanging on.

Your heartbeat thudded so loud you were sure he could hear it. You wondered if his was the same—fast and heavy and aching in the hollow between you.

Neither of you spoke.

Because there weren’t words big enough for it—for the way it felt to sit here in the wreckage of everything you’d pretended you didn’t want.

His breath ghosted over your lips as he exhaled, slow and ragged.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” he murmured finally, his voice low and certain.

Something in your chest clenched so tight it almost hurt.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, letting you feel every ounce of the tension vibrating through him. Like he needed to give you one last chance to stop this—stop him.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already looking at you. And whatever you saw there—want, hope, something softer you didn’t dare name—made your breath catch.

Your hand came up almost without thinking, fingers curling around the back of his neck. His skin was warm and smooth under your palm.

His jaw flexed once, slow and lethal.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, heart beating out of your chest.

“Yeah.”

His breath hitched when you nodded, the smallest break in his control.

Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head. His gaze swept over your face like he was memorizing you—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, the way your hand still trembled against his neck.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, so soft it made your stomach twist.

“You tell me to stop,” he murmured, “I stop.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight. “I won’t.”

The look he gave you—hungry and unguarded and something close to reverent—made your breath catch.

Then he leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth was almost tentative, a featherlight brush that sent a shiver racing down your spine. He paused there, lips barely grazing yours, like he needed that last second to make sure you were real.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you felt him exhale, a shaky breath that tasted like relief.

Then he kissed you for real.

Slow at first—careful, almost too careful. But it didn’t stay that way. The moment your hand tightened in the hair at the nape of his neck, a low sound rumbled in his chest, and his mouth moved harder against yours.

Heat flooded through you, fast and overwhelming. Every inch of your skin felt too sensitive, alive to the rough scrape of his stubble, the warm slide of his tongue when you parted your lips for him.

One of his hands slid into your hair, tipping your head back so he could deepen the kiss. The other cupped your jaw, thumb stroking along the hinge as he tilted his mouth over yours again and again.

You didn’t realize you were making noise until he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice low and ragged.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You have no idea…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like he couldn’t find the words.

You swallowed, your own breathing wrecked. “No idea what?”

His gaze met yours, blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“How long I’ve wanted this,” he said hoarsely.

Your heart stuttered, and before you could think better of it, you kissed him again.

The second kiss wasn’t careful at all.

It was hungry—like the dam had finally broken and neither of you could stop it if you tried.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, rough sound from deep in his chest. Bucky’s hands slid down, one bracing at your waist, the other splayed wide between your shoulder blades, holding you close.

His mouth moved over yours with a deliberate, claiming heat that left you dizzy. He kissed you like he’d been thinking about this for years—because maybe he had.

When you pulled back, gasping, your lips felt swollen, your whole body tingling with awareness.

You didn’t let go of him. Couldn’t. Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, your forehead pressed to his.

Bucky’s thumb traced your lower lip, his breathing as wrecked as yours.

“We can’t go back, can we?” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unflinching.

“No,” he said, voice low and certain. “We can’t.”

You swallowed, the truth of it settling into your chest—heavy and inevitable.

“And you’re okay with that?” you asked, your voice so small it almost hurt to hear it.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only a raw, aching honesty.

“Baby,” he rasped, thumb brushing your cheekbone, “I’ve been waiting for this longer than I wanna admit.”

Your breath caught, a soft sound that turned into a shaky exhale when he leaned in to kiss you again—slower this time, but no less sure.

And in that moment, you knew—there was no going back.

You didn’t want to.

Your lips were still tingling when he pulled back, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, tracing the heat there like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The quiet between you stretched, weighted and electric.

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. “Bucky…”

His hand stilled against your skin. “Yeah?”

Your eyes flicked up to his, searching for any hint of doubt—but there was none. Just that steady, lethal certainty that had always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

“Are you sure?” you whispered.

His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once before he leaned in, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said, voice low and rough.

Your breath shivered out of you.

“But if you don’t—”

You didn’t let him finish. You lifted your hand to cup his face, your palm sliding over the rough edge of his jaw.

“I do,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I want this.”

Bucky’s eyes closed, and for a moment, he just breathed—like he needed to feel the shape of those words in the space between you.

When he opened them again, there was something raw in his expression—something that made your chest ache.

“Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like a promise.

Then he kissed you again, slow and sure and devastating.

And you let yourself kiss him back without thinking about what it meant, without worrying about tomorrow.

His mouth was still on yours when he shifted, the subtle movement of his body so deliberate you felt it all the way down to your toes.

Bucky’s hand slid from your cheek to your hip, his fingers curling around your thigh. He tugged, gentle but firm, coaxing you forward.

You hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Then you let the blanket slip from your shoulders and moved, swinging one leg over his lap.

The moment you settled, your knees bracketing his hips, both of you sucked in a breath.

His hands flexed on your thighs, warm and steady. Like he was reminding himself you were real, that you were really here.

Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest. But when you looked at him—his hair falling loose around his face, eyes dark and focused on yours—it wasn’t fear that clenched in your belly.

It was want.

Bucky dragged his palms slowly up the outsides of your legs, under the hem of the oversized hoodie. His fingertips traced the bare skin of your thighs, higher, higher, until you felt the heat of his hands at your hips.

He paused there, his thumbs brushing just under the waistband of your panties. Waiting. Giving you one last chance to tell him to stop.

You didn’t.

Instead, you tipped your face down and kissed him, a soft, lingering press of your mouth to his.

That was all it took to break whatever fragile control he’d been holding onto.

His hands slid up, spanning your waist as he kissed you back—slow but hungry, all careful edges dissolving into something hotter, needier.

You gasped when he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. Your hands found his shoulders, bracing yourself against the solid heat of him.

One of his hands traced up your spine, splaying wide between your shoulder blades. The other slipped lower, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, urging you forward until you felt the thick, unmistakable press of him through his jeans.

You broke the kiss on a ragged exhale.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice wrecked.

His eyes opened—dark, blown wide, hungry.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, his thumb stroking your hip. “I’m right here.”

Your breathing was ragged when you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his.

Neither of you spoke.

His hands stayed on your hips, warm and steady, thumbs stroking slow circles against your skin. You felt every quiet tremor in him—like he was holding himself still through sheer force of will.

Bucky drew in a slow breath, then tipped his head back just enough to see your face. His gaze swept over you—your kiss-swollen mouth, the flush spreading down your throat, the way your hands were still bunched in the fabric of his t-shirt.

It wasn’t just heat in his eyes. It was something deeper, something that made your chest ache.

Like he’d been waiting so long to touch you this way that he didn’t quite believe you were really here.

He swallowed, his throat working. “You okay?”

You nodded, though your heart was beating so hard you felt a little lightheaded. “Yeah.”

He searched your face for a long moment, as if he needed to be sure.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?” he asked, voice rough but gentle.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yes.”

His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he dragged his gaze down your body, then back up to your eyes.

“This isn’t something we can undo,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

You nodded again, your pulse tripping over itself. “I know.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself.

“Okay,” he murmured. His thumbs stroked another slow circle against your bare skin. “Then we’re gonna do this right.”

Your stomach flipped, heat licking up your spine.

You didn’t know what that meant, not really. But the way he said it made you feel like you were about to come apart in his hands—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

Bucky’s hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, until his thumbs brushed the edge of your ribs under the hoodie. He didn’t push it higher yet—just rested his palms there, feeling the way your breath shuddered.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unflinching.

“You know what I want?” he asked, his voice low and rough at the edges.

Your throat went tight. “What?”

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to hold something back and failing.

“I want to learn you,” he said simply.

Heat sparked low in your belly, so sharp it almost hurt.

“Learn me?” you echoed, your voice a breathless rasp.

He nodded, his thumbs stroking slow circles over your ribs.

“Every sound you make,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth, “every place you like to be touched.”

Your pulse kicked hard, thudding against the base of your throat.

“I want to know what makes you feel good,” he went on, softer now. “What makes you come so hard you forget every asshole who ever made you feel like you were the problem.”

Your breath stuttered out of you, your hands tightening in his t-shirt.

He looked back up, his blue eyes so dark they were almost black.

“And I’m not in a hurry,” he said, voice low and certain. “I’m gonna take my time.”

The heat pooled between your thighs, liquid and overwhelming.

“Bucky…” you whispered, because you didn’t know what else to say.

His hands slid higher, just a little, the rough drag of his thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts through the thin cotton. He still didn’t push, still didn’t rush.

He just looked at you like he’d never wanted anything this much.

“You okay with that?” he asked, and God, he sounded wrecked.

You swallowed hard, your voice small but sure.

“Yes.”

Your heart was beating so fast it almost hurt.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it was no use—every slow stroke of his thumbs made your body feel lighter, hotter, like you were teetering on the edge of something you didn’t know how to name.

Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, pressing against the warm solidity of him as you tried to find your voice.

“I’m…nervous,” you admitted, the word cracking in the middle.

His hands stilled for a moment, thumbs resting just under the swell of your breasts.

“That’s good,” Bucky said quietly.

You blinked, your brows pulling together. “Good?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“It means you care,” he said, his voice low and certain. “It means this isn’t just…” He trailed off, jaw flexing once before he went on. “It means you want this as much as I do.”

Heat licked up your spine, spreading through your chest in a slow, heavy ache.

“I do,” you whispered.

His eyes softened, though the hunger there didn’t fade.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not nervous,” he said.

Your breath shivered out of you.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear, “you won’t be able to think about anything else.”

A small, helpless sound caught in your throat, and his hands flexed on your ribs like he was barely holding himself back.

“You trust me?” he asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

His lips grazed your jaw, soft and deliberate.

“Good,” he rasped.

His mouth traced a slow path along your jaw, every warm exhale sending sparks dancing across your skin. His hands slid higher, finally cupping your breasts through the hoodie—just a gentle weight, but it made your breath catch.

“You hear me?” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You swallowed, your throat working. “Yeah.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow and deliberate, and you felt your whole body tighten in response.

“I’m gonna touch you,” he went on, every word like a promise etched into the quiet. “Until you can’t remember a single one of those assholes.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, lower.

“Until all you can think about,” he rasped, “is how good it feels to be wanted.”

Your hands fisted in his t-shirt, your pulse a wild stutter.

“Bucky—”

His mouth found the soft spot just below your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’m gonna learn you,” he said, so quietly it felt like a secret. “Every sound. Every way you fall apart.”

A soft, helpless noise slipped out of you, and his hands flexed around you like he was trying to hold you still.

“And when you come,” he murmured, his lips brushing your pulse, “you’re gonna know it was never you.”

Something in your chest cracked wide open.

You tilted your face toward him, your voice breaking on the words.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

His jaw brushed your cheek, rough stubble scraping tender skin as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

And the look there—hot and certain and impossibly gentle—made your heart stop.

“Okay,” he said softly, and for one dizzy moment, you knew exactly what he meant.

Then his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm palms skimming bare skin, and you forgot how to breathe.

His palms dragged higher, heat blooming everywhere they touched. He didn’t rush. Just pushed the hoodie up, inch by inch, until the cool air hit your skin and you shivered.

Bucky paused, his eyes sweeping over you—your bare thighs straddling his lap, the flush spreading down your chest, the way you were already breathing like you’d run a mile.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart kicked hard.

He didn’t give you time to argue with him, to shrink away from the way he was looking at you like he’d never seen anything he wanted more.

Instead, he caught the hem of the hoodie in both hands and tugged it higher. You lifted your arms without thinking, letting him pull it over your head.

The second you were bare to him, his breath stuttered out on a quiet, wrecked sound.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his hands settling at your hips again. “You—God, baby.”

Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and insistent.

Your voice was unsteady. “You can… You can touch me.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, blue eyes dark and glassy.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, your own breath shivering. “Yeah.”

Slowly, carefully, he guided you backward. One big hand braced between your shoulder blades as he shifted you off his lap, laying you out along the length of the couch.

The cushions dipped under his weight as he followed you down, his knees pressing to the floor so he could look at you from above.

His palms smoothed over your thighs, thumbs tracing the delicate skin where it met your hips. You couldn’t stop the small sound that slipped out of you, a soft exhale that made his jaw clench.

“You tell me if you want to stop,” he said again, voice rough.

“I won’t,” you whispered, your cheeks hot. “I want this.”

A low, almost relieved sound rumbled in his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Me too.”

His hands slipped under the waistband of your panties, hooking his thumbs there. He looked up, searching your face.

“Can I?”

Your throat was too tight to speak, so you just nodded.

He dragged them down slow, careful not to rush you. When he finally pulled them free, he let them drop to the floor without looking away.

For one breathless moment, he just took you in, his gaze sweeping over every inch of bare skin.

His hands smoothed up your thighs, thumbs pressing gently outward. And as he lowered himself between them, your heart stopped—and then started again, faster than it ever had before.

His hands moved higher, his thumbs skimming the sensitive skin where your hips met your belly. Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your thigh, a slow, deliberate kiss that made your breath catch.

“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You couldn’t answer—could barely think—so you just let out a soft, shaky exhale.

He kissed you again, higher this time, and again, every press of his mouth anchoring you to the moment. When he reached the spot where your thigh met your center, he paused, inhaling a slow, steady breath.

“Christ,” he rasped, and you felt the heat of it all the way through you.

His hands framed you, thumbs stroking the delicate crease as he bent lower. His nose brushed you, and the soft, helpless noise that slipped out of you made his jaw flex.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.”

One of his thumbs trailed lower, tracing a careful line between your folds, and your hips lifted before you could stop yourself.

“Good,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Just like that.”

His touch was light—exploring, learning, testing. He circled you slowly, then pressed just a little firmer, and the quiet sound that broke in your throat made his gaze snap up to yours.

“There?” he asked, his thumb stroking again.

Your hand flew to your mouth, but he caught your wrist before you could hide.

“Don’t,” he said softly, guiding your hand to rest on your belly instead. “I wanna hear every sound you make.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you nodded, your breath shaking.

He dragged his thumb in another slow circle, watching your face. And when your eyes fluttered closed, when your hips tipped up to chase more, he made a low, wrecked sound that set your whole body alight.

“Yeah,” he rasped, leaning in to kiss your thigh again. “I’m gonna learn everything.”

Your breath was coming in soft, shaky gasps by the time his thumb drew another slow circle over your clit. Every nerve in your body felt raw, like you were being rewired from the inside out.

Bucky watched you for one more heartbeat—like he needed to see exactly how undone you already were. Then he slid his hands under your thighs, spreading you a little wider.

“Keep looking at me,” he said, voice dark and certain.

Your eyes fluttered open, and the second your gaze met his—heavy-lidded, hungry—you felt something tighten low in your belly.

“Good,” he rasped.

Then he lowered his mouth to you.

The first slow swipe of his tongue made your hips jolt. A soft, broken sound slipped out of you, and his hands flexed where they were bracing your thighs.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “Let me hear you.”

His tongue traced you again, a little firmer this time. He didn’t rush, didn’t tease for the sake of teasing. He tasted you like he’d been starving for it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his mouth wet against you. “You taste so good.”

Heat surged under your skin, your hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. He caught one of them, threading his fingers through yours and pressing your joined hands to your thigh, grounding you.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your voice ragged.

“Right here,” he said, his lips brushing your clit. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then he closed his mouth over you and sucked—slow and deliberate.

Your back arched, a soft cry tearing out of your throat before you could stop it. His grip on your hand tightened, like he needed the anchor as much as you did.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his breath hot against you. “God, you sound so fucking pretty.”

He flicked his tongue in a slow, steady rhythm, and you felt your legs start to tremble. Every thought you’d ever had about this—about him—disintegrated into heat and wanting.

Your free hand tangled in his hair, your hips lifting to chase the pressure. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he groaned low in his throat and pressed in harder, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Just like that,” he rasped, the words muffled against you. “Let me taste you, baby.”

And you did—helpless, aching, your whole body strung tight as a bow.

You couldn’t think anymore.

Every slow drag of his tongue, every soft scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, made your vision blur at the edges.

Bucky’s hand was still laced with yours, his thumb stroking soothing circles over your knuckles even as he pulled another soft, helpless moan from your lips.

You felt the heat coil tighter and tighter in your belly, your breath catching every time he circled your clit just a little harder.

Your hips lifted, chasing the friction, and he let you—didn’t hold you down, didn’t tell you to be still. He just hummed against you, like he liked that you couldn’t keep quiet.

“Yeah,” he rasped between slow licks. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

Your free hand trembled as you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He groaned low in his throat, and the vibration sent a shockwave through you so sharp you cried out.

“Bucky—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing you softly before he dragged his tongue in another devastating circle. “Gonna take care of you.”

The pressure built and built, a tight, unbearable ache that made your thighs start to tremble.

You were right there—right on the cusp—and you knew he could feel it in the way your hips kept lifting, in the way your breath broke every time he sucked you into his mouth.

But then he slowed.

His tongue eased into a soft, teasing pattern, not quite enough, and you let out a helpless whimper.

“Please,” you gasped, your voice wrecked. “Don’t stop—”

His mouth curved against you in something that might have been a smile.

“I’m not stopping,” he rasped. “I’m learning.”

And he did it again—building you up with slow, relentless pressure, then easing off just when you were about to tip over.

“Bucky,” you begged, your voice breaking on his name.

His hand squeezed yours, and he kissed you once, slow and possessive.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, sounding almost wrecked himself. “I know. You’re so close.”

You nodded frantically, your hips moving without your permission.

“Then let me,” he whispered, and this time when he sucked you into his mouth, he didn’t hold anything back.

The second he stopped holding back, your body went taut.

His mouth sealed over you with a slow, devastating hunger, his tongue pressing exactly where you needed it most.

One of his hands slid from your thigh to cup you more firmly, his thumb spreading you open as he sucked you into the heat of his mouth. The other stayed locked with yours, grounding you when you felt like you were about to come apart completely.

“That’s it,” he rasped between licks, his voice dark and certain. “Let me feel you.”

Your breath caught, your whole body shaking.

“I—oh, God—”

“Don’t you dare hold back,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin. “I want all of it.”

You felt the wave building again, hotter and heavier than before. His mouth never stopped moving, and when he slipped two fingers inside you—slow and careful—your hips jerked off the couch with a strangled cry.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, and he gave you exactly what you needed—his mouth relentless, his thumb circling, his voice a low, steady growl of praise.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me. Let me see you.”

Your vision went white.

Heat detonated behind your ribs, the pleasure cresting so high you couldn’t breathe. You felt yourself clench around him, heard yourself sob his name, and then you were falling—hard and helpless and absolutely undone.

His mouth never left you. He kissed you through it, his tongue softening as he eased you down, his hand steady and patient as you shook apart beneath him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, brushing his lips over the inside of your thigh. “That’s it. Breathe.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he kissed the salt from your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, his voice low and gentle. “I’ve got you.”

Your heartbeat was still thundering in your ears when the last wave of pleasure finally eased.

You tried to catch your breath, but every time you inhaled, your whole body shivered, like you hadn’t quite found your way back into yourself yet.

Bucky didn’t move away.

He stayed between your thighs, one big hand smoothing up your side in slow, reassuring sweeps. His mouth pressed gentle kisses to the sensitive skin just above your knee, then higher, warm and unhurried.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice raw but so tender it made your chest ache.

You nodded, your eyes fluttering open to find him watching you—his pupils blown wide, lips swollen, hair falling around his face.

“I’m…God,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved in the barest smile as he leaned in to press another kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“That’s not a face anyone ever faked,” he said, and the quiet, almost awed pride in his voice made something warm spread through your chest.

A soft, embarrassed laugh bubbled up, but it broke when he kissed you again, higher this time, right at the crease of your hip.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, and there was nothing teasing in it. Just a quiet certainty that made your eyes sting all over again.

Your hand lifted to brush his hair back from his cheek, your fingers trembling.

“Bucky,” you whispered, because you didn’t know what else to say.

His eyes softened, the heat there still simmering but gentled by something deeper.

“Perfect,” he said simply, pressing one more kiss just above where you were still achingly sensitive. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You felt the truth of it settle under your skin, warm and solid and real in a way nothing else ever had.

And when he finally eased back, just enough to see your face, you knew there was no going back.

Your breathing had barely started to slow when you felt the couch shift beneath you.

Bucky’s hands slid up your sides—warm, patient, steady. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh before he rose to his knees, leaning over you.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low and sure.

Your heart kicked hard.

He cupped your hips in both hands and helped you sit, moving slow so you wouldn’t feel rushed. The hoodie you’d abandoned earlier lay crumpled on the floor, leaving you bare to his gaze.

Bucky’s eyes swept over you—every flushed inch, every lingering tremor—and he let out a quiet, ragged exhale.

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb stroking your hip.

You nodded, your voice still shaky. “Yeah.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything more. Just shifted back and pulled you gently with him until he was sitting against the cushions, his legs spread wide.

You hovered there, your knees bracketing his thighs, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. But his hands stayed steady, guiding you carefully forward until you were straddling his lap.

Your breath caught when you settled, the hard, unmistakable pressure of him thick and hot against you even through his jeans.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, a low groan slipping out of his chest.

“Jesus,” he rasped, his hands tightening on your hips. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. Your hands came up to brace on his shoulders, your palms sliding over warm, solid muscle.

“Show me,” you whispered, your voice smaller than you meant.

His eyes opened—dark, wanting, and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I’m gonna,” he promised, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—slow, deep, thorough—until your head was spinning all over again.

His mouth was still on yours when his hands started to move—slow, deliberate paths down your back, then lower, until he was cupping the curve of your ass in both palms.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low, wrecked rasp.

You swallowed, your pulse thrumming against your throat. “Yeah.”

One hand slipped between your bodies, pressing you down just a little, and the thick, hard line of him settled right where you were still sensitive, heat blooming across your skin.

Your breath stuttered out, a quiet gasp you couldn’t bite back.

“Good,” he said, and you felt his mouth curve against your cheek. “I want you to feel all of it.”

He guided your hips in a slow, rolling circle. The pressure made you shiver—hot and almost too much after how he’d touched you before.

“Bucky,” you whispered, and he groaned low in his chest.

“Just like that,” he breathed. “God, you’re perfect.”

He tilted his hips up, meeting you halfway, and the friction sent another helpless sound spilling out of you.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his hands steady as he rocked you against him again. “Don’t hold back.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your hips moving without your permission, chasing every slow drag of heat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his jaw flexing. “Look at you.”

Your head tipped back, a soft moan breaking in your throat. His mouth found your neck, lips dragging along the delicate skin as he guided you through another slow grind.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he asked, voice rough and dark.

Your whole body went tight. “Yes—”

His teeth scraped lightly at your pulse, and you felt his breath catch.

“Been thinking about this,” he admitted, his voice ragged. “Thinking about you. For so fucking long.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak—only move the way he was guiding you, your thighs trembling around his hips.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the hollow of your throat. “Let me see how good it feels.”

And God help you—you let him.

Your breathing was ragged, your whole body strung tight as a bow, when Bucky finally eased your hips still.

He kissed you—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that left no space for doubt—and then leaned back just enough to look you over.

His gaze dragged from your flushed cheeks to your parted lips to the place where you were wet and aching against him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, “you gotta let me make sure you’re ready.”

Your heart kicked hard. “I—I am—”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I know,” he said gently. “But I want you shaking for me.”

A quiet, broken sound slipped out of you.

He guided you up, just enough that he could reach between you. You felt him unfasten his jeans, the rasp of the zipper impossibly loud in the hush.

When he freed himself, your breath caught—thick and flushed, the sight of him somehow making everything inside you clench.

His jaw flexed when he saw your eyes widen, and he let out a low, almost pained groan.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, wrapping one big hand around himself. “You’re gonna take all of me.”

Your thighs trembled where they bracketed his hips.

He held himself there, just brushing against you, but didn’t push closer yet. Instead, his free hand slid down, his fingers gliding through your slick heat.

You choked on a gasp, your hips tilting without meaning to.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his thumb finding your clit. “So fucking ready for me.”

He circled you slow, teasing, until your head tipped back and a soft moan broke in your throat.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice dark and steady. “That’s all you.”

“Please,” you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for.

His mouth curved in a slow, devastating smile as he pressed one thick finger inside you, the stretch making your breath catch.

“You gonna let me ruin you a little?” he rasped. “Make you forget every man who didn’t deserve you?”

Your answer was a helpless sob, your hips moving to take him deeper.

“Yeah,” he growled, kissing the hollow of your throat. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath was coming in soft, broken gasps as he worked you open with slow, careful strokes of his fingers.

Every time he pressed deeper, your hips tilted helplessly, chasing the heat that was building faster than you could stand.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice wrecked.

He kissed you then—hard and sure—before he eased his hand away.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low and impossibly gentle.

You nodded, your pulse a wild flutter. “Yes. Please.”

His jaw flexed, something raw and possessive flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

He shifted under you, guiding the thick head of his cock to your entrance. You felt the heat of him, the way he was already trembling as he held himself there.

His hand lifted to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

You did—and the way he was watching you made your chest ache.

“Gonna go slow,” he murmured. “Wanna feel every inch of you.”

Then he started to press in.

Your breath punched out in a quiet, wrecked sound. The stretch was deeper, fuller, than anything before—more than your fingers, more than any rushed, careless night.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his other hand gripping your hip. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Your hands slid up his chest, grasping for something to hold on to.

He stopped halfway, breathing hard, like he needed the pause as much as you did.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you gasped. “More—please—”

He let out a low, broken laugh, kissing you again.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your mouth.

Then he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

Your head fell forward to rest on his shoulder, your body shaking.

“Baby,” he rasped, his voice dark and ragged, “you feel like fucking heaven.”

A soft, choked noise slipped out of you, and he kissed your temple, his hand sliding up your spine.

“Breathe for me,” he murmured. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your whole body trembling around the thick, perfect stretch of him.

Bucky’s hand rubbed slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, like he could feel every ragged breath you couldn’t quite catch.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “Look at me.”

You lifted your head, and the moment your eyes met his—dark, soft, so full of something you couldn’t name—you felt the last of your fear dissolve.

“You okay?” he asked again, thumb brushing your jaw.

“Yeah,” you breathed, and God, it was the truth.

His hand slid to your hip.

“Then let me show you,” he rasped. “Let me show you how good this can be.”

He guided your hips in a slow circle, and the pressure—deep and overwhelming—made your breath catch on a soft, helpless moan.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Just feel it.”

You couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t remember why you’d ever let anyone else touch you when this—this—was what it could feel like.

He rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate, and you felt him throb inside you.

“Baby,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You pressed your mouth to his, gasping into the kiss as he rocked you down again, the friction sending heat spiraling low in your belly.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasped, kissing you breathless. “Say it.”

Your hands slid up to cradle his face, your body shaking as the pressure built and built.

“Please—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he whispered, his voice a dark promise. “Gonna make you come all over me. Want you to feel it every time you close your eyes.”

His hand guided your hips faster, and you felt the wave rising—hot and unstoppable.

“Look at me,” he said, and when you did, there was nothing but want and devotion in his eyes.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your whole body tensing. “I—I—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, his thumb brushing your clit. “What do you need, baby?”

“I love you,” you whispered, the words tumbling out broken and true.

His jaw flexed, and for a heartbeat, he just held you still, his eyes locked on yours.

“Jesus,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “I love you too.”

Then he kissed you, and you fell apart—your body clenching around him as you came with a soft, wrecked cry.

His hand held you close, his mouth never leaving yours, as he murmured against your lips—

“That’s it, sweetheart. My perfect girl. All mine.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You were still straddling his lap, your cheek pressed to the warm, solid line of his shoulder. His heartbeat thudded under your palm, slow but so steady, like he was anchoring you to the world.

Bucky’s hand stroked up and down your spine in unhurried passes. Each sweep of his palm made your body relax a little more, the last shivers easing out of your muscles.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t even try. He stayed buried inside you, warm and thick, and somehow it didn’t feel overwhelming—it felt right.

You shifted, just enough to look up at him. His eyes were already on you, dark and soft in the low light.

“Hi,” you whispered, because it was the only word that made sense.

His mouth curved in a tired, crooked smile. “Hi.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “You okay?”

His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Better than I’ve been in…fuck, I don’t know how long,” he murmured.

Something in your chest went warm and aching.

You laid your hand over his heart, feeling it beat strong against your palm.

“Me too,” you said softly.

His breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize every detail.

Then he bent his head, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Stay here with me,” he whispered against your skin.

You closed your eyes. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His thumb stroked your cheek, slow and steady, as if he needed to reassure himself you were really here.

Your heart was still thudding hard, every quiet second stretching between you like something too big to look at directly.

When you finally spoke, your voice felt too small for everything in your chest.

“Bucky?”

His gaze lifted to yours—dark, tired, so unguarded it made your breath catch.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, the words tangling behind your teeth. But you forced them out, needing him to hear it.

“Did you…mean it?” you whispered. “When you said…you love me?”

His jaw flexed, and he closed his eyes like he needed a second to steady himself.

When he opened them again, there was nothing hidden in them—just the soft, raw ache you’d felt from the start.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice breaking on the word. “I meant it.”

Your throat went tight.

“How long?” you asked, even though you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

A rough laugh slipped out of him, low and unsteady.

“Longer than I should admit,” he said, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Long enough I tried to bury it. Pretend it’d go away.”

Your chest twisted, equal parts heartbreak and something that felt suspiciously like relief.

“And it didn’t,” you whispered.

His thumb traced your lower lip, slow and reverent.

“It never even faded,” he said.

Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t look away.

You whispered, the words tumbling out before you could lose your nerve. “I think…I always have.”

He closed his eyes again, exhaling like you’d lifted something heavy off his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you, soft and lingering. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

The kiss was slow—less like he was trying to start something and more like he was trying to prove you were real.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. Just angled his head so he could press his mouth to the corner of your jaw, then lower, tracing a warm line down your throat.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His hands smoothed up your sides, careful, tender, like he didn’t quite trust that you wouldn’t disappear.

“Meant every word,” he murmured against your skin.

He kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“Every single one,” he added, and there was something raw in his voice—something that made your chest ache.

His lips found the delicate spot beneath your ear, and your breath caught.

“Love you so damn much,” he rasped, and you felt the quiet shiver that went through him as he said it.

Your fingers slid into his hair, holding him close.

“I love you,” you whispered again, because you needed him to hear it as many times as it took to believe.

He kissed your shoulder, the curve of your neck, the underside of your jaw—like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, and you could hear the unsteady edge in his voice. “You always have been.”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch from the way he was laying every part of himself bare.

“Bucky,” you breathed, and his gaze lifted to yours—dark and open and so impossibly gentle it almost broke you.

He kissed you again, slow and sure, and you felt the truth of it in every careful touch.

When he finally pulled back, you felt the cold without his mouth on your skin.

Your hand drifted to his cheek, thumb tracing the faint stubble there. The softness in his eyes made your throat go tight.

“What happens now?” you whispered.

His brows drew together, like he hadn’t considered that you might still be afraid.

“What do you mean?”

Your gaze dropped to his chest, too many old doubts crowding your lungs.

“This…us,” you said softly. “What if it ruins everything?”

Bucky’s thumb brushed your chin, coaxing your eyes back to his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “look at me.”

You did—and the quiet certainty there made your heart stutter.

“It’s already changed everything,” he said. “But not in a bad way.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

He cupped your cheek in his big palm, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m not gonna pretend it’ll be simple,” he went on, softer now. “But I’d rather spend every day figuring this out with you than go back to pretending I didn’t love you.”

Something inside you cracked open, warm and aching.

“You mean that?” you asked, your voice small.

His gaze never wavered.

“Yeah,” he said, and there was no hesitation in it at all. “I mean every word.”

Your throat worked around a tight, shaky breath.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re not going to,” he said, his voice low and certain. “Not ever.”

Eventually, the quiet between you shifted. Not because either of you wanted to move, but because your limbs were starting to tremble with exhaustion.

Bucky kissed you once more—slow and lingering—before easing you carefully from his lap.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me clean you up.”

Your face went hot, but he didn’t tease, didn’t look away. Just helped you stand, his hands steady on your hips as he tucked himself back into his boxers.

You wobbled a little, your thighs still weak. Without a word, he bent and lifted you into his arms, carrying you down the hall.

The bathroom light was soft and golden. He set you on the counter, his palm warm on your knee as he ran water over a clean cloth.

You watched him, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name.

When he turned back, he paused—like he felt it too.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I just…I can’t believe this is real.”

He smiled, tired and so gentle it made your heart ache

“It’s real,” he said. “All of it.”

He cleaned you carefully, never rushing, never letting his touch feel anything but tender. When he was done, he pressed a kiss to your knee before lifting you into his arms again.

“Bed,” he murmured, and you nodded, too wrung out to argue.

He set you down in the middle of his big, rumpled sheets and crawled in beside you. The second you curled into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just breathed together, warm and quiet.

Then, so softly he almost didn’t hear it, you whispered—

“I wish…”

He tilted his head to look down at you, his thumb brushing your bare arm.

“Wish what, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, your chest tight.

“I wish no one else had ever touched me,” you admitted, voice small and raw. “I wish…it had only ever been you.”

His breath caught, and for a moment he didn’t speak.

Then he bent to kiss your hair, his hand tightening on your side.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low and certain. “You’re mine now.”

You closed your eyes as his lips brushed your temple, your heart finally settling into something steady.

And when he whispered, “Only mine,” you believed it.

[vervainandspritz]

SO LIGHT ME IN FLAMES

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: An arranged marriage built on cold glances and silence. For months, they lived as strangers beneath the same roof until one night, she stops waiting. She dares him to be the man he promised to be. Dares him to want her.

Warnings: smut, arranged marriage, swearing, masturbation

Notes: Thanks for 600 followers everyone

Inspired by a song The Devil Wears Lace by Steven Rodriguez

Y/n's eyes followed the clock hands, almost in a trance. It had been less than twenty minutes, surely... or an hour?

Sitting in a cold, wooden chair in the empty dining room, she felt uneasy. Hollow. Disappointment growing steadily over the last... several months.

Back then, with her heart full of worry and excitement, fear for her future tangled somewhere in between. She never expected things to go that well. Seeing him in that crisp, sharp suit on the day that changed her life forever.

Was it love? Of course not. It was convenient—good for both sides. He could offer stability, protection, and… a powerful surname. A family that would stand behind her, if need be.

She, on the other hand, a younger lass full of energy and hope. Hardened enough to survive a less-than-moral lifestyle in a hollow castle...

…but still untainted enough to make a difference. For him. For the Shelbys. The one everyone around seemed to be noticing.

Everyone but her husband.

A slow, quiet click pulled her out of the trance. A long, tired sigh followed by the sound of fabric rustling as he hung his coat by the entrance.

Steps. Quiet, then louder. Slow. Never rushing.

Almost thirty seconds passed before he pushed the door open, tired eyes reacting slower than usual. She watched his face in the dim light as his gaze finally found her, sitting by the table. Neither of them spoke. The tendons on his jaw visible beneath his skin with the clench of his teeth—a gesture nearly as familiar as the scent of cigarettes on his clothes.

He moved closer, tension clinging to his shoulders like second skin. He held his breath, so she waited. Eyes meeting his, but the words never came.

A deep exhale, and his heavy gaze dropped to his hands. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes. Plucked one out, lit it, inhaled the smoke.

Only then did his eyes meet hers again.

”It's late. Why are you up?”

They barely spoke, with how rarely he was home. She hated how uncomfortable he looked—carrying the price of their everyday luxuries. Never sharing. Never letting her in, even though... so much time had already passed.

It was like they were still stuck in the days right after their wedding. Uneasily brushing past each other in the corridor, humming in acknowledgement, nodding like some fucking royalty.

”I made dinner. Thought I’d wait and make sure you actually eat for once,” she said when the silence stretched too long, weighted with a meaning they both refused to acknowledge.

He gritted his teeth after exhaling, nodding once. Standing frozen, like a boy caught elbow-deep in a jar of cookies.

”You don’t have to do this. You could’ve gone to sleep,” he offered, running his eyes over her quickly, so she wouldn’t notice. Pausing a moment too long on her bare thigh. A piece of skin her nightgown didn’t cover.

She sighed this time. Frustrated by the constant tension. Her hand ran through her long hair, pulling it back as she tried to remember when this all started.

Eight months. It had been eight months since Shelby took its place on her ID. Since she moved into this beautiful but haunted, empty mansion, and...

She’d had enough. Enough of fading into the walls and waiting for him to come around.

”You’re my husband, Thomas,” she said, louder than intended. His eyes barely widened, and his arm lowered, cigarette dropping from his lips to waist level.

”I know.”

He didn’t know what else to say, so that’s all he gave her. She searched his gaze, but he was already drifting again, leaving her alone in the dining room despite standing just feet away.

The sharp scrape of the chair legs broke the silence. She stood, tightening the dressing gown around her body. Bare feet whispering across cold tiles as she walked up to him.

Closer than they’d let themselves be in months. Close enough to see the lines in his face– the tension in his jaw, the restraint in his temples. Avoidance in his eyes.

One more step, and they stood closer than ever. She looked up at him and reached out to grab his jaw, clearly catching him off guard. Finally, his gaze met hers. His breathing was heavier than he wanted it to be.

A mix of emotions nearly buckled her knees when she realized he wasn’t as much of a stone statue as he tried to be.

They didn’t speak in the morning. Tommy hadn’t heard her steps downstairs while getting ready for work, so she must have been sleeping at the time.

Dressing in his suit, shaving his face, he couldn’t get the image of her expression out of his head. The bold, firm grasp of her fingers on his jaw. That look, that move... One he didn’t expect at all

Not from her.

As the months kept passing, he had seen it. The disappointment in the way she carried herself around him. The uncomfortable stillness like everything was still new. Both between them… and around them.

Like they were still strangers, despite the rings on their hands.

They never argued. Talked sometimes. But only about things that didn’t matter.

But this? This was new, uncharted territory and Thomas wasn’t sure he wanted to enter it. The expression on her face hadn’t given him much room, though, not asking. Telling. For the first time in almost a year, she didn’t step aside. She didn’t ask, didn’t move.

She stated. Maybe demanded or something in between, staring at him with a purpose he tried to avoid for so long.

Finally, after wrestling his thoughts Tommy got ready for the day, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he got into the car.

Mere seconds later he drove away, leaving Arrow House behind.

Thomas Shelby didn’t have time to spare. Because in his world… every minute mattered.

By the time the clock struck eight p.m., he was... tired.

Tension sat in his shoulders like weight in wet cloth, and it only got heavier, tighter by the unexpected demands the day threw at him.

Extra meetings. A gun to a man’s head. Paperwork stacked like bricks.

All of it winding him up tighter, until his stomach churned at the thought of what tonight might hold.

What could she possibly want?

"You're my husband," she had said.

Those words still echoed in his ears as he sat back in his leather armchair, sighing. He pulled off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. Inhaled deeply trying to regain focus... Unsuccessfully.

At 8:57 p.m., Thomas stood outside the library door in his.. their mansion. He lived in Arrow House for much longer than she did, yet this part of the building seemed to... Wrap around her like old branches, soaking up her energy and making it her very own. Y/n spent most of her time in the library, so even he got used to seeing her there in passing, stealing glances.

He wasn’t sure why his hand hesitated on the handle, contrary to how firm and heavy it usually was. After all, he'd faced worse than this.

Bloody wars. Dead men. Betrayals. But this?

This was different.

Slowly, he pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, warm light casting long shadows over tall rows of books. A faint melody played on the gramophone. Something... slow. Low. Almost sultry. Jazz? Blues? He couldn’t quite place it, but it made the air feel thicker somehow.

She wasn’t there, or at least not in sight.

The fire in the hearth was reduced to embers, flickering low. A bottle of whiskey sat on the side table accompanied by two glasses, one full, untouched. The other half-empty.

He moved in slowly, each step louder in the stillness than he liked. Opening his coat, Thomas loosened his tie, as it suddenly felt tighter than necessary. His eyes took a moment to get used to the dim light, noticing the details. Exhaling a shaky breathe, he lowered himself into the armchair, fingers resting on the armrest like they were gripping a weapon.

Still no sign of her. Was she testing him? Was this a setup? A trap? A goodbye?

The music played on his senses, slow and turning darker, heavier tunes pulsing in his temples.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together once. Eyes shifting to the glass she’d poured for him or maybe for herself. He didn’t know.

Reaching for the glass, his fingers grasped it firmly before he noticed a detail. Holding it up closer, Tommy's gaze picked on the faint lipstick print. Dark red,

His jaw clenched lightly, as he tried to remember at least one time he ever saw her wearing it. Couldn't find a single one, because well.. He didn't look at her, at least not like that. Avoiding looking at her for longer than necessary was a part of keeping the distance, of keeping her.. out of the mess that his mind was.

Out of his way, while keeping her tied to him.

As his fingertip mused the lipstick, he sighed, feeling the uneasiness. For once Thomas Shelby felt like he walked into a lion's den, and not the other way around.

A soft click behind him. The unmistakable slide of a lock turning.

His spine stiffened, eyes narrowing on the flames in the hearth, but he didn’t move. Not yet. Not until he heard it.. the quiet pad of bare feet against polished wood.

A slow inhale filled his lungs as her silhouette passed behind his chair, just enough to make the hair on the back of his neck rise. He caught the scent of her before he saw her, jasmine, warmed linen, and something faintly sweet, like dried orange peel.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

Thomas looked only when she drifted into his periphery. Because how could he not?

The robe she wore was barely that. Ivory, sheer in the right light, tied loose at the waist, leaving her legs bare all the way up. He followed the subtle line of her calf, the slight bend in her knee as she walked.

She walked past him to the sideboard without a glance, posture was easy, relaxed, like this was her room. Like he was the one intruding.

He turned slightly in the armchair, following her with his gaze now, but said nothing. The sound of crystal clinking followed as she poured herself a drink, not commenting on his choice of a glass. Her back turned on him.

Silence stretched before finally her voice came to his ears.

“You know,” she said, soft but firm, “being married to a ghost gets awfully tiring after a while.”

The comment landed between them like ash from a burning cigarette. Looking at her, he didn't respond, not even attempting to. She dipped his whiskey, wetting her lips before turning to face him.

“I’ve been patient. Quiet. I did everything right.” she listed, turning the glass in her hand. “Didn’t nag. Didn’t chase. Didn’t cry.”

She turned, holding her glass at her lips. Her eyes, when they met his, were anything but soft.

“But it’s been months, Tommy.”

He swallowed, hand reaching to loosen his tie even further. She took a slow sip, savoring it, before continuing.

“I told myself you were troubled, so I needed to be patient. That you needed space. That the business came first. But tell me—”

“Did you ever once wonder what it’s like for me? Living with a husband I never get to see? Never get to... know?”

The robe shifted when she moved. Not much, just enough for him to notice the flash of thigh, the cling of fabric across her chest where the outline of lace pressed faintly through.

Clearing his throat, he felt his pulse quickening. Eyes moved from her body to her eyes, hoping she didn't notice.

”You do know me,” He responded, voice low and sort of gravelly. ”I'm a busy man.”

Ignoring his words, as they rang hollow, Y/n sighed, eyes holding up his heavy gaze without missing a beat.

“I sleep alone.. in our house.” She continued, “I eat alone.”

He barely heard her words, eyes focused on the movement of her lips instead. The atmosphere in the room she created, felt... Tactical almost. Holding him by the throat in a tension he tried to avoid at all costs. Forcing him to face the woman she was... The strong personality accompanied by the highly erotic beauty which followed her everywhere.

”I'm doing you a favor” He breathed out, unable to tear his gaze away from her.

She stepped forward.

”Am I even married, Thomas?” she asked, fingers brushing the tied sash of her robe.

He opened his mouth, just slightly.. and closed it again. No words came.

Another step followed.

”To a man who never cared to.. see all of me?” She continued, voice becoming sharper and somehow more.. sultry with each word.

He sat straighter, glass forgotten in his hand. His jaw locked.

But still, refusing to answer.

“You had a reputation, you know. For knowing exactly what to do with your hands.” she said, voice quieter now, the edge softening just enough to slice deeper. “But I can’t even get your eyes on me, Tommy...” She was close enough that he could feel her body heat.

The sash slipped undone, barely, the robe parting slightly.

“Let alone your hands.”

Fighting the groan building up in his throat, he finally spoke, but it was low. Gritty.

“What is this?”

Her brow arched.

“This?” she echoed, stepping directly in front of him. “This is me being honest.” She leaned down slightly, fingers resting lightly on the arms of the chair, trapping him.

“You keep me out of your head, Tommy. Out of your world and... Bed.” She said slowly, looking down at him. ”I know you think you’re doing me a favor. That keeping me untouched makes me... safe.”

She let out a small laugh. Dry. Knowing.

“But you’re not protecting me. You’re just pretending I’m not your wife.”

His eyes flicked down. The robe had shifted again, one inch more and he saw the dark red lace underneath, tight against her waist and hips, nothing modest about it.

Before he saw me, she straightened slowly.

”So today...” she said, lifting her hands to the buttons lining the robe. ”Today my husband will look at me.”

Her fingers undid the first button, slowly and without a rush.

“I used to wonder what it’d take to make you look at me like a woman,” she said, thumb brushing slowly over the next button. “Now I wonder if you ever saw me at all.”

”Y/n” He interrupted in a breathless voice, a weak warning.

Another button. Her collarbone, her sternum now visible in the glow of the firelight.

His breath caught. It wasn’t loud, but she heard it.

One more button and the robe gave way just enough to show the upper edge of the bra, lace, scalloped, soft against her skin.

She stepped between his knees, and this time he leaned back. Not to escape, but to see more.

“You’re staring now,” she said, a smile curling on her lips.

His throat bobbed with a dry swallow. He didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t trust what might come out.

She let the silence stretch, soaking in it like silk on skin.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, voice low, velvet-smooth. “Quiet again.”

She didn’t move away, didn’t button back up, didn’t ask for permission.

Instead, she stepped back a single pace, just enough to make him feel the loss of her warmth between his knees. Then her fingers moved not to undo another button. Not yet.

But lower... Down the curve of her ribs, along the line of her stomach, past the edge of the lace..

His chest rose sharply as she traced slow, languid circles against her own thigh, just brushing the place where the hem of the robe barely clung. The move was casual. Daring in its restraint.

“I spent months wondering if I was still desirable,” she murmured, her eyes on his. “If you even remembered I had a body at all.”

Her hand slipped lower.

”Y/n, I'm...” He started out, his eyes were wide open staring at her hand, his heart pounding wildly. ”Fuck” He breathed out, not finding the words to defend himself, to explain.. to reassure her, that he kept the distance to keep her safe, out of the public eye.

He shifted in the chair, a subtle lean forward. His fingers tightened against the armrests in need, his restraint slipping after months of trying his best to ignore her.

She saw it.

“Don’t,” she said gently, catching the motion before it finished.

He froze. Swallowed. Watched.

”Only my husband gets to touch me,” She breathed out, feeling the tension in her body. Her thighs shaking with anticipation. “...and I’m still waiting to meet the man I married.”

Watched as her fingers dipped just under the lace, her breath catching, real, this time. A flutter in her chest that betrayed how far she was pushing herself, too.

But she didn’t stop. She couldn't afford to.

“I dreamt of this, you know,” she said, dragging her touch higher. “Touching myself in front of you. Wondering if it’d be enough to make you break.”

His jaw clenched. His fingers flexed.

“Turns out,” she whispered, tipping her head with a soft smile, “it’s easier than I thought.” Her hips shifted, just barely. A subtle roll enough to make his blood pound.

He moved again, this time barely lifting from the chair, unable to remain seated with what she was doing.. and this time she raised her hand.

“No, Thomas.”

Her voice was firm, final this time, making him shudder.

He froze mid-motion, jaw tight, chest rising with shallow breaths.

Her hand stayed raised for a moment longer, just to be sure. He didn’t try again.

“You don’t get to touch just because you finally want to,” she said, her voice low, but cutting clean.

“You don’t get to act like a man if you’ve never let me be your wife.” She whispered, letting her head fall back for a moment as her fingers touched her mound, moving lower. Touching where she needed it the most.

Letting out a gasp, she began rubbing small circles, breathing hard. Y/n looked down at him, the curve of her lips soft but unsparing.

“I’ve shared your name. Your bed. Your silence.”

Her fingers moved again, faster, deeper, causing her lashes to flutter once, but her voice didn’t waver.

His jaw twitched visibly, but not in anger. In... helplessness.

He’d survived bullets, betrayal, and boardroom warfare, but this.. watching her come undone in front of him while he sat motionless, denied, this was something else entirely.

Her breath hitched again, fingers moving with a pace that was no longer just performance. This was real now. Raw.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke.

“They said I’d be taken care of,” she murmured, voice like smoke and venom. “That I’d live comfortably. That you’d give me your name, your home.”

Slowly she looked at him again, her face twisted in pleasure.

“But no one said I’d become invisible.”

Thomas flinched like she’d slapped him, teeth clenching harshly, making his jaw tight, eyes glued firmly to her doings.

“No one warned me that marrying you meant disappearing in plain sight.”

Her knees buckled lightly, a gasp slipping from her throat this time and he snapped. The glass hit the floor, but Tommy didn’t even register the sound of it shattering. He was halfway to standing before her hand stopped him again.

“No, Thomas.”

Her voice was shaky but fierce, her eyes looking at him with hunger and a hint of contempt.

”Y/n” He groaned, brows furrowed.

“You’ve had my body under your roof for months.” Her eyes darkened, breath heavy but steady as she kept rubbing herself, her own fingers running through her wet folds.

Tommy couldn’t look away or move, like she put a charm on him. A curse

Everything about her... her voice, her body, her sheer audacity had him suspended in something just short of ruin.

Something worse than he'd ever expect. A burning need, built on restraint, avoidance and... Regret. It all came crashing down in a shameless display of her, his wife, throwing it in his face and.. denying him, something nobody ever did before.

She stepped forward, slowly and on shaky legs, like she had all night to do it but he didn’t dare to even flinch.

Then, without ceremony, she climbed into his lap, throwing her legs over his.

The weight of her, the heat of her, the softness of her thighs pressing down across his clothed ones. It knocked the air from his lungs. His hands hovered uselessly in the space between them, caught in a limbo. Wanting to touch but afraid to move.

Her knees slid wider, robe pooling at her hips, her skin pressed right up against the sharp crease of his trousers. Her hand never left her pussy, still touching, still teasing, denying him everything.

He swallowed, hard, like his throat had turned to sandpaper.

Y/n leaned in, lips brushing his jaw without granting the kiss. Her mouth moved against the rough skin.

“I'm so mad at you,” she whispered, breath hot against his cheek. “You didn’t want a wife. Just a name to own.”

Tommy's chest rose defensively, but also helplessly. Her shaky, mean and hungry voice in his ear was making him lose it.

“And you got it,” she added in a moan, the tempo of her fingers stuttering, breath catching. “But I got nothing.”

He couldn’t help it anymore. Letting out a groan Tommy leaned into her neck, desperate to touch somewhere, even with his lips. Just a brush of skin. Just a place to put his regret.

“I didn’t know how to be what you needed,” he breathed, finally, hoarse. “I didn’t even know what to say to you.” His voice was much different than usual, so low and gravely she barely recognised it. Never hearing him in that way before. His lips pressed against her soft skin, fighting the urge to sink his teeth in it.

“You didn’t need to say anything,” she said sharply, grabbing his jaw with her free hand, holding it like the day before, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You just had to see me.”

Tommy blinked, lips parted as he looked up at her.

Her hips shifted in his lap, slow, grinding lightly down just enough to make him bite back a moan. The friction of lace against fabric, the sticky heat soaking through layers.. it was driving him insane.

She was close, but... Not close enough.

He could feel it in the way her body twitched, the tremble in her thighs, the faint curl of her spine, the way her lips parted like she’d say something, then didn’t.

But Y/n didn’t stop, looking him in the eyes with her own half open, her lips parted and slick. Holding his jaw, she didn’t let him move. Made him watch.

Didn’t kiss him, moaning before her forehead pressed to his, not tender, but intimate. Like a threat wrapped in silk.

“If you want me,” she said, barely audible, “you’re going to earn it. Like a husband should.”

His jaw flexed, seeing the fierceness and stubbornness in her eyes. She slowly licked her lips, deliberately then let out a low sound in her throat when her fingers dragged just the right way.

He thought he might lose his mind.

”Please” He breathed out weakly, pressing his forehead harder against her own.

“Seduce me,” she whispered, “or sit there and do nothing like you always have.”

There was a moment of stillness, his mind frozen before she gasped again.

Then he moved.

He dipped forward like something inside him snapped, like the leash she'd been tightening finally broke. His lips crashed into the column of her throat, open and hungry. He kissed like a man who hadn’t allowed himself to want in months. Tongue brushing her skin, teeth grazing. Mouth open and hot, wet and reckless.

She gasped when he latched onto her neck and sucked, bit and licked.

Not gently, in mere seconds he left a mark, then another and... She let him. Y/n's eyes were rolling back under his assault on her skin, finally feeling what she so desperately wanted. Passion, hunger, need...

She wanted it all along.

“Should’ve given in sooner,” he rasped against her skin. “Should’ve touched you like this the first fucking night.”

Another kiss, lower, followed by a groan. The way he pressed her tighter to him, his hands still hovering at her waist like he didn’t deserve to hold her yet.

“But I’m here now,” he breathed. “And I see you.”

He moved up to her jaw, kissed along it with maddening precision. She trembled, eyes fluttering closed for half a second, but she didn’t stop touching herself.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t give him more.

She just moaned softly into the curve of his hairline, her lips barely grazing his temple, her body now visibly shaking from the effort of staying in control.

“I won’t disappear again,” he said, low and hard. “You want a husband?” He gritted through his teeth before biting her harshly, smoothing it out with his tongue. ”You’ve got one.”

And then.. when her body stiffened just slightly, when that whimper spilled from her lips..

She grabbed his hand, not to hold it. To use it.

She dragged it between them, right over her still moving fingers, guiding his touch exactly where she needed it. Her hand over his, their palms flush, her hips now grinding shamelessly against the combined pressure.

His fingers were bigger, rough, calloused, so much different than her own.

She pressed her lips against his, but not a full kiss. Just a breath away, an intimate almost

“Now,” she whispered, her forehead against his, her nose brushing his own.“Now feel what you’ve missed.”

He rubbed with her, matching her rhythm, his other hand finally gripping her waist, grounding them both as her control slipped inch by inch. Her breath shattered against his mouth. Her moan was caught between a sob and a growl.

And just as she reached the edge, right as her thighs clamped tighter around him, grinding into his hand, his thumb brushed lower, knuckles dragging against her with firm pressure.

The cold metal of his wedding ring made contact.. and that was it.

She shattered.

Her mouth crashed into his, fingers tightening on his wrist, a gasp swallowed by the first real kiss they’d ever shared. Her body shook in his arms, nails dragging down his shoulder as she held onto him like the world was ending. Like it had just begun.

And he held her. Kissed her like he meant it. Like he knew her, rubbing further and prolonging her bliss. His firm hold keeping her upright as she shook like a blade of grass. She came so hard she could barely breathe.

Tommy didn’t let go, unmoving as his hand finally lay motionless, cupping her mound possessively.

Instead, his lips found her neck again, softer now, reverent. Kissing down the curve where her pulse fluttered like wings, open-mouthed and slow, tasting the skin that had just come alive beneath him.

She was still trembling, and he kissed her through it.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against her throat. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life earning the right to say that.” his words were followed by another kiss, just below her ear. A graze of teeth. His voice dropped to something hoarse, ragged.

“Say the word, I’ll kneel next time.”

Her eyes fluttered open, lashes heavy, lips parted from the aftershocks. She didn’t answer with words. Just curled tighter into his chest, her palm finding his heart.

And it was pounding.

[castielscaplan]

Truth's Silence

Summary: After fooling around with Dean, you end up pregnant, scared, you go to Sam for advice.

WC: 1.1K

Warnings: angst, pregnancy

Read on ao3!

Steve Rogers Version Here!

“You gonna tell him soon, Y/N?”

Sam’s voice was low, barely more than a murmur over the hum of the flickering overhead lights in the backroom of The Roadhouse. The place had emptied out hours ago—just the two of you now. He polished a glass behind the counter like he needed something to keep his hands busy, like he was trying not to pry too much.

You sat on the cracked leather stool, elbows on the bar, eyes glued to the swirling ring of condensation beneath your untouched water.

“He’s got a right to know,” Sam added gently.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they traced the rim of your glass. “He’s in the mafia, Sam.” The words hit the air with more weight than you expected. “He’s got blood on his hands every week. I see it on the cuffs of his sleeves. On his boots. He doesn’t even flinch anymore.”

Sam let out a quiet breath. “He still flinches when you cry.”

That stung.

“He’s not the kind of man who wants a child. You know that. He’s never said it, but he’s made it pretty clear. This life doesn’t have room for innocence.”

You were trying to convince yourself as much as you were trying to convince him.

“Dean would never hurt a child,” Sam said firmly.

“No,” you agreed, biting the inside of your cheek. “But he might not want this one. Especially if he thinks it complicates things. He’s paranoid. He’d accuse me of cheating before he ever thought he could be a father. He’d think I stepped out with Benny or someone in the crew.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and smirked faintly. “Well, you are always disappearing with Cas.”

Your glare could have leveled a man.

“Not helping, Samuel.”

He held up his hands in surrender, chuckling. But the worry lingered behind his eyes. “You’re not gonna be able to hide it forever. The second someone else notices, it won’t be you who gets to tell him.”

That fear alone had kept you awake most nights.

--

By the third month, you were vomiting every morning like clockwork. You’d started setting an alarm earlier just so you could throw up, brush your teeth, and crawl back into bed before Dean stirred.

He never questioned it. Thought it was nerves or stomach bugs or stress. He brought you ginger ale. Rubbed your back sometimes, but never pushed.

By the fourth month, the bump was showing under your loose shirts. You swore off fitted clothes entirely, claiming you were bloated, blaming too much diner food. Dean didn’t question it—he kissed your forehead and told you you were beautiful, even when your eyes were ringed with exhaustion.

You’d begged Garth to keep his mouth shut when the test came back positive.

He’d looked like he was going to pass out.

“You need to tell him,” he’d whispered, eyes darting around like Dean would burst through the wall. “Before someone else figures it out.”

--

That “someone else” turned out to be Castiel, two weeks later.

He walked into the auto shop just as you were shoving a wrench back onto the shelf, your shirt lifted over your slightly rounded belly as you tried to tuck it back into your jeans.

He froze. “You’re pregnant.”

You cursed softly and turned away, tugging the shirt down.

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t say anything.”

His jaw clenched. Then he gave a tight nod. “He deserves to know. But I won’t betray you.”

--

“You think she’s hiding something?” Sam asked, sliding a beer across the bar to Dean later that week.

Dean grunted, eyes fixed on the bottle but not really seeing it. “She’s been different.”

“Different how?”

“Jumpy. Distant. She cries in the shower when she thinks I can’t hear. And she’s been wearing those goddamn hoodies in the middle of June.”

Sam pressed his lips together to hide the flicker of realization. “You think she’s cheating?”

Dean slammed the bottle down a little harder than necessary. “No. I mean—hell, I hope not. But... if it’s not that, then what the hell is it?”

Sam leaned in. “Maybe she’s just scared. She’s been through hell, Dean. We all have. But you—you’re not just a boyfriend. You’re Dean Winchester. You’re the guy who puts bullets in people who talk too loud. She might be afraid of your reaction.”

Dean didn’t answer. But his throat worked, and that said enough.

--

Seven months.

You stood in the bedroom, heart in your throat, hand resting over the curve of your belly. You’d stopped trying to hide it. You couldn’t. And tonight... tonight, you had to tell him.

You heard the familiar sound of the Impala pulling into the garage. Boots. Keys. The soft thud of his leather jacket hitting the hook by the door.

“Dean?” you called, voice thin.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called back, then stepped into the room—and froze.

His green eyes locked on you. On the rounded swell of your stomach. The unmistakable curve beneath your tank top.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Your voice cracked.

Dean’s brows furrowed. “Is it mine?”

The question was sharp, instinctual, and it made your breath catch.

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Dean, I swear—I’ve never—I would never—”

He crossed the room in three long strides, falling to his knees in front of you before you could finish the sentence. He didn’t touch you at first. Just looked up at you with a mixture of awe and heartbreak in his eyes.

“Seven months,” he whispered.

You nodded, tears falling freely now. “I was scared. I thought you’d think it was weakness. That it would ruin everything you’ve built. I didn’t want you to look at me and see a liability.”

Dean slowly reached out, resting both hands on your belly like he was afraid you’d disappear. “You should’ve told me.”

“I wanted to. I tried. But the longer I waited, the harder it got. And then I thought... maybe you’d be better off not knowing.”

He looked up, his voice cracking as he spoke. “There is nothing—nothing—that matters more to me than you.” He placed a kiss against the top of your belly, then another. “You think I’d pick blood and bullets over this?”

You were sobbing now, fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close.

“I’ll protect you both with everything I have,” he whispered. “I’ll love this kid the only way I know how—with everything I’ve got.”

He looked up, tearful and broken and so completely yours. “And if anyone so much as looks at you wrong? I’ll burn the world down.”

[kaidoslastbraincell]

how it all started (part 2) / baby saja x reader

tag list: @sky2lar, @minthoneynbasil, @seung185,

Part 1, Part 2,

in which he is smitten from the start. actually...he's borderline obsessed and hopeless but we love it ;) - had to cut it short because it got long lmao but comment if you want the cat cafe date <3

pairings: baby saja x Zoey fan!reader

Since that day, all Baby had done was scroll through your Instagram page...he couldn't help himself. You were beautiful, cute, AND funny. Every post was a collection of photos: a selfie, random images from your week, cute cats, and a meme. The memes always had him snickering behind the sleeve of his sweater. Too bad you had yet to reply to his message.

You, on the other hand, had no idea what to do. Did you completely ghost him? Or did you bite the bullet and finally reply to the cute stranger who was apparently famous? It seemed like a no-brainer, but after both groups' little follow spree, your notifications had been bombarded. You eventually had to make your profile private. The story that Zoey had tagged you in had gone viral within minutes: a simple mirror selfie of her making a heart with her thumb and forefinger...and on that same wrist, the bracelet you'd made her. The caption read 'met the absolute cutest today (@)y/nl/n <3'

It was 3AM by the time you'd finally made up your mind. You'd lost enough sleep over the whole situation, so you sent a simple reply.

(@)y/nl/n: I was never hiding :)

You hoped he didn't screenshot the exchange and post it for publicity, but you had a feeling the Huntrix girls would all but murder him if he did. The reply was instant. Shit...did you wake him up?

(@)baby-saja: then the universe must have hidden you from me ;)

What you didn't know was that Baby had completely freaked out the second you replied, barging into Romance's room in their shared apartment and practically throwing his phone at the pink-haired boy.

"What the fuck do I say to that!?" he hissed, dragging his hands through his sleep-mussed hair as his eyes flickered between green and gold.

"What?" Romance muttered, "do you have any idea what time it is?"

"You're good at all this lovey crap. Reply for me!" He ignored the question.

With a sigh, Romance did as asked, taking a second to mull over the exchange before typing. He tossed the phone back to Baby before settling back into his bed.

"There. Now get out."

You blanked...there was no way. Choosing to ignore the ridiculously cheesy response, you replied.

(@)y/nl/n: i listened to some of your music...you guys are good.

Baby froze. Not only had Romance replied with something he'd never say himself in a million years, but you'd completely brushed over it. He was never asking the hopeless flirt for advice again. So he opted to bother Jinu instead. Luckily, the Saja leader was already awake when he let himself into his room.

"Can I help you?" he asked with a raised brow.

"You've got something going on with that Hunter chick, right?"

Jinu froze, unsure of where this was going. It seemed Baby was more observant than he led people to believe.

"How do you flirt with human girls?"

The dark-haired boy relaxed slightly, smirking.

"Is this about that girl from the fan meet? The one that's obsessed with Zoey?"

Baby growled lowly. "Don't fucking remind me. I don't want to have to fight for her attention."

For the rest of the night, Jinu gave his bandmate tips. He was a lot more helpful than the others would have been. They scoured through your Instagram profile, analysing every post and photo, making a list of things Baby could say. Compliments on your style, memes they thought you would like, and conversation starters that would make you actually want to talk to him. The notes app on his phone was full.

The rapper waited until you posted again to message you. As usual, it was a collection of photos: a picture of a cute cake, a cat you'd found on the street, and a mirror selfie of you with...was that Zoey!? His patterns rippled. You hadn't tagged her, and the other rapper was wearing a disguise, but her style was unmistakable.

(@)baby-saja: I like your outfit :)

And he did. You looked adorable in your cut-off denim overalls, pale blue knitted cardigan, and the nicest pair of pastel Jordans he'd ever seen.

It was a couple of hours before you replied, and he could only assume it was because you'd still been with Zoey.

(@)y/nl/n: thanks <3 our styles are similar, don't you think?

Oh he did think. You were practically matching. His heart was hammering in his chest as he stared intently at the photo, and he was overwhelmed with a single thought. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Conversations came easier after that, and you both started to get more comfortable. After a week of constant back and forth, Baby decided to make a move.

(@)baby-saja: a cat cafe just opened in town. wanna check it out together?

You liked the message before responding.

(@)y/nl/n: off work this week. just give me a time and address <3

The message seemed simple...unbothered...but in reality, you were jumping for joy. You loved cats. You loved cafes. And you liked Baby. He was fun to talk to, and it seemed you had a lot in common.

(@)baby-saja: tomorrow? noon? x

The next morning, you tore your wardrobe apart trying to find the perfect outfit. Was this a date? It seemed like a date. But you didn't want to assume. You decided on something simple: denim overalls, your pastel Jordans, and a light yellow, knit sweater. Taking a picture in your mirror, you sent it to him with a peace sign emoji.

(@)baby-saja: looking cute as always ;) and we're matching x

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Richie X F!Reader: Right person, right time.

a/n:this man deserves all the love and i'm more than prepared to give it to him

Warnings: smut, fluff, kissing, cursing, Virgin!reader, virginity loss, vulnerability, Richie being adorable, age gap (not specified), no use of y/n, pet names (sweetheart, babe), established relationship, oral (f receiving), fingering, porn with little plot.

Word count: 2.6K

The living room is quiet except for the dull sound of the television. You don’t even know why it’s still on. You and Richie haven’t been paying attention to it for a long time—if you ever had to begin with. What you’re doing is far more interesting than whatever crappy comedy is playing. The little moans slipping from your mouth every so often only prove that.

You’re perched on Richie’s lap on the couch. You don’t remember when you got into this position, but you don’t really care. You gasp as Richie’s lips find your pulse point.

He’s glad Eva was with Tiff tonight. As much as he loves that kid, he wanted to have some alone time with you.

You and Richie have had something going on for a little while. Neither of you had labeled it until you’d gone to visit him at the restaurant a few weeks ago. Carmy had said something along the lines of, “What the fuck is she doing here?” And Richie had immediately responded, “Don’t fucking talk about my girlfriend like that!”

And that was that.

Girlfriend.

It still felt a little ridiculous to say it, but every time he did, your face lit up. So he guessed it wasn’t as embarrassing as he thought.

He was a divorced 45-year-old with a girlfriend, so what?

Richie groaned as you nibbled at his earlobe, your chest pressing against his. His hands caressed your hips, squeezing every so often. You’d done this a million times before—just making out on the couch. You’d even sucked Richie’s dick in the shower once, and he’d eaten you out on the counter. But you’d never gone all the way. Not with him. Not with anyone.

Except Richie didn’t know that last part. You hadn’t told him until now because you’d never felt like things would escalate to that point. Until tonight.

Something was different. The way he held you felt more desperate. The air was charged.

So you pulled back from Richie’s neck, holding onto his shoulders as you looked at him. He opened his eyes and watched you as you stared at him. His hand came to rest on your cheek.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I…” You bit your lip. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Richie blinked, his gaze steady but something shifting behind his eyes—an unexpected seriousness settling in. You took his silence as an opening.

“I’m a virgin.”

Huh, he thought. Okay. That’s... something.

He swallowed the jumble of thoughts threatening to spill out and instead kept his voice low, careful.

“Okay... why’re you telling me this now?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated for only a moment before meeting his eyes.

“Because I want to… you know,” you whispered, eyes moving from his frame to around the room.

“You want to have sex? Is that it?”

You nodded.

“Right now?”

“Jesus, Richie! Yes, I want to have sex right now!”

“Wow, okay. No need to get angry.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“You don’t gotta apologize, babe. I just wanted to make sure.” He gave you a soft smile, his thumb tracing over your cheek.

“So… can we?”

Richie couldn’t help but smile. He placed a kiss on your lips, resting his forehead against yours.

“Course we can. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Richie took a deep breath, like he was anchoring himself. You could feel the shift in him—like he was still Richie, still cocky and warm and kind of ridiculous, but suddenly… focused. Intent. His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw as he kissed you again. This time slower. Deeper.

You melted into it.

His other hand stayed steady at your waist, grounding you in a way that made your stomach flutter. You didn’t feel nervous anymore. Not really. There was a calm inside the heat, a quiet trust that wrapped around you as much as his arms did.

Richie kissed along your jaw again, but softer now. Less rushed. He let his lips trail to your throat and back up, pausing just under your ear.

“We don’t gotta rush,” he murmured. “You tell me what you want, alright? We take it slow.”

“I don’t want slow,” you whispered back, almost a whine, surprising even yourself. “I want you.”

Richie pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, searching. He was checking—really checking—that you weren’t saying it just to say it. That you weren’t swept up in the moment or trying to prove something. You gave him your answer with your eyes. With the way you leaned into his touch.

“I’ve wanted you for a while,” you admitted quietly, voice cracking slightly. “Not just like this. I mean… everything. The dumb jokes. The texts. The way you make me feel like I’m not crazy all the time.”

Richie’s hand tightened a little on your waist. His expression softened. He opened his mouth like he might say something, then closed it again. He wasn’t used to hearing that kind of stuff. Not without a punchline waiting behind it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, a little unsteady. “You’re killin’ me here.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, and this time it felt like everything. Not just heat, but comfort. Familiarity. All the unspoken shit between you, wrapped up in lips and teeth and breath.

Then he stood up with you still in his arms, making you squeal a little as you held onto his shoulders.

“Richie!” you laughed.

“Hey, I’m not doing this on the fuckin’ couch. You deserve better than some half-assed backseat makeout scene, alright?”

He carried you through the apartment, still half-laughing under his breath, before setting you down gently on the bed. You watched him, heart thudding, as he knelt in front of you, undoing the buttons of your jeans like he was unwrapping something precious.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said softly. “Promise.”

Richie kissed the inside of your thigh as he slid your jeans down your legs. Every touch was slow, like he was reading you through your skin. You lay back against the pillows, heart hammering, chest rising and falling fast—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of it. 

When he looked up at you, his hands resting gently on your knees, his voice was low and steady. 

“You good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, and then, after a second, you whispered, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

Richie smiled, soft and crooked. “That’s alright. I’ll go slow. We’ll stop whenever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

He leaned over you, kissing you again—slower than before, deeper. His hand moved to your shirt, fingertips brushing your stomach before tugging it up. You lifted your arms so he could pull it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, and you felt his breath hitch just a little at the sight.

“Jesus,” he murmured. His eyes trailed down, drinking you in like you were something sacred. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

You flushed, but you didn’t look away. He’d seen you naked before, but he felt the same awe every time he did. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before his mouth followed. He kissed one, then the other, tongue flicking teasingly over a nipple until you gasped. His grip on your hips tightened like he was holding himself back.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered against your skin, “way too many times.”

You shivered.

Then his hand slid down between your legs, pressing over your underwear, just enough to make you squirm.

“Can I take these off?”

You nodded. “Please.”

He peeled them down slowly, exposing you inch by inch, and once they were off, he just looked for a moment—his hand brushing the inside of your thigh, so gentle it made you ache.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, alright?” he said.

“I will.”

Richie leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh again, then again, closer now. His breath hit you before his mouth did, and when his tongue finally slid through your folds, you gasped, your back arching.

“Oh—fuck…”

He moaned like you were the one giving him head, like the taste of you had knocked the air out of him.

“You’re so wet already,” he breathed. “Goddamn.”

His tongue moved with purpose—slow and deliberate, circling your clit, then dipping lower before coming back up. He worked you open with his mouth and his hands like he wanted you to come undone just for him.

And you were. Your legs were already trembling, your hands gripping the sheets, your voice soft and broken as you whimpered his name.

“Richie—oh my God—”

He slid one finger inside you, slow and careful, his eyes flicking up to watch your face. You tensed just a little, but he didn’t move until he saw you exhale.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yeah—keep going.”

He added another finger a minute later, scissoring them gently as he curled them just right. All the while, his mouth stayed on you, tongue working your clit with unrelenting focus, like he wanted to draw every sound out of you.

Your orgasm hit fast—unexpected. Your body tensed around his fingers and you cried out, clutching at his hair. He didn’t stop until you were shuddering, limp, breathless.

Richie pulled back and kissed your thigh again, then your stomach, then your lips.

“Still good?”

You nodded, dazed. “That was… that was really good.”

“Better than your birthday?”

You smiled at the memory. You’d been in the kitchen making coffee when Richie had come up behind you to say he had a birthday surprise for you. He’d been so desperate for you that day, you hadn’t even made it to the couch. He’d eaten you out right there on the counter. It had been the best head you’d ever gotten.

“Close competitor.”

Richie smiled at that, moving up to kiss your lips again. 

“Think you’re ready for more?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges now. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, how tight he was holding himself back.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I want you.”

Richie sat up and undid his belt, pulling his jeans down just enough, then reached into the drawer beside the bed for a condom. You watched him roll it on, your mouth going dry at the sight of him. He was thick, flushed, and you felt that flicker of nervousness again—but mostly, it was anticipation.

He settled between your legs, positioning himself carefully, eyes on yours.

“I’ll go slow, alright?”

“Okay.”

You felt him press against you, and slowly, steadily, he began to push in. You clung to his arms, jaw tight. It burned a little, but not in a bad way. It was just… intense. Full.

“Jesus Christ,” Richie muttered, voice strangled. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good.”

Once he was all the way in, he paused, breathing hard, resting his forehead against yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

He waited. He didn’t move until you gave him the okay. And when you did, he started slow. His hips rocked into you gently, barely pulling out before sliding back in. The pace let you feel every inch of him, every shift in pressure, every shaky breath. Your nails scratched lightly down his back as you kissed him again, moaning into his mouth. The pain faded, replaced by a slow-building heat that started to unravel you all over again.

“Richie—faster,” you whispered.

He didn’t argue. His pace picked up, still careful, but more desperate now. His mouth found your neck again, your breasts, your shoulder. You could hear yourself—soft cries and gasps filling the room. You felt his hand slip between you again, rubbing your clit as he thrust harder, deeper. It was overwhelming in the best way. Raw and messy and perfect.

“I’m not gonna last,” Richie said through gritted teeth. “You feel too good, babe—I’m gonna—fuck—”

“Come with me,” you gasped. “I’m close—don’t stop—”

A few more strokes and your body tightened again, everything clenching around him as the second orgasm crashed through you. Richie followed with a loud groan, burying himself deep inside as he came, arms wrapped tight around you.

He held you like that for a long time, his face buried in your neck, your fingers tangled in his hair. The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was him.

Eventually, Richie pulled back just enough to kiss your forehead, his voice hoarse.

“You alright?”

You nodded, smiling sleepily. “Perfect.”

He chuckled, brushing your hair back. “Didn’t hurt too bad?”

“No,” you said honestly. “It was really good.”

Richie’s eyes softened. “Good. ‘Cause you deserve good. All the fuckin’ good.”

He stayed there with you, just holding you. And for once, Richie didn’t have anything smart to say—just quiet, steady breathing and his fingers drawing lazy patterns on your back.

Then curiosity started chewing at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

You lifted your head so you could look at him from your spot on his chest.

“Sure.”

“How come you’ve never done this before?”

Sure, you were a bit younger than him, but you had experience—Richie knew that much from his time with you. And you’d mentioned you’d had other partners before, so he couldn’t help but wonder why not.

You let out a soft sigh, thinking about how to answer.

“I guess I’ve just never wanted to before.” You gave a small shrug. “Guess I was waiting for the right person.”

Richie blinked up at the ceiling, the weight of your words settling into his chest. You weren’t saying it to be dramatic or manipulative or even romantic. It was just the truth. Simple and sure.

And yet, it landed like a punch to the gut.

Not in a bad way. In a real way.

He looked back down at you, his arm tightening around your waist. “Fuck,” he whispered, shaking his head a little. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his skin. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” he said softly. “That good.”

Silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm. Full. You laid your head on his chest again, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat calm your own.

He ran his hand up and down your back, slow and steady. “You really mean that?” he asked after a while. “About waiting for the right person?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I had it all planned out or anything. I just never felt… safe enough, I guess. Or seen.”

Richie let out a breath, like someone had just taken a weight off his shoulders he didn’t even know he was carrying.

“Well,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Thanks for seeing me, then. Even with all my fuckin’ baggage.”

You smiled, fingers absently tracing over his chest. “I like your baggage.”

He snorted. “You’re outta your goddamn mind.”

“Probably,” you said, grinning. “But I still like you.”

Richie went quiet again. You could feel the shift in his breathing—like he was holding something in his mouth he didn’t know if he should say.

Then, finally, he let it out.

“I think I love you.”

You froze for half a second—not in fear, but in surprise. It wasn’t what you were expecting. Not tonight. Not like this.

You lifted your head, just enough to look at him. “You think?”

He rolled his eyes at himself. “Fine. I know. I know I love you. Just didn’t wanna freak you out by saying it right after I got laid.”

You laughed, full and breathless, before leaning down to kiss him. It was soft. Grateful. Familiar now.

“I love you too.”

Richie let out a shaky laugh, like something inside him had finally loosened. He kissed you again, pulled you in close, and didn’t let go.

And he never planned on it. Ever.

[joelsslvts]

𓆩⟡𓆪 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 — 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Joel Miller x Female!Reader — Jackson Era | Roommate AU

Enemies to lovers / Slow burn / Protective Joel / Age gap / Longfic-style

——————————————————————————

When Joel Miller first moved into Jackson, he expected peace. Routine. Something solid to hold onto.

What he didn’t expect was you.

They told him housing was tight, that Ellie would have her own spot a few streets down with some younger kids, and that they’d matched him with someone “easygoing” in one of the older houses near the stables. He didn’t care. He just wanted a bed that didn’t smell like blood or damp mold.

And then he met you.

You opened the front door barefoot, soft music floating in from a nearby record player. You wore an oversized flannel that clearly wasn’t his, hair messy, a chipped mug in your hand.

"Hi," you said, like you hadn’t just wrecked every expectation he had.

He blinked. “You’re my… roommate?”

“Looks like it,” you chirped. “You get the room upstairs. It’s quieter.”

He hated you instantly.

Not for any real reason, really. You hadn’t done anything. You were polite. Kept your side of the house clean. But you were young—too young, in his opinion. Not a kid, but not someone who should be anywhere near a man like him. You were always humming, baking things, helping the old man next door fix his radio. You walked around barefoot even in the cold. You smiled at everyone, even after patrols.

He hated how perfect you were.

And worse? You weren’t scared of him.

Most people in Jackson gave him space. Kept conversation short. They respected him, sure, but no one tried to know him. Except you.

You’d ask him if he wanted soup when you made extra. You told him goodnight every evening even if he didn’t respond. You’d leave out a cup of coffee on the table in the mornings with a little note—just in case you want it.

God, it drove him insane.

Joel kept his distance. Shut his bedroom door at night. Ate fast so he wouldn’t have to sit across from you too long. But he watched you. He couldn’t help it.

The way you sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, reading. How you laughed quietly at the local kids trying to impress you. The way you stood outside during snowfalls like the world was still full of wonder.

He told himself you were a nuisance.

But then came the night you didn’t come home.

The town had a curfew for a reason. The streets weren’t dangerous like the outside world, but people still noticed when someone was late. Joel had paced the living room like a caged dog, waiting to hear your voice, to see your smile as you walked in and said, “Sorry! Got caught up talking to Maria!”

But the door never opened.

And when someone mentioned they’d seen you at the gates helping with a trade group, something snapped inside him.

By the time you stumbled through the front door, cheeks wind-chapped and hair windblown, Joel was already by the coat rack.

“Where the hell were you?”

You froze. “Joel? I—I told you I might be at the gates late tonight.”

“You didn’t come back.”

���I’m back now,” you said, confused, brushing snow off your jacket.

“You could’ve been hurt,” he barked.

You stepped back, hurt flickering behind your eyes. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

And then it happened. He didn’t mean for it to. But the truth ripped out of him, raw and jagged.

“You don’t belong out there! You—fuck—you don’t belong around me!”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joel turned away, jaw clenched, running a hand through his hair like he could physically pull the feelings out of himself.

"You’re… light. You smile at people. You have hope. And you walk around this goddamn town like you ain’t seen what the world can do.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then, softly, “So you hate me because I’m not broken?”

His silence was the answer.

“I’m not stupid, Joel. I know what’s out there. I’ve lost people. But I chose to keep going. I chose to hold onto something good. That’s not a crime.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

You added, voice shaking, “But maybe you don’t hate me. Maybe you just don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t hate you.”

He flinched at that.

You left him standing there in the hallway, alone.

And yet—something changed after that.

The next morning, you still made two cups of coffee. He took his this time.

You didn’t speak about the argument, but the air between you was different. Softer.

One night, he found you asleep on the couch, curled up with a blanket half-falling off your shoulder. He covered you with another and stood there longer than he should’ve, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath.

“Jesus,” he muttered to himself. “What the hell are you doin’ to me?”

It took him weeks to admit it. Not out loud—God, no. But in small ways.

He walked you to the stables every morning. He patched your coat without asking. He saved the last slice of pie for you even though he wanted it.

One night, he fell asleep on the couch next to you. He hadn’t meant to. But when he woke up, your head was on his shoulder, and his arm was around you like it had always belonged there.

He didn’t move.

Eventually, he whispered, “You still make me nervous, you know that?”

You didn’t respond—still asleep, lips parted just slightly. But you shifted closer in your sleep, hand resting over his heart.

And Joel… let it stay there.

[toriwakes]

Bumping Heads [Spencer Reid X Reader]

warnings: none!

summary: you and spencer just can’t see eye to eye.

a/n: this is actually horrible but i wanted to post :( please send me requests!!

spencer had always made it very clear how protective he was of you.

you could never go out onto the field alone, you could never go home alone, and you could never engage in any high risk behavior without him there. he knew you could take care of yourself, yes. but he felt you’d be even safer if he was eyeing you like a hawk.

your friends, however, didn’t believe it. they thought spencer was acting that way because he liked you, which you thought was absurd. but you found yourself feeling this magnetic pull towards him day by day and then you realized; maybe you wouldn’t mind so much if he did.

recently, you haven’t been able to sleep. so to compromise your insomnia, you’ve been going out a lot.

spencer didn’t approve of this.

you’ve stopped mentioning which bars you’d be going to and when you’d go out to throw him off and it was working. you’d clock out, change clothes, dance and drink, and be back home with only little time to spare before work. you’ve reached a point where you weren’t even tired anymore. spencer was nothing short of disappointed when he found out. he knew, though, that you wouldn’t take the advice from him to slow down.

so he concocted a plan.

you noticed his devious plan when your work friends started asking to tag along with you on your nightly outings. your friends, however, were ushering you back into your apartment by 10. that’s when it clicked: spencer was getting your collegues to go to bars with you to get you home earlier. you saw no benefit to his efforts; you didn’t get drunk plus you couldn’t sleep. what exactly was he trying to accomplish?

your anger didn’t go unnoticed by spencer. the dirty looks, the sudden distance and cold shoulder. he knew you knew, but you both decided not to mention it. deep down, he also knew that you understood he wasn’t in the wrong. which you did, because how could you be mad at him for trying to keep you safe?

still, you were bothered. you were an adult, and you felt like you didn’t need a babysitter when you went out. when you clocked out and didn’t mention to the team you were gonna get some drinks, you were hopeful. you were gonna drink some alcohol, uber home and sleep finally.

yeah, not on spencer’s watch.

spencer was there. at the bar. you should’ve figured he’d find you- he probably profiled you like a genius. (which is exactly what he is) either way, you slipped out of his line of vision as sly as a fox. you stomped over to the bar and ordered another drink, downing it sans class.

pettiness aside, you couldn’t ignore the surge of butterflies that sputtered in your stomach. he came all this way just to watch over you, and something about that made you flustered.

drink in hand, you moved your body to the music. you couldn’t focus on any one thing in the crowd, but you could’ve sworn you saw a set of brown curls watching you from a distance. you shot a harsh look and moved on. you were ordering another drink at the bar when a man you’ve never seen before approached you.

“hey there, doll face.” every single alarm went off at once. he was really scary looking. not to anyone else, but you? who profiled and studied psychos every day? you knew what the scary ones looked like. you gave him a meaningless smile before excusing yourself and trying to move from your seat.

he didn’t let you go that easy.

a strong hang enclosed around your wrist. “it’s rude to leave a fella hanging, you know.” your eyebrows furrowed and you tried to shake from his grasp. you were both standing now and his grip closed tighter and you couldn’t even utter something coherent before he started ushering you towards the door. “get off of me.” you murmured, but he ignored you. you choked up, not knowing what to do. besides your struggle, all you could do was wish for a miracle.

suddenly, he let go. spencer physically pulled this man off you by the shoulders and shoved him into some seats by the bar. spencer, ever so gently, moved you behind him and flashed his badge to the man. you couldn’t really hear or understand the terse conversation they had, but the man didn’t sound happy. spencer took your hand softly and led you out of the bar without another word.

the car ride was silent. by the time you both got back to your apartment, you were sobered up and guilt was sinking in further.

“spence-“

you didn’t answer him. that sad look in his eyes- you just couldn’t say anything to make this better. “all i wanted to do was make sure you were safe. and i know you’re capable of doing it yourself, but i can’t help it. i couldn’t just sit at home not knowing if you were okay, especially when i know the type of people that are out there.” he said, turning his body towards you. you couldn’t say you didn’t understand him; you did. completely. neither of you said anything, you were just looking at him. his brows, that were furrowed. his lips, that were pressed together in anticipation of your response. his eyes, slowly filling with lust and admiration.

“(y/n).”

“what?”

“say something.”

your eyes darted to him as he parked in your complex, body absolutely on fire. you didn’t say anything.

he kissed you with more force, like this was exactly what he was meant to be doing in this moment. kissing you, his hands slowly moving into your hair, listening to the little noises you’d make when he did something you liked. a small whimper, a “mhm”, and he’s just keep doing it because hearing your response made his feral. when you pulled back for air, his lips were swollen and his cheeks were pink. you two sat there, catching your breaths, thinking about what you guys just did. “can you walk me to my door?”

he did walk you, which was accompanied by a vulnerable conversation about how you were wrong to treat him the way you did. he understood you. you both stopped outside the door, daring the other to address the elephant in the room. “i don’t regret what we just did.” spencer said, breaking the silence. you stared up at him, wondering how someone could be so perfect. “i don’t, either.” you said truthfully. that made him smile. “so you’d be okay if i took you to get coffee sometime?” you nodded. “more than okay.”

“and spencer?”

“yeah?”

“thank you.”

you leaned in for one more peck before going inside but there was some miscommunication in who was gonna lean where- and before you knew it you two thumped foreheads and were holding your heads in pain. laughter filled your ears as you let yourself inside and flopped down on your bed, feeling genuinely tired for the first time in ages.

the next morning, you and spencer we’re getting asked about the bruises on your foreheads all day.

[ibuprofein]

plug!connie x reader

tags: angst, plug!connie, romantic tension, smoking, drug references, toxic relationship undertones, soft moments, kissing

The low, throaty rumble of a black Dodge Charger was always the first warning sign. It echoed through the parking lot like thunder before a storm. You could hear it before you saw it—before the halo of smoke trailing from his window, before his eyes met yours like they hadn’t seen anyone else all week.

Connie.

He always pulled up with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his blunt. Black hoodie, black cargo pants, black sneakers. A walking shadow, really, with that clean low fade and a tiny etched star just above his temple—a sharp design that matched the glint in his eyes when they locked on you.

You were leaning against the steps of your apartment complex, already rolling up. As if he wasn’t the one supposed to be supplying you.

“Damn,” he muttered, stepping out of the car and sizing you up. “Didn’t even wait for me.”

“You’re late,” you replied, lips curving around your own smoke. “Again.”

He smirked, that same crooked grin that always got him out of trouble. “Told you, shorty. I’m movin’ around. Gotta make plays.”

You knew what that meant—Connie always made time for the streets before he made time for you. But when he was here, it was like none of that mattered.

He slid next to you on the steps, his presence humming with heat. He smelled like weed, cologne, and midnight rides. You passed him your blunt. He took it, inhaled, and didn’t speak until the air between you was foggy with smoke.

“You look beautiful,” he said lowly, not even glancing at you, eyes staring off across the lot. “Like… fuck. I miss you.”

You said nothing, just leaned your head on his shoulder. You’d heard those words too many times before, yet they always crawled under your skin and settled somewhere soft. Maybe because when Connie said it, he sounded like he meant it.

“I miss you, too,” you whispered. And you did. Even though he dipped for days without warning. Even though you only saw him when he had a pocket full of something and an hour to kill.

He turned his head slightly, cheek brushing yours. “I mean it this time. I been thinkin’ about you, for real. I know I be distant but… that’s not ‘cause I don’t care.”

You looked up at him. “Then why?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just passed the blunt back to you, watching your lips when you pulled. You felt his hand slip under your jacket, fingers brushing your waist.

“‘Cause if I give you too much of me, I won’t get it back.”

You wanted to scream. To tell him he never even gave you enough to miss. But his voice was soft and broken, like he didn’t want to admit he was scared. Like he knew you’d always be here waiting anyway.

“I’m tryna change,” he added, eyes finally meeting yours. “I promise.”

You almost laughed. He always promised. Promised he’d come see you more. Promised he’d stop ducking your calls. Promised that one day, it wouldn’t just be stolen hours and hazy kisses.

But you didn’t laugh. You just leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, like you could draw the truth out of him that way.

His hands gripped your waist harder. He kissed you like he needed it to breathe. Like he hated that he had to go but didn’t know how to stay.

When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’ll hit you later tonight,” he mumbled.

You nodded, though you knew it might be days before he called again.

He stood up, tossed the roach to the pavement, and climbed back into his Charger. The engine growled to life. You watched him disappear down the block like he always did—just taillights and empty promises in the dark.

And you knew next time you heard that engine, you’d be waiting on those steps again.

Because loving Connie Springer was a cycle.

And you were too far gone to break it.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 18 - Don't Let It Out

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Bucky going full protector mode. My king.

Chapter Title from Use Somebody by Kings of Leon

Word Count: 8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You, Sam, and Bucky have a talk, and progress is made. Extra warning on physical abuse in this chapter. Make the best call for yourself.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 17 - Chapter 19

Read on A03!

Bucky’s told you what to say.

Before anyone found you in the closet—before the world caught back up with you and you had to deal with the fall out—Bucky made you rehearse the story, and given you a tight nod of approval when you got it right.

And he hasn’t run.

Hasn’t looked at you in fear or disgust or hate. Blamed you for hiding this from him.

And he’s still holding you, right in his lap. An arm wrapped around your body to keep you upright, his attention focused purely on your words and face as you practice, and the wings in your ribcage threatening to beat out of your chest. 

He’s seen all of you, and he’s still here. Still on your side.

Staying.

Letting you keep him, even when you both know how this ends. 

Not happily. It doesn’t matter how many dreams you have of an easy, happy life with Bucky, this isn’t going to be a happy ending. Miles has a leash around your throat—and Bucky wants you to have a choice, and you adore him for it but that’s just not how this works—and there are people biting at your ankles for reasons you don’t understand. 

Hydra was one thing. But Bucky says that the other woman—Belova, he’d called Her, making Mist grow spiked and hot up your spine—works for the Government, and you can’t begin to imagine why they’d want you. Sure you’ve sued them a lot, but no more than any other foundation. You’ve donated a lot of money to Government programs, too. You pay your taxes. When you’d been called for jury duty, you’d gone.

But they’re still after you.

And Bucky is still trying to protect you from it, even when you’ve given him every reason not to. Even when he’s always been able to see right through you, but now you’ve showed off all the ugliest, gnashing and bloodied parts of you, and he won’t just leave.

You don’t want him to leave.

You might need him to stay. Need him to tell you it’s going to be okay, and hold you, and maybe kiss you this time. When his breath is spreading tiny, pleasant little shivers over your skin, and his arm around your stomach feels like a comfortable, weighted promise of keeping you. Right against him like you’re something he doesn’t want to break, and would put back together if he did. As if he’d care if you hurt, and wants to make you feel good. 

Not like a doll. Bucky holds you like you’re something that’s alive, and it’s not wrong or undeserved, and you never want to stop needing him to hold you. You never want to leave this closet. To face the roaring crowd and curtain drops, when you could just stop playing the Show and stay in Bucky’s arms. 

It’s not how this works. It’s not how the Show ends, because it doesn’t end. 

And you want it to. 

But it’s never mattered what you want, so the Show has to keep going. Bucky gave you the lines. 

You just have to sell them.

“What the hell.” Sam hisses, pushing into the closet, somehow barely blinking at how Bucky’s holding you, and you’re leaning into his body. “You tell me that you two dumbasses have been going behind my back when I was very clear when I said not to, we got the press and fire department outside, and you’re hidin’ in the closet-“

“Close the door.” Bucky grunts, and Sam frowns, but listens. 

“You got a lot of explaining to do, Buck-“

“Then let me talk.” Bucky adjusts you in his arms, your hands flying to hold his arm. “She cracked the code.”

Sam blinks at you. “The Hydra code-“

“Only code there is.” Bucky says, tone dry. “She got it, alone. When you needed a whole team to do nothing-“

“Hey-“

“-And it’s just a lot of damn numbers. We met with Zemo a few weeks ago,” Bucky rubs his face, keeping his voice raised over Sam’s. “His name was in there too, but it was his dad. He said he’d met that Leviathan you’d been chasing. That I had, too. And I don’t remember it, but some of the numbers were dates for my Hydra missions-“

“The Starks.” You mumble. “Right now, we just know it’s the Starks.”

Bucky gives you a flat look, and you shrug. For a second, his gaze softens while his jaw clenches, and he blinks at you twice. 

That Look is something good, even if you don’t quite know what. And he’s giving it to you in the dark, so right now—under Bucky’s attention—there’s a mirage of safety. That this isn’t just a moment in a glass bubble you know is going to pop—it always pops—and the light, floating feeling of the Mist will last. 

It doesn’t.

It always sours, and turns in to pull you apart. 

“You guys didn’t think this was important to tell me?” Sam says, his tone coated in disbelief, and you give him a weak smile. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to feel any sort of guilt, though. He just shrugs, and nods. “Not really. More important shit-“

Sam scoffs. “Like what’ “We had a Widow here.” Bucky grunts, and Sam’s eyes widen. “Yelena Belova. And I heard she’s been working for the Government-“

“She has.” Sam says, a deep frown on his face. “I recognize that name, saw it in a briefing, think Nat mentioned it before-“ His jaw twitches slightly, and he shakes his head. “Yeah. Belova’s been contracted by the CIA. But far as I know, Hydra doesn’t have any roots in there.”

“I think they’re working separately. That whatever Hydra wants-“

“De Fontaine might want it too.” Sam sighs your name. “You got anything to add, or are we just fighting off book again.”

You shake your head, and let the lines Bucky fed you flow out with a nervous ease. “Bucky said the Leviathan was a doomsday device, and if- I don’t know, maybe Tony had some sort of technology they needed for it, and they’re going through me.”

Bucky nods, squeezing your hip in silent praise, and that shouldn’t make your knees feel weak. “Zemo talking about it wasn’t a coincidence. We need to look into what the CIA has on the Leviathan. Try and find it first.”

Sam frowns. “What about-“

“Bucky will keep watching me,” you shrug. “I’ll be safe, and we can keep working on the codes while you look for something. We’ll only look into something if you can’t.”

“You’re not allowed to work the field,” Sam gives you a firm look, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my dad, Sam.”

“Maybe, but I can sure as shit ground you-“

“I’d like to see you try.” You stick your tongue out at him. “I’ll kick you in the nuts-“

“No, you won’t.” Bucky hauls you back, and you scoff. Sam knows you weren’t actually going to do it, but now you’re just melting into Bucky’s arms and he’s going to make fun of you for a million years. “I’ll watch her, Sam. And,” he nods to the closet. “I don’t think any press is good right now-“

“They think it was a fire.” Sam mutters, frowning between you and Bucky with an odd expression. “Nobody knows it’s Hydra, or- I guess the fuckin’ government. We’re safe.”

But you’re not. 

Sam says you’re safe, but you know you’re not. Bucky must somehow know as well, because his grip on you tightens right before the door opens. You both know you’re going to have to split up, but he doesn’t let you go. 

“I’ll see you Monday.” You mumble, and he frowns down at you. 

“I can give you drive back-“

“Miles is here.” 

Bucky face drops into a sour expression, and he glances up to Sam before dropping down to your ear, his breath brushing softly over your skin. “Just come with me, Butterfly. I’ve got guns, and an arm that’ll knock him into the sun.”

You give him a small, sad smile, and you shouldn’t have told him about Miles holding the bond. 

It makes the possibility that he’s going to try and save you—help you claw out of this pit while asking for nothing in return—all the more likely. 

“I’m not joking-“

“I know you’re not.” You turn away, raising your chin but not trying to move away from his hold. The Show has to begin, but you’re not ready for this—a single, safe moment where Bucky doesn’t sees you, and you’re safe—to end. “But I can’t, Buck. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky’s hand flexes slightly, and you know he sees right through you, but this isn’t another assassin or kidnapper. He’s not going to make you stay, or keep next to him, or let him hold you longer than time allows. 

You wish you could freeze it. Slow it down. Anything but let it rush past you, the crowd too loud, the cameras too bright, Miles’ grip far too tight as he yanks you away from Sam and sneers in your ear that you’re going home. 

Sam doesn’t lunge for you, either. But Sam just hates Miles. You’re too good at the Show, and you survived too long on your own to allow weakness to show. There’s no real proof that Bucky knows, outside of you telling him about the bond. 

Bucky might know. He always seems to know, because he sees everything. Watches everything. Remembers all the things you say and do, to the point that you’ve seen him double back to grab something you forgot. 

And you’re not fine without him. Not fine alone. There’s no way out of this storm, and you don’t have anyone to weather it with because you told Bucky to go home.

It not as if he could do anything, if you let him come with you. It would only end with all of this worse than it already is. It wouldn’t just be Miles’ hand bruising on your wrist, and your legs stumbling as you try to keep up with his pace. There would be more than just the hot, impossibly painful feeling of the Mist trying to rip up your spine, paired with the poison feeling running through your blood.

Because Sam said that nobody knows that this was an attack on you. He’d even muttered in your ear—right before Miles found you—that he’s selling a story about a decoy bomb, planted just to interrupt the event. 

But it’s not working. The press bought it—all the questions shouted at you were about who did this and how does the Stark Foundation react to such a threat—but you don’t care. Maybe if you told them about Hydra, it would be hiding in plain sight, all the eyes on you making Hydra and the Government slower to move. 

It’s never been the press or the public that needs to believe nothing is wrong. 

Miles. 

It’s always been Miles. 

But he knows. There’s no way to say how, or exactly what he knows, but he knows. You can feel it, in an iron rope that’s coiling around your lungs. He knows. He’s not looking at you, and though he rarely does, this is different. There’s a cold feeling in the air like the dead of winter, despite it being the rising, wet heat of a summer night. There’s no music for the car ride, and it’s getting too loud in your head—a buzzing sort of ring, starting to rattle around your skull—but you can hear every one of your own breaths, and you have to count to make sure they last. Miles’ grip on the wheel isn’t tight, but horrible relaxed. Just like his hand, resting softly on your thigh. No pressure, no pain.

Just a reminder. 

He doesn’t have to hold you tight for him to keep you. 

You have no way to leave. 

There’s not enough air, in the garage. Every click of your heels on the ground echoes off the walls, and the sound is going to swallow you whole. The elevator is worse, with Miles grabbing you and pressing you right against his chest. It’s not the comforting, blanketed warmth of Bucky. It’s a cage. A threat. 

A promise. 

“Sit.” He grunts in your ear, the second the apartment door opens. 

You nod, leaning down to take off your shoes, and Miles yanks you right back up.

“I said sit.”

This is easier if you don’t fight him. He gets bored faster, and you have a higher likelihood of walking out the other side instead of crawling. So you nod, glancing between the stool in at the kitchen island and the couch in front of the TV. Miles shoves you to the couch, and you manage to regain your balance before you fall to the ground, but when your eyes dart up the stairs, you can see the golden-green eyes glowing in the dark. 

You swipe your hand casually to the side, and the eyes vanish. You’ve never remember training the Boy to do that, but he always does. Always listens, then slinks out of the shadows to keep you company after. 

It’s for the best. You know what’s about to happen, and you don’t need a trip to the vet as well. 

“Tell me,” Miles towers over you as he hisses your name, and you keep your eyes trained on his ugly, polished shoes. “Exactly what the fuck you’ve been lying to me about.”

You swallow, keeping your voice soft. “I- I don’t-“

“And don’t fucking lie, you little bitch. Or do you just not understand what you did wrong? Are you that fucking stupid?”

Better not to answer. Better to just stare at his shoes and let him answer himself. 

“You are, aren’t you. Doesn’t matter how well I train you or what I tell you, you’re just the same dumb little whore who got on her knees for anyone.” Miles laughs, and you don’t look up. Tears are starting to sting at your eyes, and you can’t afford any weakness. “Let me explain what you fucked this time, honey.” He leans down, and the light shining off his shoes shifts, right as bile rises up your throat. “You already lied to me. I’m guessing for months. You’ve been working with Wilson’s little off-brand Captain America, playing fucking superhero, and you’ve been talking to Barnes.”

He doesn’t know. Not about Hydra. Not yet. It’s a tiny, useless victory, but it’s better than nothing at all. 

“You been fucking him too?” Miles sneers, you shake your head, and he scoffs your name. “You’re such a shit fucking liar, I know you’re bending over for that old asshole. You know he’s a fucking war criminal, and you’re still giving him head-“

“He was brainwashed.” You mumble, because you’re an idiot who can’t just shut the fuck up. “And I’m not fucking him, Miles-“

The blow isn’t the worst you’ve have. Just a sharp sting across that your face. 

The kicks always hurt more. Right into your ribs, not cracking anything, but make all the pain already in your body spike and threaten to pull you under. 

You can’t fight back. It lasts twice as long if you fight back, and this one is already lasting too long. More often than not it’s for speaking out turn or some random suit that he thinks you’re fucking. This time he has evidence, and grounds, and you spoke out of turn. To defend Bucky. 

It’s impossible to tell what parts of you aren’t in pain, when Miles is done. There’s the cool of the floor below you, and the iron tang of blood in your mouth, but you probably just bit your tongue again. And if you didn’t, it will have to be something you deal with in the morning. 

The morning will come. It always comes. The light breaks and the darkness moves away, and it falls again but the morning always comes.

You just have to survive until the morning comes. 

“Tell me the future.” Miles’ voice is cold in your ear as he says your name, and he doesn’t bother to make you look at him. He doesn’t care to see you anyway. “Come on, show me that you’re worth keeping around.”

You nod weakly, coughing and choking on bile as you look for the dulled, thin thread. It takes too long to find it. Longer than usual—it’s tangled and shrunken away, faded so far you wouldn’t think it was possible if it wasn’t the only way this story ends—and you make a pathetic sound as another blow lands to your gut. 

“Fucking tell me.”

“We’re together and happy.” You whisper, and you let off the thread. It doesn’t matter if you can see it or not. It just matters that it’s what Miles wants to hear. “Everyone knows your name, and I’m yours. You’re beloved, and powerful, and they say your name until the world ends and I’m just as beautiful as when you found me.”

“And who do you belong to.” He hisses in your ear, and you swallow. 

“You.”

“That’s right.” He laughs, and you strangle yourself on another cough. “Not Barnes, fucking me. Get that through your fucking head, now, before I make you show Barnes exactly what kind of bitch you actually are.” Miles lips brush over your ear, and your blood curls. “I bet I can make him the Soldat again. Make him jump off a cliff, or kill Sam, or try to kill you. Think you’d survive, honey? Or are you so fucking pathetic you’d let him kill you.”

You don’t answer, and Miles scoffs. 

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” You hear him rising up, his voice moving further away, and you stay on the ground. “I don’t give a shit what you do for the rest of the night, but I don’t want to see your whore fucking face. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and if I get back to you still sucking Barnes’ dick, you know what has to happen.”

You do. 

The exact thing you’ve been afraid of, as Miles walks away and you slowly sit up. 

There won’t be anything you can do about it, if Miles tells you to go into Bucky’s head and erase his memories. Of you. Of himself. Or just going in and ripping his mind to shreds, until he’s just a shell again. And he’d never forgive you, if he somehow came back. No one ever has, but Bucky could. He’s immovable. Strong. He’d somehow recover, and he’d finally see you as the horrid, vile beast that you are, and you’d be alone again. 

The right thing to do would be cut your losses. Vanish. Beg Miles to leave the city tonight, sell the apartment from across the world, and hope that Bucky doesn’t care enough to look for you. 

But he would.

You don’t know why, but Bucky keeps choosing to keep near you. If you weren’t so selfish, if you could dream about anything because his hands on your skin and his voice near your ear, you’d try and scream that he should leave. You’d go back to the start, and all your ugly and crude attempts to make him leave. 

But he’s never left. He won’t leave. And that shouldn’t be a relief, shouldn’t feel like a better high than any drug could offer, but it is. 

And you can’t stay here right now, but you have nowhere to go. In the past—on nights this bad, where Miles can’t even stand to look at you, which you understand—you’d sit on the floor with the Boy purring in your lap until you could move. Either from finally having enough breath to stand, or from pure fucking fear forcing you into movement, born from the sound of Miles upstairs. Then you’d go to your office, and wait out the night there. 

Bucky will know if you go to the office. Or Happy will, and he’ll tell Sam, and Sam will send Bucky. 

You’re going to hurt him. This only ends with you alone and caving in on yourself once more, and Bucky finally understanding that you’re not worth any of this. 

But you can’t think of anything else. You don’t really have anyone else. And right now, you don’t need anyone else.So you kiss the Boy on the top of his head, grab your keys between your knuckles, and close the door quietly behind you. You’re wearing an expensive looking dress and heels, so you can’t just wander around. You could go back to the subway, but your phone is almost dead, so it would just be you, the dead of night, and the sound of the tracks rumbling off-time with your breath. 

Bucky would find you anyway. 

And you’re so fucking alone, and it hurts, and he’s the safest place to be. 

He’ll see. What Miles does to you. What you’ve spent so fucking long, been so fucking careful to hide from everyone. And you’d be putting him in a danger he won’t be able to understand. 

But you’re going to fall. And you need him to catch you. 

When he picks up after the second ring, any words die in your throat. Bucky mutters your name, then repeats it—his tone growing urgent, almost desperate, and you really feel fucking sick—and you take a shaking, unsteady breath.

Bucky sighs, his voice impossible smooth, and it starts to be sort of numbing.

You can’t really feel the pain, when he’s talking. It’s there, and it’s making everything a labor, but the beat of your heart is comfortable. And you’re going to make it through the night. 

Bucky’s going to catch you. 

“Are you-“

“I need you,” you whisper, before you can really think, and he falls silent. “Bucky, I- I can’t- I’m not- I need you-“

“Butterfly, I need you to slow down-“

“Miles.” Your voice is barely an exhale, and you’d think Bucky didn’t hear if the silence on the lines didn’t cleave your chest in half. “We got in a fight. And I need- I need you. Please.”

You expect hesitation. Questions. Maybe a grunt of what did you do, or why the hell are you calling me.

But that’s not Bucky. He wouldn’t do that to you. Ever. 

“Where are you.” He grunts, and you can hear shuffling around in the background, as well as the slam of something like a door. 

He’s coming. You’re going to have to a safe place to fall. “I- I don’t know-“

“Landmarks. Street name. I need somethin’ to work with, sweetheart-“

“Um,” you glance around, your eyes landing on a sign, and you repeat the street name for Bucky. 

“Alright, you heading north or south?”

“Bucky, I don’t know how to tell that-“

“What’s the next cross street.”

You tell him, giving a passing woman an awkward smile, and Bucky grunts an acknowledgment. 

“Keep walkin’ that way, okay? Get as far away from where you are, don’t take any turns, and I’ll get you.” He pauses, the rumble of an engine sounding on his end, then adds- “You gotta stay on the line for me, Butterfly. Can you do that?”

You nod, Bucky says your name with that same, smooth tone, and your voice is still so weak. “Yeah. I can. Bucky?”

He says your name in return, and you take a long breath, starting in your ordered direction. 

“Thank you.”

He sighs. “You’re welcome. But I’m not doin’ it for thanks, sweetheart. Anything. Anytime.” He pauses and the Mist is offering a strange, numbing high in your body. “You walkin’?”

You swallow, but nod. “Yeah.”

There’s a second of silence, and it’s hard to walk but you’ve survived worse, and Bucky clears his throat. “Tell me something.”

You frown at the air. “Like what?”

“Anything. Just- Don’t stop talking.”

“Bucky-“

“Please.” He sighs your name, and the wings pound in your chest. “Whatever you want, Butterfly, just talk.”

Whatever you want. 

The world gets a little blurry, and there’s a lump forming in your throat, but you push through. You can talk, if he wants to hear it. You can do maybe anything Bucky wants you to do. 

Except make things easy.

You can never make things easy. 

“I- I have a lot of damage control to do,” you mumble. “People are either going to donate more from sympathy, or get mad because the event was interrupted.”

Bucky hums. “You want me to shoot them for you?”

You let out a soft laugh, wincing slightly at the pain. “What happens if I say yes?”

“I shoot them.”

“Aw, you’d shoot someone for me?”

“I told you,” he drawls your name, and that can be the only sound in the world. Not the blood in your ears. Just Bucky’s voice. “Anything.”

You smile into the dark, and your lip must have split or something, but you don’t stop. “What if I asked you to eat a bug?”

“You giving me seasoning?”

“What seasoning would you put on a bug, James?”

“Salt. Cayenne. Maybe a sauce.

“Ranch?”

He scoffs. “You sound insane.”

“Because of ranch-“

“On a bug? Yes.”

You’re still smiling. You glance over your shoulder, just to make sure Miles isn’t behind you, but you’re still smiling. “Okay, Sargent. What sauce is acceptable for a bug?”

“Blue cheese.”

Your nose wrinkles. “That’s disgusting, James.”

“You asked, sweetheart.” He might be smiling too. You could swear you hear it. “That one’s your fault.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The heat on your cheeks stings a little. You’d still rather feel it than not. “Would you steal the Declaration of Independence for me?”

Bucky pauses. “Why would you want me to do that.”

“To recreate the movie.”

“What movie.”

“Oh, we have to watch it, you’re going to hate it.”

Bucky snorts, and you trip on a crack in the pavement, but get yourself up right. 

You just have to keep walking. 

“I still don’t know what movie you’re talking about, Butterfly.”

“National Treasure. And you never answered my question.”

Bucky sighs. “Fine, I’d steal it for you.”

Your smile feels like it might split open your face. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

You want to ask him why. Even though you know it’s just a joke, and he’s just trying to keep you talking, you have to know why Bucky would ever think you’re worth that, when you’re really, really not. But he’s saying with such bored, amused certainty, and no real hesitation. And playing along means that he’s trying to help you, still, and you really can’t find a solid, real reason for why he’d ever fucking bother. He has to know how this story ends as well. He’s lived a similar one himself, and he got out, but it’s just not the same. 

Bucky didn’t deserve what happened to him. You’ve only ever been this much. This loud, and lonely, and desperate for attention that you can’t stand to feel.

It’s impossible to find the words to ask why. And you don’t really need to. 

There’s a rev on an engine, and Bucky’s voice, calling your name right as the line goes dead. 

He found you. He’s going to see you. The weakest, neediest part of you that he already knows about, but has never seen stripped and exposed with bruises and blood.

And when you turn, you don’t want to look him in the eyes. Don’t want to watch his reaction. 

“Butterfly.” He mutters, and you trace your gaze over another, deep crack, starting right at the tip of your shoe and running to Bucky’s boots. “Look at me.”

You shake your head, letting your hair fall over your face, and Bucky sighs.

“Please.” His voice doesn’t crack, but it does turn soft. Running with something delicate that’s so strange to hear, that you’ve only heard once before. 

Earlier this night, when he’d grabbed your chin and told you he hates it when you won’t look at him. 

You want to. 

And when he repeats your name, in the exact same tone, the Mist seems to spin and you slowly slide your face up. You can feel your balance wavering, and you need to measure how close Bucky really is. 

Only a pace away, but somehow feeling closer. Maybe it’s just his gaze, and the command of it. The way it tells you that he doesn’t want you to look away—so you won’t—and the way your every breath seems to be the most important thing in the world when he’s watching you. Just his gaze is slowing it and making it even, as if he’s got a hand on your back guiding your lungs. Bucky blinks at you twice, slow and careful as he takes you in, and your head is spinning. Miles might have hit you harder than you thought.

Or you’re just so fucking tired, and Bucky is here, so your body is ready to cave. 

He doesn’t say anything. Bucky extends his arm, gives you a small nod of approval when you take it. It makes your knees weaker and your core a little warm, but that makes your feet feel a little detached from your body, and you stumble forward, your gut clenching at the sudden movement and all your dinner spilling out of your throat onto the road.

Bucky’s arm wraps carefully around you, lowering you onto your knees and sweeping your hair out of your face. You can hear a long, deep humming sound as you continue to vomit, and there are somehow no scrapes on your knees when your head clears. Your head tips back against Bucky’s shoulder, and his eyes find yours in a split second. 

He’s still holding you. Pressed right to his chest, shielding you from the gaze of anyone walking by and the cool chill of the wind. And he looks good. All shadows on his face that make his features sharper, lips parted and mussed hair, wearing a thin shirt and no jacket. 

He ran to get you. 

He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the universe. 

And now isn’t the time to be feeling it. Not just the Mist, or the crush, but the need. It’s worse than starvation, or dehydration. Worse than suffocation. It’s something new and that’s blooming over the cavity of your chest, weaving so well with the Mist and making you feel a lot stronger and more important than you are. It’s like being in desert for a million years then falling into the jungle. There’s so much, and everything is new, and there’s danger and fear and a million things that could go wrong. 

But you don’t want to go back to the desert. Ever. There’s color here. Life. And for all the danger, there are more ways to defend yourself. 

More things worth defending. 

Neither of you move, for a long second. And you think he can feel it. The absoluteness of it all, and how it’s better than maybe anything in your life. Just you and Bucky, his arms around you and you holding them there, the inability to look away, the feeling of complete. 

This is where you want to be. The only place you want to be. 

You’re never going to be allowed to stay. 

The strange sort of spell doesn’t break, but time keeps moving. It always does. You push back to your feet with Bucky keeping you steady, and he tucks your hair back and passes you a helmet without a word. 

You frown at him. “You didn’t make me wear this last time.”

“Because I was an idiot.” He grunts, taking it back before you can protest and setting it over your hair. “It’s for safety, Butterfly. No arguments.”

“You’re not wearing one-“

“I’m a super solider.”

You roll your eyes, but let him help you onto the bike. “You just want me to look stupid-“

“I want you not to die.” He says flatly, climbing on behind you. “And you don’t look stupid. You look adorable.”

That’s not fair. He can’t do that, when he knows. He can’t just put all his cards on the table, when you both know what game, you’re playing but you haven’t outlined the rules.

It’s something with caring. And being there. And both of you knowing that there’s more—that you’re going to fall, and Bucky’s going to catch you, and you’re going to keep trying to give him things and he’s going to have to take them—but not being foolish enough to think it will change anything.

You’re not foolish enough to think it will change anything. That Bucky can keep looking at you like he wants you, but you’re still trapped, and you’ll only drag him down with you.

Bucky doesn’t seem to be having the same problem himself. 

“You don’t need to tell me what happened,” he mutters, his voice vibrating in his chest and making you almost melt. “But I need to know if we’re going to the hospital.”

You swallow. It must be bad, if he’s asking. You really try not to look into mirrors unless you have to. “No. We’re not.”

Bucky grunts, and the engine revs. “Then we’re goin’ to my place.”

It’s not a question, but there’s still a second before he takes off. An offered moment for you to say no, drive me to Sam’s. 

But you don’t. 

The only person you need right now is the one you shouldn’t be near. That it would be better for if you just fucked off. But he’s not trying to shove you away, and when you’re silent, he knows you’re going to stay right where he’s holding you. 

There’s not really a better place to be. 

It might be a long drive. Or a short one. Time seems to blur when Bucky’s around you. You can hear the rush of the wind as he drives, but there’s also the hum of his voice in his chest. And the city smells as it always does in the middle of summer, but you can smell the rainy cologne Bucky seems to favor, and the sweet sort of mint he pairs with it, so nothing is really all that bad. 

He helps you upstairs, when you get to his apartment. Through the door and into the bathroom, scanning over your body with a tight expression as he sits you on the sink. 

“You should shower.” He murmurs. “The warmth will help.” 

You nod, watching him grab a first-aid kit from one of his cabinets. “Do we have to talk about it?” You whisper, and he sighs.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I- I don’t know.”

“You can.” He stands back in front of you, angling your face carefully as he holds up a cotton ball. “I’ll listen. It’s gonna sting.”

“Wha-“ Your words fall off in weak sound of distress, as Bucky presses the cotton ball to your lips. “Bucky-“

“No infections.” He mutters, running a thumb carefully over the sting, and your breath hitches in your lungs. He keeps fucking doing that. “C’mon, Butterfly. Sit still.”

“But-“

“I’m tryin’ to take care of you,” he grunts, and that’s the commanding voice, so you’re melting again. “I’ll let you do it yourself, if you-“

“No.” You lean a little forward, holding his gaze and bracing your hands on the counter. “I- I’ll listen.”

He frowns at you, but dabs the cotton ball back on your cut. “Don’t need you to listen.” He grumbles, and you blink. “Just don’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart.”

“I know- I’m-“

“Don’t apologize, either.” He sighs, giving you one of the Looks you can never understand. “I’m here. You need anything, I’ll get it. That’s it.”

You stare at him for a long moment, and you know he means it, but it doesn’t feel real. Half of you is convinced you’re going to just wake up, the whole thing being only a dream. 

But you can feel too much for it be a dream. You can feel the soothing, cool metal of his hand on your knee. You can feel your own heartbeat, ready to burst out of your chest for Bucky to use however he pleases. You can feel all the pain in your body, not getting better, but growing manageable. Bucky’s warm. You’re not going to hurt more, as long he’s here.

And you can feel it itching, just under your skin. Another threat of the Mist rocketing out and swallowing your vision whole as the Bond fractures and splits.

But you push it down, and hold Bucky’s gaze. 

For now, in the moment—the dead of night, Bucky right in front of you and no thought spared for the future—you’re going to be okay. And you just want to look at him. To be even more sure it’s real.

“I want to talk about it,” you whisper, your hands curling slightly on his shirt. “But just-“

“Not now.” He mutters, and you give him a tiny nod.

“Can we watch TV?”

Bucky stares at you for another long second, his nostrils flaring as he gives you a small nod. “You wanna watch that National Treasure thing?”

Your smile splits your face, and your lip stings, but you don’t care. 

Bucky returns it, starting in his eyes and spreading over his whole face.

And he’s taking care of you, and just like the first time you stayed with him, there are a few minutes where you have an itch in your fingers from lack of use, but then they just grow comfortably sore. Heavy enough you don’t want to use them, and you’re in no hurry to try. Bucky gets you a glass of water when you refuse food, and a soft yellow blanket to rest on his couch, and you raise your brows. 

“When did you get this?”

“Last week.” He mutters, dropping on the other side of the couch. “On Amazon.”

You grin at him. “You use Amazon.”

“Yep.” He gives you a flat look. “Why wouldn’t I use Amazon.”

“I don’t know, because you’re a dinosaur.”

“I like modern things.”

“You hate doing the laundry.”

“Everyone hates doing the laundry.” Bucky grumbles, and you shrug.

“Maybe. Do you wanna share the blanket?”

Bucky blinks at you for a second, then does the maddening little tongue thing as the remote going slack in his hand. 

You haven’t seen him do it in a while, between the chaos of Hydra and Miles. 

It almost makes the wings in your chest burst.

“It’s for you.”

You frown. “The blanket.”

Bucky grunts, giving you a small nod before looking back to the TV, and you sigh. He doesn’t react when you scoot across the couch until you’re pressed right to his side.

“Hi.” You smile at his blank expression, and his nostrils flare again. You still have no fucking idea what that Look means. “Blanket.”

“Blanket.” He echoes back, and you beam at him, tossing it over his legs. 

Your thighs are pressed together. And you’re already throwing all your carefully followed rules about the Show and keeping yourself alone just by being here. 

So you play pretend. You’re pressed right against Bucky because this is going to end with you in his lap, and you’re pushing his buttons it might end with him kissing you and grinning against your lips. 

It the new game. Acting like both of you feeling it—this strange, warm comfort where you never want him to go anywhere and he likes keeping you around—is going to end any other way than pain.

Bucky—just as always—plays it better than you. 

He sighs when you toss the blanket over him, but slings his arm over the back of the couch and pulls you closer than you need to be. When your head drops on his shoulder, he adjusts you both so you’re all but wrapped in the blanket. He indulges all your comment about the movie and gives you low chuckles. 

His thumb keeps rubbing small circles on your upper arm. When you get up to use the bathroom, he helps you with an arm, mutters that he’ll wait for you on the bed.

And then you have to look in the mirror. 

It’s not the worst it could be. But it’s not you either. It’s someone with all the beauty and luxury you still don’t know how to have, but all the pain you’re not supposed to feel written on her face. You look tired. You feel tired. The Mist is burning up your spine, and you’re so fucking tired. 

You can’t understand why Bucky is staying for her. If he can see through the Show, and this is what’s underneath, you’d want to try and run as far as you could. 

And when you lean forward to try and see if there’s some part of you that’s not rotting or shadowed or undeserving, you can’t find anything at all. 

But it might be there, in your eyes. Shifting and shimmering and vile, made of all the power you can feel ripping up your nerves, threatening to rip up a whole lot more. 

“Smile.” A man in a lab coat hisses in your ear. “Левиафан, you must smile for the show.”

The mirror is polished, and the dress they put you in is pretty, but you don’t want to smile. 

Behind you, in the corner of the room, the blonde woman nods. 

You smile. 

“Good.” The man grins, and his smile is like poison. “Tell me the future, Левиафан.”

A million things flash in front of your eyes. Too many things. Your grip slips slightly, and the mirror cracks into a million pieces, then dissolves into dust. 

The man is angry with you. So you just make yourself small and quiet, because he is angry often and the best thing to do is not make it worse. 

But he asked you to tell him the future. And it will only make him angrier if you don’t listen. 

You could just keep your mouth shut.

But nobody ever wants to hear you. Nobody but the blonde woman, and even she is rarely proud. 

You might learn soon, who it is and isn’t safe to tell things. 

But right now you meet the man’s gaze, and tell him the brightest future you saw. 

“The sky falls, and you die in the rubble.”

The man stares at you for a long moment. He won’t hit you. He’s afraid to. 

But you’re locked in that room for another two nights before you see anyone at all, and the only proof you have that you’re still alive, is the written messages from the blonde woman that tell you so.

You blink as the vision clears, head pounding, and take a deep, long breath. 

You’re in Bucky’s apartment. You’re okay.

“You have fancy soap.” You mumble, shuffling out of the bathroom. 

“What’s fancy soap.” Bucky mutters, but you don’t care to answer. 

He’s holding pure white, glowing flowers. They’re in a fancy, colorful glass jar, and he’s still looking at you. And you can breathe, but it’s still a little dizzying.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Didn’t get to give ‘em to you. At the office. Was gonna get you on Monday, but-“ He sighs, and holds them out. “Better now, I figured.”

You nod weakly, and drop at his side on the mattress. He passes them into your hands without a word, and they’re beautiful. Shining in the dark and blooming out, the petals soft and the stems thin, and-

He got them for you. He didn’t have to, but he did.

“You like them?” He asks softly from the side, and you nod, only just able to rip your eyes away to meet his. 

“I love them.” You whisper, and he gives you a tiny grin, and it feels like you’re being split in half. “Bucky, you- You didn’t need to.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to.”

“But-“

“If I don’t get to fight it when you tell me I have to take days off, you don’t get to fight me when I get you flowers.”

You shake your head, and you can’t stop it. All the words you’ve promise yourself to never say, spilling out of your throat because it’s Bucky. And he’s not running, and you don’t think he’s going to, but you have to be sure.

“I’m not worth it.” You whisper, and Bucky frowns. 

“The flowers?”

“Or the water. Or the movie, or the drive-“

Bucky mutters your name, but it’s far too late. You’re overflowing, and it’s spilling out of your eyes and into your words, and there’s nothing you can do. 

“I don’t think I’m- I don’t deserve any of this, or you, and I- I’m not worth this, Bucky, I promise you I’m not-“

“You are to me,” he mutters, and it just pulls a sob from your throat.

“I’m not-“

“You are.”

“I’m not good.” You stare at the flowers in your hands, and you don’t know how to breathe anymore. “I- I’m not good, Bucky, I’m not good, I’m not good-“

Bucky doesn’t speak. He just takes the flowers carefully from your hands and sets them down, before softly rubbing his hand on your back, and your words are just sobs.

But he’s still not going. 

And when you half fling yourself into his arms, he catches you. Wraps you in a tight hug, lets you bury your face in his chest and ride out the rest of the pain. You can hear his gentle humming, same as the sidewalk, and it’s only when your breathing calms fully that he takes your face between his hands and gentle moves your gaze back.

“Better?” He murmurs, and you give him a weak nod. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lets out a long, slow breath, and he’s looking into you again. Whatever he sees is all there is. There are no more layers. Nothing left to keep from him that you haven’t laid on the floor to be crushed. 

But he’s not crushing it. Bucky tucks a little hair behind your ear and says your name, and it really sounds like something worth saying. 

“You are good.” He mutters. “You know why I call you butterfly?”

You swallow. “Because I never stop moving?”

He shakes his head. “Because you’re beautiful. And it makes everything better.” Bucky drops his brow down, his gaze locked against yours, and you blink at him hopelessly. 

“I don’t believe you.” You mumble, and he shrugs. 

“Alright. Doesn’t change the truth.” He gives you a small smile, nostrils flaring, and starts to help you into bed. “Long night. You should get some sleep.”

You should. But Bucky starts to sit up, and you grab his metal arm. You stare at him in the dark, and he’s so handsome, and you shouldn’t say it. Everything will be easier if you don’t say it. 

But you can’t stop yourself. 

You rarely can, with Bucky. 

“Can you stay?” 

Bucky blinks at you. “In… the bed.”

“You can just sit. I- I just- I don’t want-“ I don’t want to be alone. I’m so sick of being alone, and I need it to be you with me, so please don’t go. “I’ll sleep on the couch-“

“No.” Bucky shifts to sit against the headboard, giving you a tight nod. “I’ll stay.”

He’ll stay. 

He does stay. 

You pass out in a second, and morning comes, because it always does. But this morning is a little better, because your face is pressed against Bucky’s thigh, and his hand is in your hair, and he’s knocked out over you. 

It would be perfect, if you woke up like this for the rest of your life. And there are things for you to do. To worry about. 

But looking at Bucky’s peaceful expression, his head lolled to the side and the beauty of his face, you don’t want to move. 

So you nuzzle a little deeper into the sheets, and fall right back asleep.

End Note: Every day Bucky gets closer to murdering Miles. Take the final step king. You can do it.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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[lunarlilacmoon]

I asked my wife for fic idea’s and she gave me two. This is the first!

All of my Gratitude

Melissa Schemmenti x reader

Warnings: very little plot, eating out (Melissa receiving), fingering (Melissa receiving), established relationship, sorry for any misspelling or missed warnings!

Summary: It your first teacher parent conference and everything that could go wrong all day has! Thankfully for you, your neighbor teacher, also your girlfriend, is there to help you at every mishap. I mean the only thing you can do to repay her is to give her ANYTHING she wants. Of course!

“Oh you stupid f- please not again!” I huffed, throwing a mini silent tantrum in the printer room. I kicked the printer with the toe of my heel not even expecting it to work but just as an extra fuck you.

“Toots beating the machine up isn’t going to get you your papers.” Melissa’s voice startled me as she appeared in the doorway smirking.

“I know! I’m not trying to help, I’m trying to hurt.” I huffed again.

“Aww but thats my job.” She teased brushing past me and messing with the printer.

I was still staring at the empty doorway in shock. Both at her quickness with that and you boldness to say it at work.

“There you go!” Her words were punctuated by the sound of my papers continuing to print.

“Oh thank heavens! Thank you!” I exhaled in relief offering her a peck on the cheek.

“Well if thats my reward I hope the printer blocks up again.” She smirked before walking out.

- - - -

All day everything went wrong left and right.

First the printer.

Then the lost parent files.

No coffee in the machine.

Leaking bottle in lunch box, which ruined my entire meal.

It was never ending one after another. But just as fast as a new thing went wrong Melissa was there to fix it.

Unblocked the printer.

Sent me the folder with an extra copy of my files she kept on her computer just in case.

Fresh coffee from the eco friendly local café on the corner.

Lunch on her.

On any other day she was my goddess but today she felt like a god send.

By the time parent teacher conference were winding down I was growing very ready to be home with her. I had one more parent and then it was home. And gods above was the worst saved for last.

“Mrs.Criller! So lovely to see you again! I hope you had a lovely day!” I stood up from my seat smiling arm extended to shake hers.

“Wish I could say the same, but after a long day of work I’d much rather be home trying to relax.” She ignored my hand and sat down. Embarrassed I did the same.

I’d only had the joys of communicating with Mrs.Criller through email, meeting her one other time,only, during the children’s orientation. Her son Hudson was such a sweet boy when he didn’t feel the need to lash out. He loved to be the center of attention, both good and bad, which was not only disruptive but riled the other children up. When he got angry he’d throw his chair or anything he could lift within reach and would curse like a sailor calling everyone all sorts of names. No matter what the email says, I’ll get a reply from her two days later claiming its ‘my job’ to deal with it.

“Hudson is a very bright boy! He tends to be drawn towards arts and crafts whenever he’s given a chance during free play! As we’ve talked before in previous emails, he does at times have behavioral problems at least once a day. Some days he’s easier to redirect and bring back to what we are doing. Others he’s unable to work through whatever he’s feeling and has to be seperated from the class-”

“So you’re still removing my son from the classroom when I’ve explicitly told you not to? Is his education not as important as the the other children’s?”

“Mrs.Criller that is not at all what I’m saying. When Hudson comes back to the classroom I always make time to do some one-on-one time with him to go over the material he missed. What I’m trying to say is, after multiple conversations with you we still have no better plan to go forward with helping Hudson.”

“How about you help him by doing your fucking job.” She hissed.

“Now Mrs.Criller you know how Ava feels about parents cursing in front of other children.” Melissa’s voice rang behind my shoulder and though I couldn’t see her I knew what look she was sending her now, eyes brows raised in a warning.

“Melissa this has nothing to do with you, until Hudson is in your class that is.”

“See but I find the need to make it my business when you continue to beat a dead horse. You see other teachers here along with me know what goes on with your son. Whether it’s stemming from the lack of attention from his father since he’s never home, or from his mother who’s always drunk or high, who knows. What we do know is that were all one step away from getting DHHS or CPS back on the phone again. Unless you’d like to go through the battle of attempting to prove your a good person I recommend actually working on it!” Her voice never sounded rude, if anything she sounded excited. “Now we will see you in three months at the next conference and hopefully we’ll all only have good things to say!”

With that Mrs.Criller huffed snatching her bag from the ground and storming off.

“Thank you! I mean you really didn’t have to but thank you!”I sighed letting my head fall on the table before I sat up and started packing my things.

- - - -

The ride home was uneventful but the minute we stepped inside I was all over Melissa. Leaving hot kisses and nips down her neck.

“Well I was going to ask if you were hungry but I think I’m getting my answer.” She laughed.

“Can’t help it.” I said in between kisses. “You were like a knight in shinning armor all day and now were home alone and you look so good.” She cut me off with a searing kiss.

Her hands reached for my shirt but I stopped her.

“You helped me all day. Let me help you now.” I smiled innocently before sinking to my knees earning a groan from her.

I unbuttoned her pants and slid them down her thighs. She kicked them off and I let her panties follow.

I didn’t waste any time before diving in, her hand wrapping in my hair pulling me closer.

I alternated between licking and sucking as she ground against my face.

“Fuck! That’s it right there!” She groaned using my face.

I added two fingers and her grip on my heart tightened. I groaned at the pleasurable pain and that made her his buck as she came.

I looked up at her happily as I cleaned her up before she hauled me up and into the living room across the couch.

“Melissa I’m suppose to be replaying you.” I giggled.

“You’re going to.” She husked before my pants were being tugged down.

[404-sturniolo-not-found]

Chapter 3; Cornered

Ghostface!triplets x bsf!reader

Chapter 1 here!

Chapter 2 here!

Casey didn’t move.

The mask still rested in her lap, cold and unforgiving, its hollow eyes staring straight through her as if mocking the panic clawing up her throat. Her hands hovered above it, frozen in place, heart pounding hard enough she could hear it in her ears.

Matt took one step into the room.

She saw it now. How easy it was for him to wear calm like a second skin. How every look, every word he’d spoken over the years had been controlled. Measured. A curtain over something monstrous.

“Matt,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “What is this?”

He didn’t answer right away. He set the bag of food down on his desk with deliberate slowness, then unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and took a sip like they were just chatting. Like she hadn’t just found a serial killer’s uniform in his room.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even cold. It was disappointed.

“Is it a joke?” she asked, grasping at anything, at hope. “Tell me it’s a prank. Please.”

Matt looked down at the mask and then back at her, expression unreadable.

“It wasn’t supposed to get this far,” he said quietly. “You weren’t supposed to be curious.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re Ghostface,” she said, not a question this time.

Matt tilted his head. “We are.”

The plural cut through her like a blade.

Chris. Nick.

Everything clicked at once. The late nights. The half-heard arguments. The sudden shifts in mood. The tension in the room when the murders were brought up. The way Chris always joked a little too hard when things got serious. How Nick never met her eyes anymore.

They were all in on it.

She stood up too fast, nearly knocking the duffel bag over, mask falling to the ground at Matt’s feet with a soft thud. He didn’t move. Just looked down at it, then back at her.

“You going to scream?” he asked softly.

Casey’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her instincts screamed run, but her legs felt like they’d turned to concrete. The door was right there—but Matt was standing in front of it, calm, casual, like he had all the time in the world to wait her out.

“I trusted you,” she said, and her voice cracked on the words.

Matt’s face twitched—something almost like regret, or something that wanted to pretend.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured. “But you looked. You kept digging.”

A sound came from down the hall—the front door opening.

Footsteps. Two sets.

Chris and Nick.

Casey’s blood ran cold.

She lunged before she could stop herself, shoulder-checking Matt hard. He stumbled backward just enough for her to squeeze past him and bolt into the hallway.

“Casey!” Chris shouted as she sprinted past the kitchen.

She didn’t look back.

Out the front door. Down the stairs. She didn’t breathe until she hit the sidewalk, the sound of her footsteps echoing off the brick walls of the alley as she ran, heart slamming in her chest, lungs burning.

She didn’t know where she was going.

She just knew she couldn’t stop.

Because they weren’t her best friends anymore.

They were predators.

And she had just become their prey.

Casey didn’t stop running until her legs gave out.

By the time she collapsed onto a bench outside an all-night laundromat in Cambridge, her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t unlock her phone. Her lungs burned, her hoodie clung to her back with sweat, and her entire body felt like it had turned to ice.

Matt. Nick. Chris. Ghostface wasn’t just real—they were him.

The boys she’d grown up with. Slept over with. Cried to. Trusted.

And now they were hunting people. Killing them.

And she had found out.

Casey finally managed to unlock her phone and opened the group chat. Her thumb hovered over the messages. She could see it—Chris was still typing. A bubble popped up. Then vanished.

She backed out and tried calling someone—anyone—but her mind blanked. Her mom was out of town, her roommate was in New York, and she didn’t know who she could explain this to without sounding insane.

“Hey, my three best friends are actually one of the most infamous serial killers in modern history. Plural. Surprise.”

She nearly laughed. But the sound that came out was choked, cracked, full of something way closer to a sob.

Her phone buzzed.

Matt: Where are you? Please. Just talk to me.

She stared at the message. A second buzz followed.

Nick: Don’t do anything stupid, Casey. We can fix this.

Fix this? The words made bile rise in her throat.

Then the third message came. From Chris.

Chris: You weren’t supposed to find out yet. But now that you did… the rules change.

She dropped the phone.

Her hands clenched into fists as she stared ahead at the empty street. It was too quiet. Too still. Every shadow looked like a threat now. Every distant step echoed like it was meant for her.

Her gut screamed that going to the police would end badly. The boys were smart. Careful. Manipulative. If she didn’t have proof—real proof—they’d turn the story around, paint her as paranoid, unstable, maybe even obsessed.

And besides… what if they had someone on the inside? The way this thing had been going on so long without a trace—what if this went deeper than just them?

Casey knew only one thing for sure.

She couldn’t go home.

Not yet.

Not until she figured out what to do next.

Not until she figured out how to expose the brothers without getting herself killed.

Because now it wasn’t just about what she knew.

It was about what they knew too.

That she was a threat.

And Matt? Matt wouldn’t let her go.

Not without a fight.

Not without blood.

~~~~~~~

Kind of a filler chapter. Buuuut, it's getting good. :)

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