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d1stalker · 10 months ago

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Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James.

Your James.

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself.

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing.

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence.

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust. He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him.

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin.

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you.

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream.

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood.

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh.

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there.

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him.

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity.

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week.

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own.

To you, he’s still James.

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it.

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own.

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body.

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say.

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines.

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly.

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close.

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end.

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still.

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know.

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air.

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze.

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain.

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence.

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving.

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes.

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew.

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries.

The first time you did it, it was an accident.

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet.

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart.

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it.

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past.

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves.

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery.

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next.

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes.

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions.

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him?

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word.

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier.

He doesn’t remember you.

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again.

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet.

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together.

Because we were everything to each other.

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving.

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile.

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns.

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom.

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed.

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk.

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did.

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you.

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run.

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different.

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?”

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back.

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything.

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page.

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still.

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly.

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail.

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face.

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart.

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord.

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James.

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

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incognit0slut · 2 months ago

Text

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust.

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words.

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

#lou writes #♾️#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut

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mayhaps-a-blog · 12 days ago

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There's something that bothers me a little about the complaints that the Preservation Alliance team aren't "professional" in the show compared to the books, and I think it's just... I have a different idea of what professional science looks like.

Even in the books, we don't actually see the team do that much science. They take some "samples", and SecUnit thinks of them as professionals, but other than SecUnit's internal monologue, they don't do that much more than in the show. They actually talk more about their work in the show than in the books!

I wonder if some of it is that the Preservation Alliance doesn't fit what people's idea of a competent scientist, particularly a competent scientist on TV, looks like. They're expecting the Big Bang Theory, or Gurathin bent over a computer terminal muttering "I'm in" as green code plays across his face, or Arada rattling off a bunch of jargon while dissecting an alien creature, or Bharadwaj IDing the alien remnant based on rocks or something. And that's not really how science actually... works.

Honestly, as a scientist, this is one of the more realistic depictions of actual science I could expect from a TV show, unless you wanted to watch several hours of people working quietly at their computers with expressions of various levels of exhaustion, annoyance, and stress on their faces, or sorting samples, or wandering around staring at the dirt, or sitting around debating the nature of "nature" and the ethical implications of terraforming or whatever (which would be cool, but also, not plot relevant, I'll just assume it's happening off-screen). I could sort half my coworkers by which character they're most like: the upbeat professor who's always trying to help (Bharadwaj), the hippy biologist who freaks out about disturbing 'natural processes' (Arada), the extra-friendly super outgoing possibly ADHD guy (Ratthi), and the overly cynical constantly complaining about capitalism and swearing over his grants analyst (Gurathin). I don't know who's got the open marriage because I prefer not to know about the sex lives of my coworkers, but I know some are in pretty messy relationships - that don't spill over into their work. Because they are professionals.

Basically, I look at this show and I see - my office. So when people say that they're not competent, that they're bumbling or not good scientists, honestly, it's kind of annoying. They're people, not just scientists, with stuff going on outside of their work, namely: someone's trying to kill them, something that absolutely none of them are prepared for. You don't learn how to handle that in grad school! Of course they're going to be messy and make mistakes - that's what people do. Scientists too.

#honestly it's hard to put science in a show #that's not about the science #like do you really want to hear bharadwaj talk about rocks #they're not plot relevant rocks #we know she's good because she got the combat override out #we know gurathin's good because he's monitoring stuff #we know arada's good because she immediately nerds out over the eggs #the number of my colleagues who would be right there with her #trying to decide whether to remove them or not #...i'd be there too XD #about all it missed is someone going #“can we film this?”#“someone take notes!”#but i'll just assume that's what the timeskip was for #anyway #not everyone needs to be superman to be 'competent'#the show's busy with other stuff #murderbot #murderbot show #murderbot tv #murderbot tv spoilers #murderbot diaries #scientists #my thoughts #murderbot tv meta #murderbot meta

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rmview · 6 months ago

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when you’re just too cute, ATEEZ.

featuring — ateez members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — headcanons of what the ateez boys are like when you’re just too darn cute for words!

contents — fluff, cute aggression, no warnings.

hong ♥ joong

⟶ tries to play it cool but ends up stuttering whenever you do something adorable. ⟶ covers his face with his hands to hide his smile and mutters, “stop, you’re too much.” ⟶ pulls out his phone to record you, pretending it’s for memories but secretly watches the videos later. ⟶ uses your cuteness as inspiration for lyrics, often scribbling down phrases like, “you make my heart skip a beat.” ⟶ calls you “too dangerous” jokingly because your cuteness distracts him from work. ⟶ tries to tease you to balance the power dynamic but ends up melting when you pout. ⟶ gifts you oversized clothes because he thinks you’d look even cuter in them. ⟶ regularly mutters under his breath, “how can someone be this cute?” ⟶ always gives in when you ask for something in a sweet voice or with puppy eyes. ⟶ quietly brags about you to the other members, but acts nonchalant when they tease him about it.

seong ♥ hwa

⟶ softly pinches your cheeks and coos, “how are you so cute?” ⟶ tries to remain composed but ends up giggling whenever you do something adorable. ⟶ constantly offers to carry things for you, saying, “cute people shouldn’t have to lift a finger.” ⟶ gently fixes your hair or clothing while smiling fondly at you. ⟶ buys you cute accessories or plushies that remind him of you. ⟶ holds your hand more often, just so he can admire how small and delicate it is in his. ⟶ whenever you’re being too cute, he jokingly says, “i can’t handle this,” and pretends to walk away. ⟶ talks about your cuteness as if it’s a world-changing phenomenon. ⟶ tries to teach you his “cool” expressions but melts when you fail adorably. ⟶ protectively hovers around you in public, thinking everyone else must also find you too cute.

yun ♥ ho

⟶ laughs so hard at your cuteness that he has to sit down to recover. ⟶ constantly pokes your cheeks or playfully taps your nose, saying, “boop!” ⟶ teases you about how adorable you are but gets flustered when you call him cute in return. ⟶ loves it when you match his playful energy, especially with silly poses or expressions. ⟶ challenges you to aegyo battles but declares you the winner every time. ⟶ takes a million photos of you doing cute things, claiming he needs “evidence.” ⟶ randomly hugs you tightly and says, “you’re too cute. i’m keeping you.” ⟶ tries to keep a straight face but bursts into laughter when you catch him staring. ⟶ complains jokingly, “you’re going to give me a heart attack with that cuteness.” ⟶ encourages your cute behavior, saying, “don’t ever change. it’s perfect.”

yeo ♥ sang

⟶ quietly stares at you with a small smile, occasionally muttering, “so cute.” ⟶ pretends to be unbothered but blushes furiously when you catch him staring. ⟶ gently pokes your cheeks and murmurs, “i don’t think this is fair.” ⟶ buys you matching items, like plushies or keychains, because he loves seeing you happy. ⟶ when you’re being especially cute, he hides his face in his hands, saying, “you’re killing me.” ⟶ tries to tease you, but his soft voice gives away how much he’s enjoying it. ⟶ loves watching you get excited over little things and secretly takes pictures of those moments. ⟶ often uses your cuteness as a reason to spoil you. “how could i ever say no to that face?” ⟶ gives you his hoodie, just to see how adorable you look drowning in it. ⟶ sometimes tells the members, “they’re too cute. what do i do?”

san ♥

⟶ dramatically clutches his chest and exclaims, “i’m not strong enough for this!” ⟶ squeezes you in tight hugs and says, “you’re like a teddy bear. so squishy!” ⟶ constantly tells you how adorable you are, no matter what you’re doing. ⟶ pinches your cheeks gently while giggling, “so cute, it hurts.” ⟶ acts jealous if you’re being cute with the other members, saying, “that’s my cuteness!” ⟶ shows you off to everyone, bragging about how “the cutest person in the world” is his. ⟶ whines playfully when you’re cute during serious moments. “how am I supposed to focus now?” ⟶ randomly bursts into song about how cute you are, complete with dramatic gestures. ⟶ insists on taking selfies with you every time you do something adorable. ⟶ calls you his “weakness” and dramatically pretends to faint when you do aegyo.

min ♥ gi

⟶ laughs and squeezes you to his chest uncontrollably whenever you do something cute, sometimes until tears form. ⟶ ruffles your hair constantly, calling you his “little fluff.” ⟶ teases you about how small you are compared to him but secretly adores it. ⟶ tries to mimic your cute expressions but ends up making you laugh instead. ⟶ randomly picks you up and spins you around, saying, “i can’t help it — you’re too cute!” ⟶ constantly compliments you, saying, “you’re like a real-life cartoon character.” ⟶ pretends your cuteness “annoys” him but can’t stop smiling. ⟶ buys you snacks or small gifts just to keep seeing your excited reactions. ⟶ gushes about you to his members, saying, “they’re so cute, i don’t know what to do!” ⟶ like yeosang, always gives in to your requests because, as he says, “how can i say no to that face?”

woo ♥ young

⟶ playfully scolds you for being “too cute,” saying, “this is illegal!” ⟶ mimics your cute behavior but makes it extra dramatic for laughs. ⟶ pretends to faint or clutch his heart every time you do something adorable. ⟶ constantly calls you pet names like “cutie pie” or “baby.” ⟶ shows off your cuteness to everyone, saying, “look at them! aren’t they the cutest?” ⟶ takes countless candid pictures of you and saves them in a special album. ⟶ whines jokingly when you’re cute, saying, “you’re going to ruin me!” ⟶ pulls you into playful dances just to see you smile and giggle. ⟶ teases you, “you’re lucky i love you, or i’d be jealous of how cute you are.” ⟶ admits in quieter moments, “i never thought someone could make me this soft.”

jong ♥ ho

⟶ tries to act unaffected but ends up smiling every time you’re cute. ⟶ gently pokes your cheek and says, “you’re not supposed to be this cute, you know.” ⟶ loves teasing you about your cuteness but secretly thinks it’s the best thing about you. ⟶ randomly sings for you when he’s overwhelmed by your adorableness. ⟶ pretends to be “tough,” saying, “cute things don’t work on me,” but folds instantly. ⟶ often shakes his head in disbelief and says, “what am i going to do with you?” ⟶ buys you little treats or gifts, claiming, “i couldn’t resist because it’s cute like you.” ⟶ protectively hovers around you, saying, “you’re too cute to handle the world alone.” ⟶ laughs when you try to be serious because look adorable while doing it. ⟶ although always admits, “i don’t think i’ll ever get used to how cute you are.”

notes: i’m actually against doing the same trope for multiple groups, but if this is something you guys like then i might do it for my other groups too!

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navydoves · 3 months ago

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Cat!Zayne and his strange affectionate habits

you love your kitty boyfriend, but he does some strange things!

✎ᝰ a/n: highly requested kitty zayne is now part 4 of this series. im gonna do a "habits while in heat" sister series so if you wanna be tagged just tell me. caleb is gonna be the last one to complete the 5.

bunny xavier mermaid rafayel dragon sylus

⭐︎

❥ he’s likes waiting. kitty zayne is very patient. he’ll never whine or complain (too much) about how long you’ve been gone or how far away mealtime is. he’ll definitely miss you, yes, but he likes focusing on the fact that you’re with him now.

he’ll sit by you on the bed and wait for you to wake up, but he’ll do this for hours if he needs to. if he wants to play or spend time with you but you’re busy, he’s perched right beside you quietly just very patiently waiting. you feel a little bad sometimes, but zayne reassures you by telling you that he doesn’t mind waiting. that all he cares about is getting you as his reward.

❥ he holds you with his tail. zaynes favorite form of physical affection is gripping onto you for dear life with his tail. it’s very casual too. when you’re doing dishes he’ll come up behind you and peck your scalp while his tail wraps around your waist. he’ll wrap his tail around your wrist in public to guide you and show affection.

he especially loves wrapping his tail around you when you’re asleep with him. with his strong arms under your armpits and around your chest and his tail either wrapped on your thigh or midsection, zayne refuses to go to sleep any other way. it’s a bit suffocating but zayne is naturally cool-skinned so it doesn’t make you overheat.

❥ he has sensory issues. because of this zayne is very particular about what he sleeps on, the texture of his food, how his ears/tail/nails are trimmed, etc. you’ll see him on the bathroom very meticulously snipping away at his hair to ensure it’s always clean and neat because it’ll bother him if it’s any other way. it’s also a plus to know he’s very clean.

he’s usually adverse to getting too close to someone because he also very easily overheats. which is why when he cuddles you, you’ll see him use his evol on his skin. similarly he prefers wearing very light clothing or being just straight up naked in bed because it helps him with temperature and also, he likes you feeling his bare body <3.

❥ he’s subtly territorial. he likes to remind you and everyone else around you that you’re his and vice versa. he’s not the type to whine or pout about it, but he’ll do things like stare people down or wrap his tail around your ankle if they’re being too friendly with you.

he also likes scenting you in every way possible. you think his head nudges and rubs are purely affectionate, but he also does them to get his natural kitty scent on you. its not a once or twice thing, its constantly throughout the day. especially when your scent is gone after a shower he’ll take like 10 minutes just to cover you in his smell again.

❥ he massages (kneads) you a lot! it’s well known that cats like kneading when they’re happy, but zayne likes to call it “massages”. this is because he only ever kneads you. his favourite places are your tummy and your thighs, but he’ll take anywhere.

very firmly but still gentle, he cups your soft flesh and squeezes or rubs with his large palms. even kitty zayne knows anatomy pretty well, so he’ll target the areas where the biggest muscle groups are or where you complain about being achy. it’s very soothing and somewhat erotic at times because his attention is fully on you. likes it’s a job to him play with your chub and skin.

❥ he’s at your beck and call. if zayne is gonna do something its gonna be listen to you. zayne is not submissive by nature, but he enjoys taking care of you so much that he’ll let you boss him around. he’s not a dog, but he’ll fetch if you ask.

if you ask him to cook he’ll cook for the next few days and always serve you first. if you ask him to use his car he’ll drive you himself and give extra money. if you ask him to jump he might just ask how high. it’s not overbearing by any means, it’s actually rather domestic and husband-like. he does things for you silently but his tail wags always indicate how happy he is doing it. ⭐︎ hey frens tags : @otomegamesforlife , @chersyluvs

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4ever-me · 20 days ago

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Have you changed your mind? - Park Humin (Baku)

Synopsis: At your new school you meet a boy who is your complete opposite, but opposites attract.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, Dom!Humin, squirting, oral (fem!receiving), bulge kink, big dick!Humin, fingering, size kink (light), overstimulation, violence(Reader gets punched), blood, harassment (not described in detail), Reader attacks some guys with a pen, Reader is a female version of Sieun, In this story there are girls in Eunjang, Grumpy X Sunshine, Reader is sensitive to loud noises (this was a little bit based on me).

does not follow the drama's storyline, so all the characters are of legal age. Minors DNI

Word Count: 3.4k (Sorry)

A/N: It was the first Weak Hero story I made, but it took me longer to post. I hope you like it ♡. English isn't my first language

You were still in your first week of classes at your new school: Eunjang High School. It didn't take you long to figure out the roles of each one, but you didn't fit into any of them. You weren't athletic, you didn't play any sports, you didn't fight, you weren't the most popular or the smartest.

You didn't usually start conversations, but if someone approached you and started talking, you would do it without any problem. However, no one had approached you yet, and maybe it was because of your somewhat grumpy appearance and not very friendly expression. But you were cool; still, you didn't have any friends or roles or positions in the school.

You enter the school and walk down the hallway with headphones on, without listening to any music. You walk slowly, starting to hear a commotion approaching. You don't care until you hear loud laughter and some people laughing a little more quietly. You get scared and lean against the wall, seeing a tall guy laughing and greeting people, followed by several others. Park Hu Min, or Baku, as everyone knew him, was the "leader" of the school. He had beaten up some guys from a gang that was chasing Eunjang. You didn't understand much about these things, so you didn't think much about it. But you knew one thing: Hu Min was loud, very loud.

He walks past you and your eyes meet. He winks in your direction and, when he's no longer looking, you grimace, frowning and finding what he did strange. After the crowd leaves, you go into your classroom and wait for class to start.

It’s lunchtime and you’re in the stands, watching a group of boys play basketball on the court. You eat a snack and drink some strawberry milk that a boy with glasses gave you as an apology after he bumped into you while running through the hallways. You watch Hu Min dribble the ball quickly and make a basket, yelling and hugging his best friend. You startle when he yells, even though he’s wearing headphones. The main reason you wear headphones all the time is to drown out loud noises, since you’re extremely sensitive to sounds.

You go back to eating, distracting yourself with the boys playing, and it doesn’t take long for you to get startled again by a boy sitting next to you. Park Hu Min. You look at him with raised eyebrows and a full mouth, staring at him like he’s the strangest being you’ve ever seen.

– Hello, pretty girl, – He smiles, leaning on his hands as he spreads his legs a little, looking a little sloppy.

– Hi – You say with your mouth full, trying to swallow the food.

– What is such a beautiful princess doing here alone?

– Eating – You answer dryly, wanting him to speak a little more quietly.

– You know what? – He points at you – I don’t think you’re a princess; you’re a thief, because you stole my heart. – He winks at you.

– What? – You didn’t understand if that was a compliment or an insult.

– What’s your name, cutie? – He approaches. But, thank heavens, before you can answer, a boy in blue shouts calling him; when Hu Min looks at the boy, you quickly leave in silence. And when you’re already far away, you hear him calling you, but you don’t look back and go straight to your class again.

It's been a few days since Humin last spoke to you, and you had avoided him like the plague during those days. If you saw or heard him in the hallways, you hid; you didn't go to the court anymore, because you knew he would be there with his friends. One day, you were in your class and saw him appearing at the door. You quickly crouched down, intending to hide. He shouts your name and you wonder how he found out your name and your class. No one answers, because probably no one remembered your name. When he leaves, you look up, seeing a boy looking at you with a bored face: Yeon Sieun. You realize that you used the table and his body to hide; embarrassed, you get up and go to your table. But, one day, Humin unfortunately found you. You were in the cafeteria, with headphones on, trying to drown out the noise. You are startled again by someone sitting next to you quickly, making you choke on your food and start coughing; Someone pats your back as you grab your juice to drink. Stopping coughing, you see Humin next to you.

– Are you trying to kill me? – You ask loudly, still out of breath.

– Me? Kill you? No, no, no… – He moves his hands quickly as he explains to you – I would never want to kill the love of my life.

You just look at him in disbelief, picking up your tray as you leave and muttering “weird” to yourself.

It had been a few days, and you kept avoiding him. In the last few days, you had noticed the boy, seeing that he and his friend Gotak had been getting closer to Sieun and Juntae. They were a bit of a strange foursome, and it was funny to see the four of them together.

You walked home; this time, you decided to take a different route, one that wasn't full of people. You put your hands in your sweatshirt pockets, feeling a folded piece of paper, and smiled thinking about what it was: a little letter you found under your desk, signed with the name "Baku". It was a romantic letter, written in a not-so-pretty but legible handwriting. You couldn't help but laugh when you finished reading it, after lunch; you put it in your sweatshirt pocket as soon as class started. You thought it was cute, since you always wanted to get a love letter, but you never imagined it would be from him.

You walk down an alley, seeing a message on the wall that says "No Fighting, Eunjang High School", signed with the boy's name, exactly like in your letter. You keep walking until you see three boys entering the alley. You continue, attentive and cautious, holding the pen tightly in your other pocket. You used to carry a pen in your pocket, since you never knew when you would need one.

They were from another school and, when they see your uniform, they start talking to you. But you ignore them; they step in front of you, blocking your way.

– Hey, kitty, where are you going? – Asks the middle boy, with his hands in his pants pockets.

– She's from Eunjang! – He states the obvious, giving you a mischievous look while his hands shake.

– Move out of the way. – You say in the strongest voice you can. They stop laughing and look at you.

– What did you say? – Asks one of them, angrily.

– Get out of my way, idiots! – You says more firmly.

The boy in the middle advances towards you and you quickly pull the pen out, stabbing him in the shoulder. He yells some curse and you pull the pen back, making him fall to the floor near the wall. The other two boys come towards you and you even manage to cut one of their arms; but the other holds you back and makes you drop the pen.

– You cut me, you crazy bitch!! – He yells in your face and you struggle trying to get out of his grip. But the boy who yelled at you punches you hard in the face and you fall dizzy when he lets go of you. It's the first time you've been punched and it hurts more than you imagined. You put your hand on your nose and feel something wet; when you put your hand in front of your eyes, everything is still blurry, but you can make out the red color of your blood.

You hear a commotion as if it were a fight, but you don't try to see what it is. When the noises stop and your vision starts to return, you see Humin approaching and crouching next to you.

– Are you okay?! – He asks worriedly, touching your face with both hands.

– They broke my nose… – You whimper.

– Let me see… – He lifts your face, analyzing it. – It’s not broken – He reassures.

– Come on, let’s go to my house to clean up this blood, – He carries you on his back.

– No… My house is close by – He agrees and guides you to his house.

You arrive at your house and go inside, heading towards your room. Humin leaves you on the bed and goes to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit. It's a good thing your parents weren't home; they would freak out if they saw you with a bloody nose. He sits down next to you and starts cleaning the blood.

– How do you know how to take care of wounds so well? – You ask curiously, since he seemed like a professional doing it.

– I get hurt a lot, you know? I play basketball and I also get into a lot of fights. – He explains. – Aren't your parents home?

– No, they went on a trip… – You say. – Will I get a bruise? – Your parents couldn't even dream of what happened.

– Probably not, but if I do, it won't be very obvious. – He sets the cotton aside. – There you go!– He puts the materials he used away and throws them in the trash. He comes back and sits down next to you.

– You look like a friend of mine; He loves to poke people with pens. – He says.

You laugh and look at him. – Yeon Sieun. – You already knew the story that was circulating at school about the boy. Humin mumbles an "exactly".

– Did you see my letter? – He comes closer with a smile on his face.

You mumble in agreement – I threw it away. – You lie in a simple tone, but try not to laugh when you see the boy's incredulous face. You pull the letter out of your coat pocket and throw it near him. He opens a smile from ear to ear.

– I knew you loved me too! – He claps his hands happily.

– Calm down, it's not like that! – You don't love him, but he's cute and funny too, and the letter made you look at him differently.

– I have time to change your mind. – He looks at you so intensely that you feel embarrassed. The atmosphere in the room gets more tense, but not in a bad way. He still analyzes you and looks deep into your eyes.

– Come here... – His tone of voice changes, becoming more serious as he calls you with his hand. You get up and sit next to him. But he rolls his eyes and spreads his legs wider as he places you on his lap.

– What are you doing? – You ask with wide eyes.

– Making you change your mind. – He places his hand on the back of your neck. – Do you want it?

You don't think twice before nodding and saying "Yes, I want it" in a whisper. He also doesn't think twice before closing the space between your lips.

The kiss is easy at first. You notice him testing the limits, moving his hand from the back of your neck to your waist and asking for his tongue to enter your mouth, which you immediately grant, feeling the muscle invade your mouth, making the kiss more intense. You don't even notice when his hands are on your ass, helping you to grind on his lap, and you also didn't notice when he yanked open your school shirt, making the buttons fly across the room, exposing your bra.

He lifts you off his lap, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed. You don't understand what he's going to do until he spreads your legs and kneels between them. The boy smiles and kisses your thighs, and you shiver. He brings his hands to your shirt and pulls the fabric from your shoulders, pulling your bra down, freeing your breasts. He looks at them and comes closer, kissing your collarbone, before lightly kissing each of your nipples and you arch towards him.

The boy returns to between your legs, calmly taking off your panties and hiding his head under the fabric of your skirt. You feel his hot breath against your wet intimacy, and without warning he separates the lips of your pussy and gives a big lick, making you let out a loud moan and close your eyes tightly and do the same with your legs, he spreads your legs with his big hands, pulling your thighs to his shoulders. Humin begins to suck your clitoris and lick it like a hungry man, you lean on the bed with your hands and moan loudly, the boy runs his tongue from your entrance to your clitoris, sucking hard, making you scream and arch. You feel the tears blurring your vision and bring your fist to your mouth, biting down to muffle your moans. He sticks his tongue in your entrance and you shudder, he does the same movement a few times before pulling away and sticking a finger in your pussy, moving right after, you cry and grip the hem of your skirt. He puts another finger in and you feel full, your pussy burns with the lack of habit. Seeing how much you are squeezing his fingers, Humin goes back to sucking your clit, making you relax your grip on his fingers, allowing him to move them. He starts slowly, still sucking you, speeding up each time you moan louder and soon he is already thrusting with his fingers quickly while sucking you and you can hear how wet you are, you feel hot and tight, already seeing stars. Your hands go to his hair when you start to feel something approaching, you scream and your arms almost give out when the knot in your stomach breaks, you feel a wave of pleasure, you shudder and writhe, but Humin doesn't stop, leaving you whimpering and crying with the sensitivity, and consequently he stops after a while, the boy looks at you and gives you a kiss on the lips.

Humin lays you down as he climbs on top of you, he kisses your cheek and forehead, you hug his shoulders and pull him into a slow kiss, you wrap your legs around his hips, he looks into your eyes.

– Are you sure about that? – He asks quietly.

– Yes, I am – When you say it, he goes straight to your breasts, taking your nipple in his mouth, sucking it, he caresses your thighs, lifting your skirt, leaving it on your hips, his mouth releases your nipples and he looks at your pussy.

– You are so beautiful...– He is already putting his hand on his belt, taking it off and pulling his pants and underwear together.

You widen your eyes when you look at his pelvis. He is big, very big. You get nervous, maybe he won't fit you.

He laughs at your reaction – Touch it. – He asks, but when he sees that you don't, he takes your hand and puts it around his shaft.

It is soft and you almost don't wrap the whole shaft with your hand. You start stroking, seeing a drop of pre-cum fall on your belly, he continues with a small smile looking at you. He takes your hand away and fits it between your legs, passing the tip through your pussy, he fits it at your entrance and starts to push slowly, but when he puts the whole tip in, you feel yourself being torn, you complain "stop, stop". He does, rubbing your clit very lightly and leans in to kiss you, but when he gets closer, his cock slides deeper into you, making you whimper.

It takes a while until he's completely inside you, but when his hips are pressed against yours, you feel full, about to cum, your eyes are wet and you're shaking, and Humin still plays with your breasts. He starts to thrust slowly, and you feel that familiar wave of pleasure returning.

– S-Stop! – You stutter – I'm going to cum! – He laughs mockingly, grabbing your legs and pressing them to you chest, giving a deeper angle to his cock. He pulls out of you and comes back in hard, you scream and he keeps doing it. With just five thrusts you cum on his cock, he continues, despite your sensitivity.

You hear Humin's deep moans increase in volume, he's almost screaming, and what you expected would bother you turns you on even more.

– You're so tight! – He moans, pressing his weight into your legs, speeding up the pace even more.

You feel small beneath him and this makes you extremely sensitive, with these thoughts you feel your climax approaching and you don't know if you can handle a third orgasm, but at this moment it's the only thing you want.

He pulls away abruptly before you can cum and he lies down on the bed pulling you onto his lap, he grabs your hips, placing you on top of his cock and slamming you hard into his pelvis, you open your mouth in a silent scream at the sudden invasion and more tears fall from your eyes, he leaves his hands on you as support. You lean on his strong chest and start moving up and down on his cock with his help. You lower your gaze, directing it to where you are connected, and on your belly, you see a bulge that appears and disappears as Humin's cock enters and leaves your pussy, you moan broken and low seeing this, Humin follows your gaze and realizes what you saw and smiles satisfied seeing his cock marking your belly.

– Look, do you see how deep I'm in you? – He takes your hand and places it on your belly, and you feel the volume. He puts pressure on your hand making your hand squeeze your belly making the angle change and you feel fuller.

– Do you like this? – He moans loudly and you head shakes in agreement desperately.

He holds you still on his lap and begins to lift his pelvis towards you violently, he leaves one hand still holding yours against the bulge in your belly and with the other he grabs your hips moving you according to his movements.

You are exhausted, with your eyes rolled back and moaning without caring who can hear as he destroys your pussy with desire. The climax approaches again, but this time much stronger, much more intense, much faster, and you scream along with him and with the euphoria of the orgasm, you don't even feel that you have wet the boy's entire abdomen and the bed with your squirt, you fall on his chest weak and with your vision darkened, still feeling the violent thrusts pressing on your cervix and the jets of sperm inside your pussy.

You take a while to recover, and when your consciousness returns completely, you feel the boy's hands caressing your hair, and a few light kisses on your forehead. You snuggle closer to his chest, wiping your tears with your hand, feeling a slight pain in your nose.

You lift your head, seeing the boy's gaze on you and that characteristic smile. You approach and give the boy a long kiss on the lips. He smiles between the kiss and when you pull away, he asks:

– Did I make you change your mind?

#x reader #weak hero class two #weak hero smut #weak hero x reader #baku x reader #baku smut #park humin x reader #humin smut

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vunblr · 2 months ago

Text

The Trouble With Saturdays -Puesto-

Pairing: Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Female Reader

Tags: Fluff. Slight sprinkle of angst if you squint. Pinning.

Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.

Word Count: About 7.6k.

They didn’t recruit her for the violence.

The Thunderbolts had enough of that. More than enough, actually. Three supersoldiers, a walking quantum anomaly, a man with literal god-tier potential buried beneath trauma, and Yelena, who didn’t need powers to make anyone cry.

No, she was brought in to patch what was left behind.

Civilians mostly. Collateral damage.

The ones caught in the debris cloud of a botched extraction, or buried under the wrong side of a knocked-over building. She’d move between the screams and the smoke, crouch in the rubble with her hands pressed to scorched skin or crushed lungs, and pull people back. Not metaphorically. Literally.

She didn’t stop death, but she slowed it. Called it off. Reversed it in some cases. No one liked to use the word resurrect, not even her, but she knew what it looked like when a rib cage stopped collapsing under its own weight, when air found its way back into lungs that had already forgotten how to breathe.

It didn’t take long for the team to realize she wasn’t there for them.

Mostly.

The first time Bucky came to her, it wasn’t after a mission.

It was late, the tower was in that in-between time when most of the team had gone to bed or passed out somewhere inconvenient. The common room was only lit by the flat screen, where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth danced around each other in the 1995 Pride and Prejudice adaptation. She had a blanket over her knees and a mug in her hands. The night was ordinary. Unremarkable.

Then she felt him.

She didn’t startle, just looked up to find him standing by the edge of the couch. His eyes weren’t on her, but on the TV, and his arms were folded too tightly across his chest.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

A pause. Then, quietly. “Could I… borrow your time?”

She tilted her head, studying him. He wasn’t bruised. No dried blood, no marred tac suit. But his posture was wrong. His left shoulder sat higher than the right, tensed and pulling across his collarbone.

“Is your back?” she asked softly, setting down her mug.

He gave the barest nod. “Shoulder and neck are acting up. Pulls when I use the arm too much. Been pushing it. And that strains my back, too.”

“Sit.”

He obeyed without question, sitting on the rug in front of the couch with a faint wince. She shifted to sit behind him, spreading her legs on each side of his shoulders.

When she laid her hands over the thick knot of muscle at his trapezius, he didn’t flinch but he tensed, just slightly. Then he exhaled. The heat under her palms was sharp and wrong, deep where metal met skin. She let the current of healing rise gently from her hands, coaxing away the ache like drawing poison from a wound. It wasn’t dramatic -there was no holy glow, no divine wind- just a flush of cool relief that sank slowly into his muscles. His eyes closed as he relaxed.

“Sorry to bug you so late,” he murmured after a while.

“You’re not.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d wait it out, but…” He trailed off, shrugged with his good shoulder. “Saw the glow of the tv. Damn, this helps.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m glad.”

He was quiet for a while. Let her work, let himself rest a little. Then, after a long pause-

“You like this series? I think there is a more recent movie.”

“I love it,” she said. “It’s my comfort watch, wouldn��t trade it for any other version.”

He hummed.

She smiled, pressing a little deeper into the heat at his shoulder. He made a sound then -not a groan, not quite- but something close. She felt him soften beneath her palms.

When she finished, he didn’t move right away. Just sat there, with his head bowed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

He stood up a moment later, with his shoulder visibly lower, freer, and his arm hanging loose again at his side. He looked at her then and nodded, padding back to his room.

----

She got along with all of them eventually. Yelena dragged her into a chaotic kind of sisterhood almost immediately; Alexei insisted on teaching her Russian phrases she didn’t ask for; Bob started helping her when she baked and apologized whenever he accidentally thew something panicked with the blender’s noise; Ava didn’t speak much, but once left a book outside her door with the title underlined in black. John well… he was an asshole, but a tolerable one.

But with Bucky… it was different. There was something in him that calmed her when he was near. She couldn’t tell. He kept a certain distance, like it were policy. She never took it personally. Still, there were moments.

Moments when he stood too close to her while scanning for exits, like he’d throw her over his shoulder if a ceiling caved in.

Moments like the night he sat on the other end of the couch, halfway through Pride and Prejudice, and watched in silence, asking questions with real interest, even when John heckled him for it, something about finally a period older than him.

Like the time he set aside a tupperware for her when she got back late, grunting something about how the “jackals already circled the kitchen.”

Like how he always lurked just close enough when she healed others, as if assessing what it might cost her.

That’s why she asked him.

One night, after a debrief, while everyone else argued over takeout orders and Bob tried to fix the busted kitchen fan by staring at it too hard, she leaned in at the counter beside Bucky and- “Teach me how to shoot.”

“No.” He didn’t even look up.

She raised a brow. “You don’t even want to know why?”

“Don’t care.”

“Bucky-”

“You already help people,” he said, clenching his fingers around the cheap ceramic mug with Yelena’s printed face. “You do enough. Let us manage the other part of the job.”

She didn’t argue. Not out loud. Just stood there, with heat crawling up her neck, unsure if it was from frustration or the way he said it.

----

The next morning, she didn’t bring it up again.

Bucky had said no, flat and final, with a tone like he was trying to crush the idea before it had a chance to grow legs. She wasn’t one to beg, so she thought of an alternative and left him alone.

So there she was, helping Yelena to repot the herbs Alexei kept murdering by accident in the kitchen.

Feet away, Bucky and Alexei sat in the common area. A soccer match was running on the TV. Bucky leaned back, with socked feet up on the coffee table, silent as ever. Alexei was cracking sunflower seeds and muttering something in a mix of Russian and fatherly disappointment.

Then came the voice.

“So! Guess who I’m gonna teach shooting after lunch?” John swaggered over, like he’d invented testosterone. “As a hint,” he added, wagging a finger, “it’s not the guinea pig.”

Bucky’s face soured instantly. His jaw ticked. “The hell does that mean?”

Alexei perked up. “Bob? Oho! I knew the kid would want to jump into heroic deeds instead of making waffles!”

“Nope.” John popped the p with relish. “Our group’s walking panacea.”

Alexei blinked. “Her? Da. Makes sense. She’s not bad with her hands. Has calm eyes, like assassin nun. I approve.”

John grinned like he’d just won a bet at someone else’s expense.

“I’m the only one here who thinks it’s a bad idea?” Bucky asked, frowning. “She doesn’t need to learn that,” he muttered.

“Uh, yeah, she does?” John scoffed, raising his brows like it hurt to explain. “Let’s face it, she’s super cool with the healing mumbo jumbo, but couldn’t reduce-”

“That’s not her role.” Bucky’s voice cut him promptly.

He stood slowly in all his height, his shadow stretching over the rug. “She doesn’t go on heavy missions. She takes care of us. She assists when we’re with civilians. That’s what she does.”

“And what happens,” Walker shot back, closing the gape, “when none of us are there to save her ass, huh? What happens the day it costs her life, or fucks up a mission because we’re too busy babysitting her?”

The room went still. Even the TV dulled down, like it knew something ugly was about to happen.

Bucky’s fists closed. “You’re not teaching her.”

John took a step forward. “Oh yeah? And what- what assembly named you the fucking leader, Bucky?”

No answer.

“I don’t take orders from you. She asked me. She’s a grown-ass woman who wants to learn, so, fuck off.”

Bucky moved.

Quick. Sharp. Enough menace in that single step that John instinctively squared his shoulders. But before anything snapped, Alexei clomped forward, stuffing himself between them in his garish yellow AvengerZ tracksuit like a human foam wall.

“Look, mister soldier,” he sighed, hands up like he was negotiating hostage terms. “He has a point, da? And she did ask. Haven’t you heard about women’s rights and determination?” He wagged a seed-covered finger. “Maybe in your time -and I’m not saying it was wrong- women belong in the kitchen, but-”

Bucky stopped listening.

She’d asked John.

She wanted this.

And clearly, she wasn’t going to let him stop her.

He shut his eyes. Counted to three. Didn’t make it to two.

“She’s not learning from you,” he told Walker, calmly. “If someone’s teaching her, it’s gonna be me.”

“Oh yeah?” John tilted his head, smiling all wolfish teeth. “And why’s that?”

Bucky snapped the case on the remote shut.

“Because I’m the fucking Winter Soldier.”

----

The tracksuit didn’t fit.

Or more specifically, the zipper refused to participate in any fantasy where it might slide up over her chest without protest. She wrestled with it anyway, with stubborn fingers pulling and tugging, trying to wedge the metal teeth up over her sports bra and the too-tight cotton clinging to her skin.

Her breathing had picked up. The top gaped open, exposing the rise of cleavage as she tried to smoosh herself flat enough to force the zipper into cooperation.

A quiet mutter escaped her lips. “Goddamn tits…”

Across the room, the door opened.

Bucky froze just inside the threshold.

There was a second -a full second- where all conscious thought left his brain.

He'd been expecting a shooting lesson.

What he got instead was the kind of image that used to be currency in the field. Back in the war, a photograph like that -wide hips, full breasts straining against cheap blue polyester- could’ve bought a man a whole week of smokes. Maybe two, if she smiled.

She wasn’t smiling now.

She was squishing herself with both arms, muttering curses, oblivious to his presence. He couldn’t move. His brain short-circuited somewhere between don’t stare and holy shit.

She heard the footsteps, finally.

Didn’t look up.

She thought it was John. For some reason she couldn’t picture, he told her they were going to start with rifles.

“Hey there, teach,” she called, still focused on the zipper. “Ready to show me your long gun?”

Silence.

It hit like a brick.

She looked up slowly, dragging her eyes from boots to black pants to the unmistakable slope of a broad chest under a grey Henley. Metal arm. Stubbled jaw. And that face. Oh god. That face.

Not stupid John.

“Bucky,” she breathed. The horror crept up her neck in a heatwave.

He blinked.

She scrambled to yank the zipper up in panic, gave up when it snagged under her chest, then crossed her arms to hide the worst of it, which only shoved her tits higher and made everything worse.

“I- uh- ” she stammered, backing toward the bench like she might vanish into the wall if she just concentrated hard enough.

Bucky’s voice came late. Gravel rough. “You’re not learning from Walker.”

She blinked.

“What?”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. His jaw clenched once. “I’m teaching you.”

Silence again.

She wanted to die.

He hadn’t even blinked at her joke. No snort. No teasing comeback. Just that serious scowl and the ghost of something unreadable behind his eyes.

“I thought you said-” she started, still not daring to lower her arms.

“I changed my mind.”

Another beat.

Then, under his breath, almost too low to catch: “He’s not careful enough with you.”

Her heart kicked.

He didn’t look away. Just moved to the weapon rack methodically, like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t walked in on a living pin-up girl wrestling her zipper, talking about his long gun.

But his ears were red.

She exhaled through her nose and quietly regretted waking up at all that morning.

----

He handed her the rifle like it was made of glass.

“Start with the stance,” he instructed.

She nodded, lifting the long weapon with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly tilted forward trying to keep it level. Her elbows wobbled. Feet shuffled on the mat. Then, squinting down the barrel, she bent her knees and leaned forward the way she’d seen in action movies.

Bucky made a noise.

Not a word.

Not a breath.

A noise.

His lips pressed into a line. He looked like someone who’d just bitten into a lemon and was trying to hide it. She was too focused to notice. Which was good. Because from behind, the way she bent into the stance, with her hips back, thick thighs under the stretch of her track pants, spine arched just enough to lift her ass like an offering, was testing his military-grade self-control.

He cleared his throat and walked forward like he wasn’t dying inside.

“Okay- no. You’re compensating too much.”

“What?”

“You’re sticking your ass out,” he said flatly.

She looked at him, half mortified, half amused. “Oh, so that’s your professional assessment, Sergeant Barnes?”

His ears turned red. “I’m just correcting your form.”

“Right.”

“Look,” he muttered, stepping behind her. “Feet shoulder-width. Hips square. Don’t tilt forward like that unless you wanna throw your back out.”

She smirked but followed directions. He reached out, -hesitated- then touched her shoulders very lightly to guide them back. She tensed under his hands. Not from discomfort, but something else. Awareness. Warm and prickly.

“Better,” he said, stepping to her side. His metal hand touched her wrist now. “Elbow up. Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the thing.”

“I didn’t know rifles were so delicate,” she murmured, still hyper-aware of him in her personal space.

He didn’t reply.

Because the sight of her shoulders pulled back, chest forward, arms braced in that stance, it was just too much.

In his head, he was screaming.

Professional. Stay professional. She’s trusting you. She’s trying. You’re a trainer. You’re a sandbag with instructions. Do not look down. Do not-

He looked down.

Her chest, barely contained by the track jacket, rose with each breath. A single drop of sweat slid down between her breasts and disappeared under the zipper that still refused to close fully.

He stepped back.

Farther than necessary.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll get the smaller rifle. That one’s… too much.”

He turned on his heel and walked off, jaw clenched, neck red, pretending he wasn’t about to re-evaluate every decision that led him to this exact moment.

They trained three times a week after that.

She was better than he expected, quick to learn, surprisingly capable once she stopped overthinking every movement. He still didn’t like it. Hated it, actually. But the touch-starved part of him -the one that had been pining for months- thrived under the excuse of proximity. Guiding her hand to the trigger. Adjusting her shoulders. Watching the way her eyes narrowed when she focused, the way she grinned when she nailed a shot. He got to stand close. He got to see her.

And she let him.

It was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Like every other Saturday, he was chewing through a leg of an aggressively over-roasted chicken, sitting sideways on the kitchen bench with his legs stretched out and one boot hooked on the rung. Bob was mid-scrubbing dishes, with his sleeves rolled up and humming some offbeat tune under his breath.

Then came the death sentence.

“You know, it’s cool Yelena’s taking Y/n out tonight,” Bob said casually, flicking soap off his fingers. “It’s good they get to chill. She deserves it.”

Bucky didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink.

Just kept chewing.

Harder.

The meat turned to ash in his mouth.

Bob, kept going, oblivious. “I think they’re hitting that new place near the pier. The one with the neon sign that looks like a melting martini. Or a fish. Dunno.”

Across the room, something cracked.

The chicken bone, under Bucky’s grip.

“Right,” he said, voice like gravel. “Great.”

John didn’t miss a thing. He leaned back in his chair, with his arms crossed, smirking like a wolf catching scent of blood. “What? Don’t like your girlfriend going out?”

Alexei perked up like a dog hearing a squirrel. “Oh? You sly fox! Had it all covered up! So it wasn’t shooting lessons, eh?” He gave Bucky’s shoulder a hearty slap. “Were other kind of action? Da? Oh, Mister Soldier, you are so cool.”

Bucky threw him a sideways glare sharp enough to skin bark.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly. “And I don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”

Nonchalance didn’t suit him, his jaw was too tight, his voice too frayed. The tension sat around him like a storm cloud in a leather jacket.

John made a wheezing sound and shook his head. “God, you are so emotionally constipated, Bucky. One day you’re gonna blow up and take half the damn tower with you.”

Alexei blinked. “Ima… I am missing something in translation. Constipation and feelings do not go well in same sentence.”

Bucky’s eye twitched. His glare swept across both of them like a loaded weapon.

“I’m going out.”

No further explanation.

He dropped the bone-scarred plate in the sink with a loud clang and left the kitchen without a backward glance.

----

The kitchen fell silent.

“God, it’s painful seeing him like this,” John muttered, rubbing his face. “It’s not even fun anymore.”

“Da. I say, what if we do our Men’s Night here!” Alexei declared, triumphant like he’d cracked the formula for world peace.

“What?” John wrinkled his nose.

“We drink! We bond! We order from that new shawarma place with the 2-for-1 coupons I got as a special gift!”

“They give those to everyone. They hand them out on the street.” Walker muttered.

“They recognized me,” Alexei said, offended.

John gave him a look. “I’m not wasting my Saturday with you losers. Bucky brooding in a corner, Bob vacuuming in sweatpants, and you doing… whatever it is you do on Weekends.”

Alexei stared at him, unimpressed. “Oh, because you sure have a lot going on tonight, American Bachelor. Come on. It will be fun. Do it for Mister Soldier!”

“He doesn’t even like me.”

“Da. But he would. After tonight, eh? Alcohol and food strengthen friendship!”

“You do know we’re supersoldiers, right? We can’t get drunk. Or high, for that matter.”

“Uh-” Bob’s voice floated in meekly from the sink, one squeaky-clean dish still clutched in his hand. “I’m not proud of this, but… I could help you with that.”

Both heads turned toward him.

“See, Ava found… well, a lot of Asgardian ale once. Inside a wall. Don’t ask. She never told anyone.”

Alexei blinked. “Inside a wall?”

“I saw her disappear into the surface and come back with a bottle,” Bob shrugged. “That’s how I know.”

John frowned. “What wall?”

Bob pointed.

Without another word, John walked over and punched straight through it.

Plaster rained down, dust curled into the air, and nestled like a hidden altar, six bottles gleamed behind cracked drywall.

Alexei gasped like he’d just witnessed a birth. “I told you! Men’s Night! It is fate!”

John coughed through the dust. “This is stupid.”

Bob set the dish down. “We’re doing it?”

“We’re doing it,” Alexei grinned. “For Mister Soldier.”

“What if he doesn’t drink?” John asked after a beat, crossing his arms as the dust started to settle.

“Oh, he will,” Alexei declared, solemn and sure. “He is so manly. So cool. Like brooding tiger in small kitchen-”

“God, stop worshipping that asshole,” John groaned. “He’s not in the mood. Might not even show up.”

“Well…”

Two pairs of eyes slowly turned toward Bob.

“What if,” Bob began, twisting his hands, “we give him special muffins?”

“Da!” Alexei clapped. “With sprinkles and that Nutella thing stuffing! You’re such a good boy.”

“No- I… I meant a muffin that could, uh… make him a little merrier,” Bob clarified, dropping his gaze.

“Well Nutella muffins do that,” Alexei reasoned, proud of himself.

John ran a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s talking about getting Bucky high. Drugged. Doped.”

There was a pause.

John straightened his back with a pleased smile.

“And I’m so in.”

It was late afternoon when Alexei thudded into the common room, with blind optimism. “Bucky! Tonight we bond. Men’s night. Like real men. With food. And feelings.”

Bucky didn’t even look up from where he sat, sharpening a knife that didn’t really need it. “No.”

Before Alexei could plead, Bob shuffled in, all wide eyes, hands tucked behind his back like he’d rehearsed this exact moment in the mirror. “It’d be nice to chill a little,” he said softly. “Just… hang out. Please?”

Bucky looked up, met the kicked-puppy eyes, and his jaw worked like he was chewing gravel. “I’ll… think about it,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m tired.”

“You told me you don’t get tired,” Alexei pointed out smugly.

Bucky muttered without meeting his eye, “Emotionally tired.”

Silence stretched uncomfortably.

Then Bob, eyes lighting up with now or never, reached behind his back and presented something small and innocent, cupped in his palms. “At least take one of these. Y/n made them earlier. John and Alexei almost emptied the tin.”

He didn’t even get through the sentence before Bucky’s hand reached out and snatched the muffin like it might vanish if he waited.

“She made them?” he repeated, already halfway through the wrapper.

He bit in fast, like someone might try to steal it back. The sponge was warm, soft, sugary- but with something odd underneath. Something behind the sweetness, bitter at the roof of his mouth.

He frowned.

But then he glanced at the supposedly empty tin on the table and got distracted, scowling harder. “Should’ve saved me more,” he muttered, licking a crumb off his thumb.

Bob and Alexei shared a look.

Showtime.

----

It was already dark when she stepped out of her room, one heel on, one still clutched in her hand, the dress tugged halfway down her thighs as she hobbled to the hallway mirror. Short black dress, modest enough by most standards, but the V neckline dipped just enough to remind her why she always paired it with the golden earrings, something to balance the look. She only found one.

“Yelena!” she called out flatly. She didn’t even have to elaborate.

“Maaaybe I borrowed them?” the younger woman called back from her own room, with no hint of guilt.

“Yelena.” She sighed.

“And maaaybe I lost one in the kitchen or somewhere near the couch while dancing. But in my defense, I looked very good with them.”

With another sigh, she slipped on her second heel and made her way toward the common room to check. If she were lucky, Bob might have found it while doing his usual nighttime sweep of crumbs and inexplicably misplaced socks.

But as she turned the corner, '90s music hit her ears, loud, obnoxious, unapologetically nostalgic. High laughter. Male voices, overlapping and hollering. Glasses clinking. A plastic thunk against a tabletop.

She blinked.

What the hell-

The sight made her stop short.

Bucky, John, Alexei, and Bob sat huddled around the coffee table, with a half-collapsed Risk board between beer bottles and empty snack bowls. Bob looked like a benign god of war, deploying his little plastic soldiers across Asia while sipping from a glass of water. John was mid-yell, stabbing a finger at the board. Alexei was roaring with laughter, slapping his thigh so hard the couch creaked.

But it was Bucky who made her forget why she’d come.

He was laughing.

Not a scoff, not a breathy exhale of amusement, but laughing. Open-mouthed, with his body leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t carried the world on his shoulders for years. He made a circle with one hand and penetrated it with his index finger toward John in an unmistakably rude gesture, still chuckling as he stole a red soldier from the board and hid it behind his ale bottle.

She almost tripped.

What the hell were they drinking?

The three supersoldiers were clearly tipsy. No other word for it. Pink-cheeked, all glassy-eyed, loose-limbed. Whatever they’d found had bypassed their enhanced metabolism. She would bet Bob had something to do with it, but couldn’t prove it. But there he was, the only one completely sober, amused, controlling half the world map without a single drink. Still, it was a responsible thing to do, since no one knew what could make the void peek through some crack in his mind.

But it wasn’t Bob’s fault she couldn’t take her eyes off Bucky.

God. He looked… relaxed. Warm. Happy in a way she hadn’t seen before. It panged her chest in the worst -best- way.

Don’t look at him. You're here for an earring. She focused on Bob. Nice, predictable, unenhanced Bob.

Bucky’s eyes tracked her every move. Every sway of her hips. Every sparkle of skin not covered by the dress. His mouth parted slightly. His back pressed against the back of the couch as if he were bracing himself for a blow.

She stopped at Bob’s side and leaned slightly over the table. “Hey,” she said softly, “you haven’t seen one of my earrings around here, have you? Yelena borrowed them and thinks she left one in the kitchen or something.”

Bob blinked, like waking from a gentle trance. “Uhh- n-no. But I’ll help you look. Maybe it rolled under something?”

John caught Bucky’s expression and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Dude, that's so uncool."

“What?” Bucky grunted, eyes not moving from her.

“Have some dignity, man. You're practically drooling.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Just muttered, “I think it’s time to tell that cookie to take a powder and go cut some rugs.”

John stared at him like he’d finally lost it. “I don’t understand half a word you say. What powder? What rugs?”

Alexei slammed his pint down. “I think Mr. Soldier wants to invite her to dance.”

“No. No-no-no.” John’s voice lowered to a sharp hiss as he leaned toward Alexei. “As much as I love to see him crash and burn, I’m not letting him throw himself into the fire before he’ve even boarded the damn boat.”

He turned back to Bucky. “Maybe it’s not the best time, Buck. She’s going out. This is men’s night. You gonna ditch us?”

There was almost hurt there, buried deep under John's usual smugness, but there. Maybe seeing Bucky relaxed, laughing, not shadowed by silence or some kind of grief, had touched something vulnerable in him.

Bucky, still staring across the room, shrugged one shoulder lazily. “Well, yeah. Look at 'er. If someone’s gonna swag with her, it’s gonna be me.”

John reeled back. “What is this? His ‘40s casanova era? And what- don’t say swag. It sounds dirty. And old.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already shifting, gripping the armrest with one hand, the other adjusting the hem of his shirt. Calculating.

John reached out and gripped his wrist. “Don’t.”

“What?” Bucky finally turned to look at him. “You wanna make love to her too?”

John made a strangled sound. “Okay. Ew. Don’t say it like that. I’m not trying to fuck her, I just-”

“I think Mr. Soldier means… if you are interested in her, or like her. In that manly, old-timey way of speaking,” Alexei chimed in, grinning like a gossiping aunt.

Bucky raised a brow, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business either way.”

And with that, he rose to his full height, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and turned toward her, toward the woman in black, who had just straightened, with her earrings forgotten, because now he was coming.

----

She looked at him like a doe caught in the road, because one thing was the usual Bucky: Serious, broody, dry, grumpy. But this?

This was something else.

This was Bucky Barnes with his hair tousled back in a calculated sweep, like he’d done it a thousand times in mirrors with lipstick on his collar. Like he knew he looked good, knew it with the finger-snap confidence of a man who used to leave dances with someone on his arm every single time.

And he was walking toward her like he owned every inch of the floor he stepped on. Chin up, loose shoulders. A sexy smirk blooming slowly across his face.

“The fellas tell me you’re steppin’ out with Yelena tonight?” he asked, his voice was velvet and low, laced in something that sounded far too close to a purr.

Her lips parted. Her throat forgot how to work.

Behind him, John made a dramatic groan and slapped a hand over his own eyes.

“Uh- yeah,” she managed, dragging her eyes away from the collarbone peeking out of Bucky’s shirt. “She’s taking me to some club I’ve never heard of. Girls’ night. More or less what you’ve got going here, but…”

“But more high-tone?” he cut in, lifting one brow like he already knew the answer.

“A little,” she conceded, suddenly very aware of her bare shoulders and the heat of his gaze. He was looking at her like a man who knew all her tells.

He tipped his head, just slightly. “Well, sweetheart, you show up in a swell little number like that, and those clubs’ll be thick with chiselers tryin’ to make time.”

She blinked. “With what?”

“Chiselers,” he repeated, solemn as a preacher. “Sharp-dressed fellas with quick grins and slick intentions.”

Behind him, John groaned again. “Oh my god, he’s time-traveling. Somebody stop him.”

But Bucky wasn’t done. His voice dropped lower, the charm coming out his lips like it had never left. “Lucky for you, I’m around to keep those lounge lizards in line.”

She blinked. “So… you wanna come with us?” she asked, trying to keep her tone dry, unaffected, casual, though her voice pitched up at the end like it didn’t get the memo.

“More like with you, but yes,” Bucky said, straight-faced and warm-eyed, like he hadn’t just rearranged the atmosphere around them.

A flash of heat bloomed up her face. She opened her mouth, fumbled. “Uh- but Yelena…”

Bucky turned, scanning the room like a man surveying a poker table before placing a bet. His gaze landed on Bob, sitting primly with his water glass, a solitary yellow pawn in hand.

“Maybe…” Bucky drawled, one hand finding his hip, the other gesturing vaguely toward Bob without breaking eye contact, “Bob can come too. And we four can go have a little fun. What d’you say?”

Her stomach dipped. What.

This was definitely not the quiet man with a staring problem she secretly admired.

Asking her out? Softly trying to ditch Yelena? Proposing some sort of double date?

Her eyes dropped instinctively to his mouth, then to the Risk party behind him, as if the answer were hidden somewhere between the scattered pieces and unlabelled bottles.

He was too close. That was the problem. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. His pupils were wide, swallowing up the blue like he'd stepped out of a memory and into a daze. He looked like he wanted to crawl under her dress and make himself useful there.

She narrowed her eyes, dropping her voice. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” said everyone, far too quickly.

Alexei raised his glass like a shield. “Mr. Soldier here only wants to bond a little, eh? Have a nice ni-”

“Bucky, honey,” she said, turning back to him, her voice as gentle as her hand reaching up to fix the front of his shirt, “what did you drink? What did you take?”

“Maybe I wanna take you-,” he started, voice syrup-slow.

She pressed a finger to his lips before the rest of that sentence escaped his mouth. He went quiet instantly, grinning behind her touch like a smug idiot. His eyelashes fluttered. He looked drunk on her.

Fuck.

She spun toward the other two supersoldiers, stalked over, her heels clicking sharply across the floor. She leaned in close enough for Alexei’s eyes to widen and John to shift in his seat.

“Tell me what the hell is going on,” she whispered-hissed. “And don’t give me that ‘Asgardian ale’ crap.”

They both looked, for once, appropriately ashamed.

“Well…” Alexei rubbed the back of his neck.

John offered a shrug that could be described as some level of guilt. “Maybe… we kind of doped him?”

Her jaw dropped. “You what?!”

“Just to loosen him up!” John hissed. “Like- get him to chill a little! Maybe the combination of getting him high and drunk was a bit much, but hey- he’s smiling!”

“Oh my god,” she hissed, looking back at Bucky.

Who, by the way, was currently spinning her missing earring between his fingers like a prize he’d just won in a festival just for her, and winked when she caught him.

He Winked.

She exhaled, slowly, willing down the disappointment. Right. Of course.

He was intoxicated. That was all this was.

That’s why he’d cornered her with those warm, ruined eyes and soft, rakish confidence. It made sense now, so painfully obvious. It could’ve been her, Ava, Yelena, or a delivery person with the wrong timing. A warm body and a curious face.

She crossed the floor toward him, gently curling her hand around his wrist.

“Let’s get you some air,” she said quietly, tugging him away, ignoring how he let her lead him with that boyish smirk still playing at his lips.

She tossed a glare sharp enough to gut a man over her shoulder. The three still seated at the table winced like kids caught stealing candy.

Out on the balcony, the air was cool. Bucky leaned against the sliding glass door, running his hands through his hair, with a lazy grin stretching his mouth.

“Well, I wanted to dance,” he murmured, tilting his head toward her with a little shrug, “but I ain’t complainin’, dollface.”

“Bucky.” She kept her voice even.

“Hm?” he blinked slowly, eyes glossy and confident.

“You’re high.”

He scrunched his nose. “No, I’m not.”

“And drunk,” she added.

“Doll, you know I can’t.” His smile was crooked, defiant and soft.

“But you are,” she insisted. “So I’m going to sit with you a little, then see if I can purge it from your system. Yeah?”

“I’m not feelin’ bad.” He tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded as he looked at the sky. “In fact, I don’t remember feelin’ this good in decades.”

Her chest clenched.

That wasn’t fair. That made it worse. What was it to her if he wasn’t hurting anyone else? If he wasn’t hurting himself?

But he was. He was hurting someone. Her.

This -whatever he was doing- acting like he wanted something more with her, only now, only tonight, only when he was under some substance’s spell.

“Alright then,” she said carefully. “If you feel good… just stay with the guys, hm? I’ll go out with Yelena. Tomorrow you can tell me who won at Risk.”

He shifted visibly. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t yet find the words. His brows drew together.

“If you don’t wanna go out,” he said slowly, “how ’bout a dance here?” His voice was soft again, tentative, hopeful. “Don’t make me beg, doll.”

Her heart stuttered.

“How about another day?” she said gently, stepping back just enough to put some air between them. “Trust me. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“For not acceptin’ a dance?” he asked. “You think I’m makin’ a fool outta myself?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just-” she began.

“Today’s the sixth of July,” he interrupted her. His tone shifted, serious, deliberate. “This mornin’ Ava ate the last of Walker’s sugar cereal and he pissed in her apple juice's bottle outta spite. We trained after breakfast. I taught you how to shoot a movin’ target with a Beretta, and you gave me three cherry candies you swiped from Yelena’s stash ‘cause you know I like the red ones.”

He took a breath. Didn’t blink.

“We didn’t see each other at lunch,” he continued, “but I know you went out to buy heels ‘cause you don’t own a proper pair and you were nervous ‘bout tonight.”

His gaze softened again. “I ain’t impaired, doll. Just-“ he reached up, combing his fingers through his hair, tousling it further, “uninhibited.”

She froze.

“Maybe I’m sayin’ the first thing that pops in my head. Maybe I’m talkin’ like a radio host from a bygone decade ‘cause I don’t give two shakes about findin’ the modern way to tell you what’s spillin’ out.”

He stepped closer.

“Okay,” she muttered, trying to sound stern, and failing. “One dance. And that’s it. But you’ll have to guide me, because-”

She didn’t get to finish.

Bucky caught her hand like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse, and in one smooth pull, he brought her against him.

His vibranium arm slid around her waist protectively. But it was the other hand -the warm one- that pressed low on the small of her back with possessive pressure. She barely managed not to gasp.

“‘Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he murmured, with mischief. He grinned, a flash of something old -young- too self-assured for the Bucky she knew. She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and then he started to move.

There was no music playing on the balcony. Just city sounds. Wind. The buzz of far-off traffic. The flicker of neon on glass.

But he was hearing something. That much was obvious in the way his head tilted, his shoulders rocked, and the cadence of his steps moved like an echo from another decade. The rhythm was slow, nostalgic. Something big-band, maybe, soft horns and a crooner’s voice threading the moment together in his mind.

Through the glass behind him, John, Alexei, and Bob were stacked like dumbasses at the edge of the living room, jockeying for a better view, faces half-lit by the apartment’s glow, whisper-arguing like overgrown kids at a school dance.

She looked away from them. Looked up at Bucky instead.

He was humming now. Not to her. Not even aware he was doing it, maybe. Just lost in whatever old tune was spinning inside his head, something warm, velvet-smooth. He had a ballroom behind his closed eyelids.

“You did this often?” she managed.

“Almost all weekends,” he said, words slurred not by drink, but nostalgia. His palm shifted slightly on her back. “Used to cut a rug like nobody’s business.”

“I bet you did.”

“Won a jitterbug contest in ‘39,” he said seriously, then laughed like he surprised himself remembering that. “Didn’t even plan on enterin’. Some girl pulled me in off the floor and said, ‘You got legs, use ‘em.’”

She swallowed.

He was… different. And not just because of whatever he took.

The natural charm. The half-smirk. The way he looked at her like she was a sure thing, and he was still the kind of man who could offer something worth saying yes to.

She felt her eyes go wet. Damn.

Because tomorrow he’d wake up with a predictable headache and maybe beat the shit out of John just for sport. He’d lecture Bob with that kind exasperation he reserved for people he secretly cared about, barking something about “drugging someone without their consent isn’t quirky, it’s a felony.” And he’d ignore Alexei entirely because you could never win against that man’s stupid arguments about good intentions and “power of friendship.”

But above all, he might not remember any of this.

Or worse, he would. And it wouldn’t mean to him what it meant to her.

That part was the sharp edge. The one she couldn’t dull with a smile or a healing touch.

One thing was secretly pining for him. She could survive that. She has been surviving it. It was almost fun, in its own pathetic way, watching him when he taught her shooting, stealing hours of intimacy disguised as routine. A hand on his arm as she guided him through a breathing exercise. The quick flick of her thumb across his temple to soothe him after a flashback. Getting to touch his skin under the guise of professional concern when she healed him.

That was her safe little corner of yearning. Controlled.

This was something else. This was another tier entirely. Pressed against his chest. Held by him. Stared at like a woman and not a teammate or a responsibility.

And she knew -knew- that it was going to cost her.

Because you didn’t survive someone like Bucky Barnes looking at you like that and walked away unburned.

Their bodies moved slowly, barely more than a sway. His breath warmed her temple, and the weight of his metal hand was solid at her waist. He kept humming that soft tune that probably hadn’t been on any airwaves in eighty years, and for a moment, -God for a moment- she let herself pretend.

That they were somewhere else. Somewhen else.

Her fingers pressed gently on his shoulders.

She didn’t want it to end.

But it had to.

She drew back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were still too bright, pupils wide and swimming in the low light from the tower. His lips parted like he was going to say something devastating again, something pretty and unfiltered, something he’d never say sober.

So she shook her head softly before he could.

“We should go back in,” she said, her voice barely louder than the city breeze.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, confused. “Already?”

She nodded, squeezing his shoulders lightly before stepping back. “One dance. That was the deal.”

He followed her retreat with a small frown, stumbling half a step like he wanted to close the gap again. “I could walk you out. Or tag along. You, me, Yelena, Bob-”

A smile tugged at her mouth, bittersweet and careful. “Not tonight.”

She reached up, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.

“C’mon, sit down,” she said gently, nudging him toward the cushioned bench tucked against the balcony railing. He obeyed, blinking slowly, draping his metal arm over the backrest while his flesh hand reached to one of hers as she crouched in front of him.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured, maintaining his gaze, “you’re gonna hate them for what they did. You’re gonna yell at John, probably kick his ass. You’re gonna scold Bob. You’ll try to ignore Alexei, and fail.”

He gave a lopsided smile. “That sounds about right.”

“And, about this…” She hesitated, vaguely motioning her hand between them. “You’ll pretend that it was nothing.”

“That’s not fair to say,” he whispered.

She nodded, swallowing the ache. “No. It’s not. But it’s how this works, right?”

His fingers caressed hers. “You think I’m gonna forget?”

“No,” she murmured. “I think you’re gonna remember. And wish you hadn’t.”

She stood before he could answer, slipping her fingers from his. Her voice was quiet but firm as she added, “Stay out here a little. Cool off. I’ll go find Yelena.”

But his hand caught hers again. Not tightly, just enough to hold her there.

“What if I ask again tomorrow?” he murmured. A too sober question for someone that wasted.

She raised a brow, trying to match his tone with a smirk. “With a massive hangover and the outburst of vengeance in your heart, as Alexei would say?”

“Yeah.” He said it without blinking. He licked his bottom lip, not quite smirking now. “Even then.”

It stunned her for a second. Just a second. She held his gaze, then slipped her hand from his slowly. Didn’t step back yet. Just stood there, close enough for his knees to brush the hem of her dress. Then, with the gentlest smile on her mouth:

“If you ask tomorrow… you’ll find out.”

And then she turned, walked back toward the glass door, ignoring the frantic scramble of limbs as Bob and John tried to act casual, as if they hadn’t been spying through the window like gremlins. Alexei didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.

She didn’t care.

Bucky leant back on the bench once she disappeared, with the city wind tousling his hair, and still feeling the ghost of her touch on his skin.

He smiled. Slow and crooked.

Because it hadn’t been a no, she would’ve said so if it had.

It was a careful maybe. A thread left loose for him to pull, if he wanted to.

Because saying yes tonight would cost her if he didn’t follow through tomorrow.

This way… she stayed unexposed.

Unless he reached. Unless he asked.

Unless he remembered.

And he would.

What a coincidence to find you right here

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