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artficlly · 6 months ago

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sweetpea [one-shot]

post-apocalyptic marvel au

retired!hero!bucky x fem!reader After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, p in v, against tree sex, outdoor sex, no protection, vague primal vibes, very consensual, kissing, underwear ripping, if you squint, there's some plot, teeth-rotting fluff, it's so cute, bucky barnes is the sweetest, beefy bucky, yelena meddles, steve rogers is horrified, spring festivals, paganism, masks, drinking, mentions of past violence, death and war, mentions of readers previous relationships, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.9k

A/N: hello! it's nearly my birthday so heres a treat for you all. i've been sitting on this idea for AGES. i've been working hard on the daughter of the rotsál first draft, so i decided to take a break from the angst for some fluffy, cute smut!! please let me know if you enjoy and your thoughts! sorry for any typos - not proof read. permanent tag list: @globetrotter28

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Being fucked over the table was not unwelcome but rather surprisingly pleasant, even if it derailed your breakfast plans.

Leif had always been a rather attentive lover, skilled at pulling orgasm after orgasm out of your needy cunt. He possessed stamina and a hint of roughness that stirred warmth within you, yet something still felt absent. This elusive quality lingered throughout your year together—an unexpressed awareness that simmered between you. Leif was kind, diligent, attractive, and strong. He was considerate, often surprising you with gifts and regularly praising your looks and cooking. Your friends approved of him.

So even if that brief and passionate session had been perfect, him thrusting into you from behind so intensely that your toes curled and you had to press your face against the wooden surface to keep from screaming—you realised it was all somewhat melancholic. The thing that was missing between you and your Springbond was that fabled spark.

The decision to part ways had hurt, but you both knew it was right. A week before you had made the decision, on Mayflame he would move out, and the both of you would be single once more. The morning sex had been a goodbye of sorts, in typical Leif style. Even if you aligned perfectly, you inevitably amassed a long list of differences that broke the perfect illusion. You desired to settle down, concentrate on your work and home, and build connections with those nearby.

In contrast, Leif craved adventure and excitement—obviously, the Bleeding Age hadn’t brought enough danger and activity into his life. He later confessed that he was eager to sleep around more, as he was still a young man exploring his possibilities. This revelation didn’t necessarily shock or hurt you; you had captured his attention for the entire year, far beyond your predictions. Yet, you couldn’t help but wonder... were you boring?

After years of undue stress, survival, and several near-death experiences, you were eager to take advantage of the calm that followed the defeat of the Riftborn and the end of the Bleeding Age. You had to remind yourself—somewhat bitterly—that Leif was not the first and would not be the last.

“Did you see who that was?” Yelena exclaimed from beside you, her hand gripping your forearm tightly. You nearly leapt in surprise, abruptly pulled from your thoughts. Your head turned as you looked back, tracking Yelena’s gaze. “I swear to the fucking gods that was Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes—”

You squinted at the backs of the two men who had passed you by.

They walked like soldiers—steady, assured, their movements streamlined but commanding. No hesitation, no wasted motion, just the certainty of men who had spent years on battlefields, who had fought and bled and survived when others hadn’t. They were massive, even under their coats, their broad shoulders and thick arms unmistakable beneath the heavy fabric. Towering over the people around them, they carried themselves with the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but took it anyway.

“The captain and the sergeant?” You shot back, doubt curling around your words as your brow furrowed. “I thought they were stationed in Stonebrook until the village was built.”

“They were… but last I heard, Stonebrook’s finished.” Yelena’s voice had an eager edge; her gaze locked onto the two figures even as they disappeared around a street corner, swallowed by the cobbled streets. “They were invited back for the Mayflame celebrations. The word is that they want to retire from the soldier business now the war is over.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging at her arm with a huff. “Come on, we’re going to be late—”

“But do you think they’ll run in Mayflame?” Yelena pressed, barely budging under your pull.

“I mean, gods, can you imagine if Steve Rogers was your Springbond?” She exhaled, almost breathless at the thought, her fingers tightening around your sleeve as if the mere idea was enough to set her heart racing.

You grit your teeth, heat rising in your face—not from excitement but from secondhand embarrassment. A group of older women lingered outside your destination, snickering between themselves at Yelena’s loud ponderings. With a sharp yank, you pulled her off the street and into the village hall, the heavy wooden doors thudding shut behind you, sealing away the crisp morning air and her starry-eyed ramblings.

“There you two are! I need all the hands I can get!”

A flustered-looking Pepper Potts intercepted you and Yelena before you could fully step inside, already ushering you towards a large pile of decorations. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, auburn hair pinned haphazardly at the nape of her neck, a sure sign that she had been running herself ragged in preparation for the festival.

“I’ve got half the boys working on the course and the bonfire,” she said, exhaling sharply. “Can you please cart these down and get started on the flowers?”

“Of course,” you replied with a quick nod, already sizing up the pile, considering how best to carry everything down in as few trips as possible.

Yelena, however, had other priorities. “Pepper, are the captain and sergeant joining the Mayflame?” She asked shamelessly, barely masking the anticipation in her tone.

But Pepper had already turned, swept away by the tide of arriving villagers, barking orders as she moved—clearly too busy to entertain Yelena’s curiosity.

You scoffed, sinking your hands into a collection of freshly cut flowers, their stems already bundled neatly for easy transport. You had grown and picked them yourself, much to Pepper’s praise. In recent years, you found comfort in your gardens and flowerbeds. The scent of wild blooms filled your nose, the petals soft against your fingers as you began sorting through them. “Yelena, stop meddling and help me.”

“Fine, but you are no fun!” Yelena groaned, throwing herself down beside you with dramatic flair. Then, as if compelled by some unseen force, she added with a wistful sigh, “I know you’re upset about Leif, but at least let me dream of a raunchy, hero-filled Mayflame.”

Her voice carried farther than she likely intended. Several nearby villagers—some heaving chairs, others hauling tables—stopped mid-task, casting curious glances in your direction.

Mortified, you didn’t dignify her with a response.

—

“I mean, you keep saying you’re not upset about Leif, but you’re obviously upset.”

Yelena’s voice drifted up from below, thick with scepticism. She was not taking her duty of stabilising the ladder very seriously. The wooden rungs wobbled beneath your feet, shifting with every careless movement she made. A quick glance down confirmed your suspicions. She was barely gripping the beams, more occupied with craning her neck up the hill, no doubt hoping for another glimpse of the fabled Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes.

You sighed, your arms burning from the strain. You had foolishly volunteered for the painstaking task of weaving flowers through the towering wooden archways that framed the festival’s entrances. The Mayflame decorations were meant to be intricate and beautiful—braided vines, bundles of wildflowers, bright ribbons fluttering in the evening breeze—but at this rate, you’d be lucky if you made it out of this task without breaking a limb.

“I’m not upset,” you grumbled, though your voice lacked conviction. You worked the soft stems of sweetpeas and baby’s breath into a sturdy braid, securing them with twine against the wooden frame. “We made a mutual decision. It wasn’t working. Just a Mayflame fling...”

Yelena snorted from below, unimpressed. The ladder swayed as she shifted, and you tightened your grip, heart stuttering. “You two lived together for a year. I think it was a little more than a fling.”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers tightening around the flowers. “If he wants to run off, sleep around, and travel, who am I to hold him back, Lena? He wanted something different than I did. It never would have worked.”

“I just…” Yelena hesitated. “I just don’t like thinking about you living up on that farm by yourself.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes as you reached for another bundle of flowers. “Then come visit me more often instead of spending all your nights at the tavern, bothering Nat. I need all the help I can get wrangling those weeds—”

The words barely left your mouth before the ladder jerked violently beneath you.

Your stomach lurched as you wobbled. You instinctively reached for the wooden arch to steady yourself but overcorrected. The shift in weight sent the ladder tilting dangerously, its legs twisting beneath you. The basket of flowers on your hip slipped free, tumbling towards the grass below in a flurry of petals.

“Yelena! The ladder—!”

“There’s a bee in my hair!” Yelena shrieked, her grip altogether abandoning the wooden beams as she flailed wildly. “Gods, if it stings me, I swear—”

You had no time to process her nonsense. The world lurched violently as the ladder lost its precarious balance, tipping sideways with terrifying speed.

Air whipped at your cheeks as you plunged downward. Your arms shot up in a feeble attempt to protect your head, your entire body bracing for the inevitable collision with the earth below.

But the pain never came.

Instead, you collided with something solid—something warm.

A pair of strong arms locked tightly around your middle, yanking you against a broad, muscled chest. The force of your fall sent both of you toppling over; your breath knocked from your lungs as your saviour twisted to absorb the impact. The two of you crashed into the grass in a tangled heap.

A startled squeak escaped your lips as you landed atop them, hands splayed flat against their chest. Their sheer size was dizzying—hard muscle beneath the thin fabric. The steady rise and fall of their breathing made you acutely aware of how firmly you were pressed against them.

For a long second, neither of you moved, your heart pounding as you processed what had just happened. Then, slowly, the arms around your waist loosened. A deep, low voice rumbled beneath you, quieter than you expected yet laced with a restrained amusement.

“Careful, angel. Keep this up, and people will talk.”

Your breath hitched, pulse stuttering as you realised who lay beneath you. Bucky Barnes.

A cold rush of realisation hit like a shock to the system. Your eyes widened in alarm as you took in the situation. Your hands braced against the solid plane of his chest, his body beneath yours, broad and unmoving. Worse, your legs were hooked around his hips, the warmth of him seeping through your clothes—oh gods, were you sitting on his—?

Panic jolted through you. Without a second thought, you scrambled off him in a flurry of movement, heat rushing to your face. Your hands shot up instinctively as if you could wave away the mortifying situation.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky didn’t move immediately. He remained where he was, lying on the ground, one arm bent behind his head. The dappled sunlight filtering through the trees cast shadows on his face, highlighting the defined angles of his cheekbones and the depth of his blue eyes. There was no teasing smirk, no cocky remark—just a quiet, lingering patience.

Finally, with a slow, fluid motion, he pushed himself upright, his expression unreadable.��

“It’s fine,” he assured, his voice smooth but low, edged with something thoughtful. Just a quiet confidence that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You took a hurried step back, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the erratic beat of your heart refused to settle. You’d always known of Bucky Barnes—the colder one, the quiet one. The man whose name carried a reputation as cutting as winter’s first frost. Yet now, looking at him, the weight of that reputation felt at odds with how he carried himself.

There was something measured about his movements, deliberate and careful, as though he were wary of taking up too much space.

The silence stretched between you until his voice, softer this time, broke through. “You’ve got a little something…”

His hand shot up before you could reply—quick yet remarkably gentle. His fingers delicately moved through your hair, his careful touch igniting a familiar warmth in your gut.

You froze.

He plucked something from your hair and turned it over in his fingers. A single sweetpea, its delicate petals trembling in the breeze. Bucky studied it with quiet intensity, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Sweetpea,” he murmured, as if the word carried weight, his gaze flicking back to meet yours. How he looked at you—calm yet piercing—made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, the world felt impossibly still.

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Something flickered across his face, subtle but there. Not quite a smile, but something close, something softer than you would have expected from a man with his reputation.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, quieter: “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

It was such a small thing. Barely even a kindness. You were glad the hero couldn’t sense the throbbing between your legs. Maybe this break-up with Leif had indeed done a number on you, lusting after the first man who showed you kindness... but there was something rather magnetic about the sergeant you couldn’t quite understand.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus and gather the scattered remnants of your pride. Your gaze turned to the abandoned basket of flowers at your feet, a welcome distraction.

"Right, well, thank you,” you muttered. “I should probably—”

You motioned vaguely toward the half-finished floral arch, eager to redirect the moment into something less intense. But before Bucky could respond, a sharp, frantic voice shattered the moment.

“Oh, gods! I’m so sorry, there was a bee, and I just—are you okay?” You barely had time to brace before Yelena was upon you, hands gripping your shoulders, her wide green eyes scanning your face as if she expected to find a gaping wound. You squirmed under her touch, cheeks still burning.

“I’m fine, Lena,” you mumbled, trying to pry her hands off you. “Really.”

“Yes, of course! This gentleman saved you—” Yelena cut herself off mid-sentence, her entire body freezing as she finally got a good look at him. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in unfiltered shock. “Wait. You’re Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, barely, but you caught it. A flicker of something. Not quite discomfort, but something close. His posture stiffened, his fingers flexing once before settling back into stillness.

He didn’t confirm or deny it. He just gave a slow, short nod. You saw the way his throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the way he held himself—not defensive, exactly, but closed off as if he had already braced for whatever reaction was coming next.

Yelena’s gaze darted between you, her sharp mind working fast. Too fast. There was a feral glint in her eyes, one you knew well. You could practically see the cogs turning in her mind, a meddling scheme already in action. You held back a groan.

Before she could say something truly insufferable, a sharp, shrill voice rang out from across the unlit bonfire.

“There you are! I need more flowers—can you believe it? I thought we’d have enough with all that you grew. Please tell me you have more in that garden of yours!” You blinked, grateful for the interruption, and immediately turned towards the sound of Pepper’s voice.

“Yes, of course,” you called back, relief flooding through you. “I grew extra just in case. I had a feeling this might happen.”

“Wonderful! Oh, you’re a lifesaver today,” Pepper’s voice rose in excitement. “Leave the floral arches for now. I’ll have one of the girls help finish them up. If you could just run up to your garden—”

You didn’t need to hear the rest.

“Of course!” You cut her off a little too eagerly, desperate to get away from Yelena’s looming interrogation. It was almost like an escape route had opened, and you weren’t about to hesitate. Pepper barely seemed to notice your enthusiasm as she continued.

“Oh, but you won’t be able to carry them all alone, will you? Yelena, you’ll help her, won’t you? And, oh, Bucky, I didn’t realise you were down here already. If I send you and Steve up as well, can you help these lovely ladies?”

You turned towards him instinctively, almost uncertain of what to expect. Bucky, who had been silent throughout the exchange, lifted his head slightly. His eyes jumped towards Pepper, then towards you. His blue eyes were unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Yeah.”

That was it. No unnecessary words, no wasted breath. Just a quiet, steady answer, the same way he seemed to carry himself, like a man who only spoke when it was worth speaking.

Yelena, on the other hand, was already on you like a hawk, latched onto your arm, nails digging through even your clothing as she grinned in excitement. Instead, you held back any protest that wanted to bubble to the surface, donning a hesitant smile. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon was about to take a turn for the absurd.

There was no way out of this now.

—

The sun sat high in the sky as the four of you climbed the hill towards the garden. The path was uneven, the dirt packed down from years of footsteps, the scent of wildflowers and earth thick in the warm air. You focused ahead, gripping the empty basket, determined not to meet anyone’s gaze—especially not Bucky’s.

Of course, Yelena had no such reservations. She walked beside Steve, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of feigned innocence. You could feel the question brewing before she even opened her mouth.

“So,” she began, her tone laced with a familiar mischief. “You two were some of the great heroes of the Blooded Age.”

Steve huffed a small, almost bashful laugh. “I wouldn’t call us heroes.”

“Really?” Yelena raised a brow. “Because I’ve heard plenty of stories that say otherwise. You fought monsters, saved villages, built armies—sounds pretty heroic to me.”

Steve glanced at Bucky as if expecting him to jump in, but the other man remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Steve sighed and shrugged. “We did what needed to be done. It wasn’t about being heroes. People were dying, and the world was falling apart. We just... fought to keep it together.”

Yelena hummed, unimpressed with his humility. “And now you’re here. Retired.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You must be very tired.” She smirked. “All that fighting. Saving the world. Carrying such a heavy burden on those broad, broad shoulders.”

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing into your hand as warmth flared in your cheeks.

Steve cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was time to put the war behind us.”

Yelena turned to Bucky, who had been walking a step behind, silent as ever. “And what about you, Barnes? Tired of fighting too?”

Bucky finally glanced her way, his expression unreadable.

“War doesn’t leave much room for a future.” His voice was low, quiet, but firm. “Figured it was time to start thinking about one.”

Yelena tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was determined to solve. “And New Fernwick is the place to do that?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. His attention turned to you—brief and mysterious—before he looked back at the trail. “Seems as good a place as any.”

Yelena smirked, but you reached the garden before she could push further.

“Here we are!” You announced, a little too brightly, desperate to change the subject.

You set your basket down and knelt to gather the flowers, focusing intently on the task. Yelena crouched beside you, plucking a few stems with ease. Steve busied himself as well, his hands surprisingly gentle as he worked.

Bucky, however, remained standing with his arms crossed as he surveyed the field of blooms. After a brief pause, he crouched, reaching for a flower near your basket. You watched as his fingers brushed over the petals carefully and deliberately.

Yelena noticed too. “Didn’t peg you for a flower guy, Barnes.”

Bucky plucked the stem and twirled it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. “You learn to appreciate the small things when you don’t see ‘em for a long time.”

The words were simple, but they settled in your chest, something unspoken lingering beneath them.

Yelena, for once, said nothing.

The silence stretched as the four of you worked, the baskets gradually filling, until until Yelena, as always, shattered it with a single sentence—one that made your stomach drop the moment it left her mouth.

“So, are you two going to do the Mayflame Run?”

Your fingers tightened around the delicate stems of the flowers in your hands, nearly crushing them. Heat flared up your neck, and you snapped your head towards her. “Yelena.”

She only grinned, tilting her head in mock innocence. “What?”

She batted her lashes. “It’s a fair question.”

Bucky and Steve glanced up from where they were crouched, picking through the wildflowers. The question had caught them off guard. Steve’s brow furrowed, curiosity laced with hesitation.

“What exactly is the Mayflame Run?” he asked.

You parted your lips, scrambling for a way to downplay it, but Yelena was already launching into her favourite pastime—oversharing.

“It’s a spring festival all about welcoming in the new season... new life... fertility and all that.” She wiggled her fingers for emphasis, an impish smirk tugging at her lips.

Steve blinked, his expression shifting into one of wary understanding. “Right…”

The mischief in Yelena’s eyes deepened as she continued.

“The main event is the run. We call it the Springbond Run, but let’s be honest—everyone knows what it’s really about. See, after the Blooded Age, people kind of… forgot how to date. Or just didn’t bother.” She waved a hand as if brushing aside years of devastation. “War, famine, monsters—it put a real damper on romance. And, well, people aren’t exactly repopulating at the rate they should be, so...”

She shot Steve a pointed look. “The elders decided to encourage things.”

Steve still looked uncertain. "And how does it work?”

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your basket.

“The women carry torches and run through the dark forest,” you explained, keeping your voice even as possible. “The goal is to reach the clearing on the other side and light the bonfire.”

You hesitated, dreading the next part. “The men chase them.”

Steve’s brows lifted. “They chase them?”

You nodded stiffly, but Yelena was the one who answered.

“If you get caught,” she said breezily, “you have to date the guy who caught you for a week. You’re now each other’s Springbond. After that, you decide if you want to keep seeing each other or go your separate ways. Most end up sticking it out. Either for marriage or, at the very least, some fun.”

Your stomach twisted as Bucky��s gaze flickered towards you. He hadn’t spoken yet or reacted outwardly, but you felt the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like an unspoken question.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, clearly processing the information. “And what happens to the women who manage to light the bonfire?”

“Oh, then they get to choose who they spend the week with,” Yelena said. "Which honestly makes the whole thing even more exciting. It’s so dark, you don’t always know who’s chasing you until they’re right on top of you, pinning you to the ground—”

Steve choked on his own breath, shifting awkwardly. You clamped your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Yelena.”

“What?” she said, all false innocence.

“It’s true. And let’s be real, some people don’t even wait until after the run to start celebrating.” She smirked. “All that adrenaline, all that tension, out there all alone in the woods—”

Steve made another strangled sound, and you wished, for the first time in your life, that you had the power to smite Yelena where she stood.

“And this is normal?” he asked weakly.

You let out a long breath. “Yes. It’s… tradition.”

Yelena’s smirk stretched wider, and a pit of dread opened in your stomach just before she delivered the final blow.

“Oh, she would know,” she said airily. “She’s done it three times.”

Silence.

You felt the shift in the air before you even looked up. Steve was already glancing away politely, but Bucky—Bucky’s gaze was steady, unyielding, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp beneath it, something that made your pulse stutter.

Your mouth went dry. “I—uh—yeah.”

Yelena cackled, delighted. “And she had quite the reputation for it, too. She and Leif turned it into a year-long one-night stand."

Your stomach dropped. Heat flared at your ears, mortification wrapping around your ribs like a vice. Steve coughed into his fist, visibly uncomfortable, but Bucky—Bucky still hadn’t looked away. The weight of his silence pressed against you, heavier than any words could be. He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t even raise a damn eyebrow. He just watched as if waiting for you to offer something. An explanation. A reaction.

You swallowed hard.

Yelena, meanwhile, had absolutely no shame.

“Some people take the week actually to get to know each other,” she continued with a smirk. “Others treat it like a festival fling. A week-long one-night stand, if you will.”

She turned to Bucky then, eyes glinting. “You seem like the type who’d do a Mayflame run.”

Bucky finally exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You get that from watching me pick flowers?”

Yelena leant in. “No, I got it from watching you look at her.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. He just held her gaze for a long moment before standing, dusting the dirt from his hands with deliberate ease.

“We should get these back,” he said.

That was it. No denial.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears as Yelena shot you a triumphant look, nudging your arm with her elbow. You shoved her back harder than necessary, grabbing your basket with too much force.

—

You had braided sweetpeas into your hair, their delicate petals—a cascade of soft pinks, purples, and whites—woven carefully through your strands. The fragrance clung to you, sweet and fleeting, barely noticeable except when the wind stirred just right. You didn’t know why you had done it. Maybe it was a whim, an idle distraction while you got ready for the Mayflame. Maybe it was some quiet hope you refused to name, a foolish sentiment born from the strange afternoon. Or maybe, worse than all of that, it was the loneliness of returning to an empty house.

Leif had left while you were gone. You hadn’t seen him pack or even heard the door shut behind him. Just silence, so much silence. His absence had been waiting for you like a ghost when you stepped inside. No trace of him remained, save for a few scuff marks on the wooden floor and a half-finished bottle of cider in the kitchen. You had stared at it for a long time before scrubbing the house clean in a fit of confused energy as if sweeping away the dust might sweep away the ache in your chest.

Did you even want to run tonight? If it always turned out this way?

Leif had been inevitable—his leaving, even more so. The one before him barely lasted the week. And the first... gods, the first. You didn’t let yourself think about that one.

Yet here you were, standing in the dark forest, a burning torch in your hand.

The other women huddled together, whispering in excited clusters, their laughter soft and secretive beneath the trees. The firelight flickered over their masked faces, catching on the gilded edges and painted symbols of the goddess of spring. Yelena was causing trouble somewhere in the throng, as always, her voice carrying through the dark.

“I swear, I can pick them out. I just need a second,” she was saying.

You sighed, already knowing exactly what she was up to.

“It’s a useless pursuit,” you had reminded her earlier. “They’ll be masked, everyone will. That’s the whole point.”

And yet, she was determined. You caught a glimpse of her through the shifting bodies, her blonde hair twisted into an elaborate crown braid behind her fox mask, taunting the gathered men. They stood on the opposite side of the clearing, a sea of darkened figures illuminated only by flickering torchlight. The line between hunter and hunted might have blurred if not for their masks.

You fiddled with the edges of your own mask, adjusting it once more against your face. Each mask bore the likeness of a creature of the forest—the women had prey animals: deer, rabbits, and foxes. You had chosen a wide-eyed doe, its carved wooden surface smooth against your fingertips. The men, in contrast, wore the guises of predators: wolves, bears, and great hunting birds.

A shiver trailed down your spine as you scanned their ranks, the shadows swallowing their bodies.

This was fate, they said. A tradition older than the Blooded Age. The goddess of spring would take the helm, guiding her children together.

Destiny, not choice.

You weren’t sure you believed in fate anymore.

Still, you craned your neck, searching for Yelena again before the race began. Some women had already lined up at the start, their torches raised, waiting for the signal. You pushed through the crowd, weaving past a group of masked rabbits, your torch casting long, twisting shadows over the forest floor.

Yelena stood at the edge of the men’s group, utterly unbothered, her fox mask tilted slightly as she studied them. The smirk you couldn’t see was undoubtedly plastered across her face.

“Lena,” you called lightly.

She turned towards you, still distracted. “You’d think we’d be able to recognise them even with the masks, right? They should be massive, but it’s so hard to tell in the dark—”

You grabbed her wrist, pulling her away. “Come on.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled.

As you turned, your torchlight swept over a lone figure standing at the edge of the men’s group. Half-shrouded in shadow, his wolf mask glinted in the firelight. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, yet there was an unmistakable intensity in his standing and watching.

You swallowed hard and averted your gaze.

Tugging Yelena along, you stepped towards the start line.

The time was near.

You gathered your skirts with one hand, feeling the rough fabric in your fist. The cool night air licked at your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Around you, the other women shifted in anticipation, their torches flickering like stars in the dark. Somewhere beyond the trees, the men waited. Watching.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Then—

The drum sounded.

The tension snapped, and you ran.

Flames bobbed wildly as the women surged forward, feet pounding against the forest floor. Laughter rang through the night, breathless and high, voices calling to one another before being swallowed by the trees.

Yelena was gone in an instant, lost in the chaos.

You barely had time to register it before you were weaving between trunks, torchlight bouncing wildly in your periphery. Your skirts whipped around your legs, the rough fabric catching on twigs and undergrowth, but you didn’t slow. The forest stretched wide before you, vast and shrouded in shadows.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, heart hammering against your ribs.

It was exhilarating.

You could hear the others somewhere to your left, their laughter spilling through the trees, echoing their footfalls blending with your own. And behind you, somewhere in the dark, the men had begun their pursuit.

The sound of movement grew. Leaves rustled, and twigs snapped.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t dare look back.

Instead, you pushed forward, your torchlight slicing through the thick night. The distant hum of music reached your ears, the festival, just beyond the treeline. You were close. So close.

Then—impact.

A weight slammed into you from the side, knocking the air from your lungs. Your torch flew from your grasp, landing somewhere in the brush, its flame sputtering but not extinguished.

You hit the ground hard, back pressing into the cool earth, the scent of moss and crushed leaves filling your senses. Above you, a broad figure loomed, breathing heavily from the chase.

The dim torchlight barely illuminated him, casting jagged shadows across the carved wolf mask that stared down at you. The smooth, wooden surface gave away nothing—no expression, no hint of who was beneath it.

Your pulse thundered.

Around you, the chase still roared on. Footsteps pounded the earth, laughter echoing as others darted past, unseen but near.

You swallowed hard, your breath coming fast, your chest rising and falling. You had been caught.

But gods, it was thrilling.

The figure above you didn’t move, as if waiting—for what, you weren’t sure. His hands were braced on either side of you, caging you in, his breath still heavy from the chase. Yet he didn’t press his advantage or seize you like the others would have. Instead, he lingered, watching.

Then, in the flickering torchlight, he reached for your hair.

You barely breathed as his fingers tangled into the strands, the movement deliberate, almost reverent. Slowly, he plucked one of the deep violet sweetpeas from your braid, twirling it between his fingers before your masked face. The petals fluttered slightly with the motion, fragile between the ridges of his calloused fingertips.

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then, finally, his voice, low, deep, rough with exertion.

“Hey, sweetpea.”

The nickname sent a shock through you, something warm curling in your chest even as your breath hitched. Recognition dawned, sharp and sudden.

“Bucky?” You murmured, stunned.

Even if surprise coursed through you, it made sense. The sheer size of the body hovering above yours, the weight of him pressing into the earth, the controlled stillness…it was him. A reversed echo of your earlier position that day.

“How did you—”

“Your hair,” he interrupted, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You put flowers in your hair. I recognised it.”

He reached up, fingers catching the edge of his mask, and in a smooth motion, he pulled it free. The last flickers of the torch beside you cast just enough light to reveal the sweat beading on his brow, the shadows cutting across his sharp features—and the unmistakable, almost feral gleam in his eye.

Something deep inside you clenched at the sight.

You exhaled a breathless laugh, your hands instinctively sliding up his broad shoulders, fingers curling around the back of his neck. Beneath your palms, his skin was hot, his pulse hammering. “I didn’t think you were running.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He hesitated, head tilting slightly as footsteps dashed past, followed by an excited shriek from one of the other women. The sound faded into the trees, leaving you in perfect darkness, only the two of you remaining in the silence. “But—”

He trailed off, his voice thick with something unspoken. His weight above you was solid, immovable, and gods, you liked it.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering, you twisted your arm, pulling your mask off. You weren’t sure he could see the grin curling your lips in the dark, so you let your actions speak for you. Tugging him closer, your chests collided, heat blooming between you.

“Yes,” you breathed.

And then his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was molten, searing through your veins like wildfire. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t uncertain—he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for far too long, like the chase had only wound him tighter, and now he was unravelling against you.

You gasped into his mouth as he shifted, his weight pressing down on you, one hand sliding to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you to him. His other hand tangled in your hair, gripping just enough to make your head tilt back, giving him full access. He took it eagerly, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, devastating stroke.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your legs shifting beneath him, but then—

With shocking ease, he moved.

For a brief second, you were weightless, a startled sound escaping your lips as he lifted you effortlessly from the ground. You barely had time to react before your back hit rough bark, the solid tree trunk now bracing you. His hands were firm as they guided your legs around his waist, pinning you in place. You could already feel his cock growing hard, pressed into one of your thighs as you squirmed beneath him.

A shudder wracked through you at his sheer strength, the way he handled you like you weighed nothing. The last remnants of your composure shattered when his lips found your throat, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over sensitive skin. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sensation overwhelming and utterly intoxicating.

"You run fast, angel," he murmured against your skin, his voice dark and teasing. His lips trailed lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. "But not fast enough."

A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling just enough to make him look at you. In the darkness, his blue eyes burned.

“I didn’t want to get away.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he just looked at you for a moment. Then, his grip on your waist loosened, fingers slipping beneath your skirts. He let out a deep groan as his digits navigated past your underwear, sweeping through the wetness already gathered. “You’re so wet already.”

You threw your head back at the small act of friction, your skull pressing hard into the rough bark as your chest heaved. He did one final pass, stroking through your folds. In the close distance between your faces, you could see a smirk lingering as your hips rocked involuntarily, begging for more.

Bucky brought his fingers to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours as he pressed them flat against his tongue, dragging them slowly past his lips. His eyelids fluttered briefly, his breath coming heavier as he tasted you, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest. “Mmm.”

Heat coiled in your stomach at the sound, something deep and electric winding tight inside you.

“Bucky—” The whine clawed unexpectedly from your throat, raw with desperation.

He smirked, his expression both teasing and dark, his hand slipping between your bodies.

“I know, sweetpea,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers fumbled blindly with his belt, metal clinking softly in the hush of the forest. You could feel his hunger in the way his body pressed against yours, restless, taut with restraint he was barely clinging to.

You rolled your hips against his hand, a breathless sigh spilling from your lips as friction sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs. He inhaled sharply, his head tilting slightly as if savouring the way you reacted to him.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, his voice lower now, almost commanding.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, nails digging in. Your head tipped back against the tree's rough bark, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your lips parted around the words.

“I need you,” you whispered. “Now.”

Something snapped in his expression.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his fingers hooked into the delicate fabric of your underwear. His patience was fraying. No careful undressing, no gentle peeling away. His grip was rough and decisive, a growl slipping from his throat as he gave one sharp tug. The fabric tore effortlessly beneath his fast fingers, the sound lost beneath the hammering of your pulse in your ears. He didn’t even bother pulling them down—too impatient, too consumed by need.

You could practically feel your wetness dripping down to your thighs as he blindly lined himself up, cock pushing into your needy heat. Your head dipped, your mouth finding the top of his shoulder as you bit down lightly with a soft cry. The world beyond this moment—the festival, the music, the laughter—blurred into nothingness. The only thing that existed was the feverish press of his body, the way his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you to him as if he never wanted to let go.

“Fuck.” He hummed low in your ear. His voice strained as he slowly rocked in and out of you. You could tell he was restraining himself, his muscles taut along his back. You hooked your legs around his waist tighter, pulling your bodies flush.

Bucky tilted his head, his lips ghosting over your jaw before finally finding your mouth, desperate and all-consuming. His pace faltered for a moment, a quiet groan slipping from his throat as you tightened around him.

“Gods, you’re so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ perfect—” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. Your breath was hot against his neck and ear as you whispered. “Then don’t stop.”

Any type of restraint the hero had been holding snapped, his hips immediately jerking into action, beginning a relentless pace, withdrawing from you only to slam back inside. Each thrust sent sparks through your body, pleasure coiling tighter, overwhelming in its intensity. One of his hands roamed, sliding down your thigh to where you connected.

You let out a gasping moan into his shoulder as his thumb found your clit, the added circling motion sending a spike of pleasure up your spine. You felt your cunt tighten around him again as you jolted from the sensation, back arching inward.

“Bucky—” You groaned into his ear, head tilting as you laid hot, sloppy kisses that were all lips and tongue along his neck. You could taste salt on his skin, sweat beginning to mist both of you. The squelching and slapping sounds of your connected bodies echoed through the dark forest, the both of you barely holding back the pleasured moans and gasps.

“You gonna cum for me, angel?” Bucky growled against your throat. Your toes curled in delight. His strokes were already growing frantic and sloppy. You pushed yourself back against the trunk, chest heaving as you used your grip around his waist to grind yourself upon his thumb further. A coiling sensation grew in your gut, a knot beginning to tighten. You closed your eyes with a gasp, chasing the sensation.

“Y-Yes.” You stammered through your pants, nails digging into his shoulders as your body began to shudder around him. Bucky let out a dark chuckle, straining through his grit teeth as he continued to plough into you. His thumb circled once more, gentle but practiced. You felt your back arch involuntarily—

You moan his name as every wave of pleasure washes over you. Your hips buck and your thighs shake, but he doesn’t let up. His cock strokes inside of you at a continued relentless pace, and he moans right along with you. Bucky’s hand began to roam along your legs, gripping your flesh tighter as he chased his own release. There would be finger-shaped bruises all over your hips and thighs by the time this was over.

You’re panting above him. Eyes closed, the grip on his shoulders slackening as ropes of thick, hot cum fill you. His cock throbs, each pump releasing even more, only stopping as his hips stutter and his heated moans in your ear fade.

The two of you panted in the aftermath. Bodies still pressed together as the sounds of the forest slowly filtered back into your ears—the distant thrum of festival music, the rustling leaves overhead, the occasional laughter of those still running through the trees. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Bucky shifted first, pressing a lingering kiss to the base of your throat, his lips warm and soft against your sweat-dampened skin. His breath fanned over your collarbone as he slowly and carefully lowered you to your feet. Your knees nearly buckled when they touched the earth, your legs trembling with exhaustion. A startled gasp left you as you clung to him for support, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Easy, sweetpea,” he murmured, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest as he steadied you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist. His touch was grounding and reassuring, though the heat in his gaze told you he wasn’t entirely done with you yet.

You huffed a breathless laugh, tilting your head to look at him.

“You know we have to go to the dance now, right?” Though amusement laced your tone, you could already picture the knowing smirks Yelena and the others would shoot you when you finally emerged.

Bucky smirked, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Even better,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “All I’ll be able to think about is those little noises you make... and that mess between your legs.”

Your breath hitched, a shiver rolling down your spine despite the lingering warmth in your limbs. You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly once more at the thought of his hands on you again, the way he had unravelled you so easily.

He tilted your chin up with a single finger, pressing a teasing kiss to your lips before stepping back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Come on, sweetpea,” he murmured, his eyes flickering with mischief as he laced his fingers with yours. “Let’s go dance.”

—

By the time you and Bucky arrived, the festival was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced cider, and the smoky tang of bonfires. Laughter and music filled the clearing, the rhythmic beat of drums and the sweet hum of strings carrying through the night. Couples swayed to the music, feet shuffling against the packed earth as villagers danced in loose circles, the warmth of drink and celebration evident in every movement.

You barely had time to take it all in before a chorus of knowing smirks and raised brows greeted your arrival. Yelena, seated at a long wooden table with a tankard of something strong in hand, nearly choked on her drink when she spotted you—your slightly dishevelled hair, the flush still clinging to your skin, and Bucky’s possessive grip on your waist.

“About time,” she called with a grin, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Did you get lost?”

Bucky, unbothered, merely smirked and tugged you towards the dancing. “Something like that.”

You shot her a look, but it was impossible to ignore the amused glances and hushed whispers behind you. You tried not to think about the wet mess—a combination of both your fluids nesting between your thighs. Bucky had offered you a handkerchief to clean up, but the small square of fabric had done little against the wetness dripping down your thigh. What didn’t help was the thought of that handkerchief he casually tucked back into his pocket before you could protest. Your lips parted, ready with some half-hearted excuse, but Bucky spun you into his arms before you could respond.

The moment he pulled you into the dance, the rest of the festival seemed to fade into the background. His hands found your waist, guiding you through the steps with ease, music thrumming beneath your skin. Everything was intoxicating, with the warmth of his palm against the small of your back and the gentle pressure of his fingers as he led you.

His lips dipped close to your ear as you moved, swaying to the rhythm. “So, who is this Leif guy?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but then sighed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. “Oh—just… my last Springbond.”

The words felt foreign on your tongue now, distant. “It didn’t really work out in the end.”

Bucky hummed, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your hip. “Why not? Sounded like you lasted longer than a week.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head back slightly to meet his gaze.

“Well… we just had different paths. He wanted to explore, adventure, sleep around…” You trailed off, gaze flickering to the firelight dancing in his blue eyes. “I was looking to settle. I’m just tired after everything. I feel you would understand that.”

His grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his gaze dark and steady as he murmured, “I understand you completely, angel.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest ache, warmth curling in your stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or the wine or the exhilaration of the chase. He understood.

You held his gaze, the firelight dancing over his face. There was something ancient in his eyes, something heavy, worn by time and battle. You had known, of course, what he and Steve were before they arrived in New Fernwick—everyone did.

And yet, when the war ended, when the Riftborn were vanquished and peace finally settled over the world, they had simply walked away. But peace was a fickle thing, and you often wondered if it had truly found them in return.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your waist, grounding you back in the present.

“You ever think about it?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head slightly, the movement curious. “Think about what?”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “The way things used to be. Before.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.

“Sometimes.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I don’t miss it. But it’s hard to let go of something that shaped you.”

You nodded, understanding. The past had a way of clinging to people, no matter how far they ran.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Steve took to peace like it was always meant for him. I think he’s been waiting for it his whole life. Me…” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a faint line. “I think I’m still figuring it out.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. He deserved peace just as much as anyone else.

As the music slowed, your hands slid from his shoulders, fingers tracing the length of his arms before settling over his. His grip tightened instinctively like he knew what you were about to say.

“Come home with me.” The words were quiet, tentative, but certain.

Bucky stilled for half a beat, and then his lips parted, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty, as if he had been waiting for you to ask.

—

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, stepping inside with Bucky close behind you. You moved awkwardly through the space, glancing at the walls, the furniture, anything but him, as though it could distract from the knot forming in your stomach. The house felt both too small and too big now, the empty rooms amplifying the tension in the air.

Bucky stepped in after you, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor as he glanced around. His gaze lingered on the fire's warm glow in the hearth, he seemed at ease. His eyes scanned every corner of the space, taking in the simple comforts of home. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You shifted nervously, breaking the silence with an anxious laugh. “You don’t actually have to do the full week if you don’t want to... I mean, most people just use it as an excuse to get off work—” Your words stumbled out, and you cut yourself off, realising how ridiculous you probably sounded.

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes dark with amusement but softened with something else, a quiet intensity. He was silent for a long moment, focusing entirely on you. Finally, his lips quirked up, and his voice was low and deliberate.

“Sweetpea, I love the sound of your beautiful voice, but just shut up... and kiss me.”

Before you could respond, his hands were already pulling you close, his mouth slanting over yours in a searing kiss that left no room for hesitation. You melted against him, your body pressing into his with a soft urgency, both of you stumbling as you navigated the space towards the bed. His grip on you was firm and reassuring, yet there was a rawness to it, an unspoken need that made your heart race faster.

You fumbled through the room together, bumping into furniture. Your hands sought purchase on his broad chest or tangled in his hair as you kissed desperately, blindly. The dim light from the hearth barely illuminated the path ahead. His lips were warm and hungry, pulling at yours with an intensity that made your pulse spike.

There was a quiet reassurance in how his hands roamed over your body, the steady pressure of his touch as though he wanted to anchor you in the here and now. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t treating this like a fleeting moment. You laughed softly against his lips as you stumbled into the bed, falling together in a tangled heap of limbs and tangled sheets. For a moment, all that mattered was the warmth of his skin against yours, the unspoken understanding that this was something different, something real.

Something that could last.

1K notes · View notes

colouredbyd · 25 days ago

Text

Just A Scratch

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: during a full moon night, an unexpected accident leaves flicker (you) injured, shaking the bond between you, remus, sirius, and james. as they bend the truth to shield one another from pain and guilt, you learn that sometimes, lies are the kindest form of love.

warnings: injury, blood, animal attack, transformation, emotional distress, graphic descriptions of animal injury, mild panic attacks, graphic descriptions of lycanthropy transformations, hurt/comfort, happy ending.

w/c: 5.3k

part of my mini blurb series flicker's adventures

masterlist

The night wrapped around the woods like a heavy cloak, thick with the scent of damp earth.

You walked alongside the three, feeling the weight of the evening pressing on your chest in tandem with the exhaustion that seemed to seep from every slumped shoulder and dragging foot.

Remus had been growing quieter these past few days, a shadow of weariness clouding his usual calm, and tonight, that fatigue clung to him like a second skin, heavier and more stubborn than ever before.

You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing against his arm, trying to share a fraction of strength, though your own heart ached in quiet sympathy.

Sirius’s voice, low but steady, broke through the silence “He’s gonna be okay,” he said, eyes burning with quiet conviction as he looked your way, as if he could read the worry you were trying so hard to bury.

The words, simple as they were, settled over you like a fragile promise, but still, you felt the tremble beneath them, the ache behind the certainty.

James and Sirius each took a side, their hands firm and sure as they cradled Remus between them. He leaned heavily into their support. You followed closely, your fingers brushing gently along his back.

The only sounds were the soft shuffle of feet on mossy ground and the slow, measured breaths laboring from Remus’s chest.

The shack came into view, worn and weathered but steadfast, nestled in a clearing where the moonlight fell in silver pools. Here, the boundaries between man and beast blurred. Tonight, more than ever, it felt like a sanctuary not just of wood and stone, but of understanding and fragile hope.

"Almost there," James murmured.

You reached out, touching Remus’s arm again, offering warmth and silent reassurance as they guided him through the door.

The air inside was cool and still, smelling faintly of old pine and earth—a small world carved from quiet necessities.

You swallowed the lump of dread that threatened to rise as the first tremors rippled through Remus’s body. It was the inevitable sign that the transformation had begun, that the full moon was claiming him once more.

James carefully eased Remus down onto the worn wooden floor of the shack, steadying him as he sagged heavily between James and Sirius’s arms. His breaths were shallow, uneven, eyes clouded with exhaustion and pain, and an unmistakable worry settled over all of you.

Sirius crouched close, voice soft but steady, “You’re going to be okay, Moony. We’re not going anywhere.”

Remus looked up at them, doubt flickering in his tired gaze. “You really will be here?”

“We will,” James said quietly, voice firm but gentle. “Whatever happens, we’re right here. We’ve got you.”

You stepped closer, brushing your hand along Remus’s arm, offering what little warmth you could. “All of us,” you said softly. “No matter what.”

Relief washed over Remus’s face, though the tension hadn’t left. His voice was barely above a whisper, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“We won’t leave you,” Sirius promised, squeezing Remus’s hand. “Not now, not ever.”

You pressed a kiss to Remus’s forehead, fingers lingering for a moment.. “You’re so strong,” you whispered, voice barely audible, hoping your words could be a balm for the storm brewing beneath his skin.

“I love you, Remmy”

His gaze found yours, exhaustion melting into something softer, and in a voice frayed by emotion he whispered, “I love you too.”

The three of you formed a tight circle around Remus, your presence a fragile shield against the inevitable. For a moment, silence settled over the room, thick and reverent, as the first shivers rippled through his limbs. His breath hitched, and his eyes met each of yours—wide with fear, shining with pain, pleading for strength he could no longer summon.

You reached for his hand one last time, your fingers squeezing his with all the love and steadiness you could give. James brushed his shoulder in passing, a whisper of comfort beneath the growing tension. Sirius hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then leaned in to press a quiet kiss to Remus’s hair before pulling away.

Without a word, the three of you stepped back, hearts heavy and reluctant, retreating toward the far room at the back of the shack.

The door creaked softly as it closed behind you, sealing Remus in solitude, as was always the rule. The transformation had to happen alone. It was a sacred, brutal thing—not meant to be witnessed or shared. Only endured.

You sat down with your back against the wall, every nerve in your body stretched taut with anticipation, ears straining for what you knew would come next.

And then, the screams began.

A guttural cry, raw and ragged, tore from deep within him. It was jagged and primal, scraping against the wooden walls, echoing into the night like a symphony of agony and surrender.

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as the shudder rippled through his body. Bones groaned and shifted with dreadful sounds that seemed to wrench at your very soul. A sob escaped his lips, fragile and heartbreaking. You wished you could catch it and hold it close, to shield him from every shard of pain.

Then came the howl.

Not just any howl, but a lonely, aching lament stretching into the night. It was raw and mournful, carrying the weight of every lonely full moon Remus had endured. The sound clawed at your heart—hollow, vast, aching for something just out of reach.

Your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the torrent of emotion and sound. Before you could unravel beneath it all, strong hands cupped your ears with gentle insistence.

Sirius reached for you, his touch instinctive and gentle. His palms, warm and calloused, came up to cover your ears with delicate pressure, shielding you from the worst of it. You felt his thumbs brushing softly against your temples, grounding you, protecting you.

He leaned in close, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm where it spilled into your hair. A kiss found the crown of your head—slow and lingering, a silent promise.

“It’s alright, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet determination. “You don’t have to listen to this. You don’t have to carry it all.”

He stayed close, his warmth a shield around your trembling form as the wolf’s anguished cries filled the small room.

Minutes stretched like hours. The sounds softened as the wrenching transformation slowed. The guttural growls gave way to quiet panting, gentle and rhythmic like a steady heartbeat. The rawness faded into the steady thump of paws against earth and the soft rustle of fur brushing the floor.

When it was clear—the storm had passed, and Remus was no longer the man in the center of the room but the wolf—his eyes sharp and luminous even in the dim light—the three of you shared a silent understanding.

James shifted first, muscles rippling beneath familiar fur as he transformed into his stag. His antlers reached toward the rafters, noble and steady.

Sirius followed, sleek and dark, a large dog padding softly beside you.

You felt your own form begin to shift. Bones and muscles realigned, fur brushed over skin, until you stood small and vibrant—a flicker of fiery red among the shadows.

Out beneath the cold glow of the moon, your little pack slipped into its familiar rhythm. The shift from human to animal had washed through you in one long, seamless wave.

Moony had accepted this ritual. It had taken long months, but now the wolf’s golden gaze no longer flared with confusion when met with antlers gleaming between the trunks or with the dark blur of Padfoot racing by.

And you — small, lithe, winding through the underbrush or high among the branches — had long since become part of this strange world he understood.

The door to the shack had been nudged open, and the four of you had slipped free into the night. Moony sniffed the wind, body low and tense, muscles rippling beneath thick fur. Then, with a low huff, he set off toward the trees, his steps steady, as if he, too, knew what came next.

Padfoot bounded after him, darting in wide circles as he ran. The wolf growled, low and deep, and the chase began.

You leapt easily into the trees, claws curling into bark as you climbed, higher, higher, until you could follow from above. The branches swayed beneath you, and your keen eyes tracked their wild path below. Each thud of paw against earth echoed through the hollow places inside you, a rhythm older than words.

Behind them, Prongs moved with regal calm, tall and gleaming beneath the moon, antlers cutting dark lines against the sky. He followed at a slower pace, steady and sure, his gaze sweeping the shadows around them, watchful for danger.

For no matter how many times you did this, there was always the risk — the forest was wide, the night full of sharp things unseen.

From your perch, you watched them run.

It was beautiful in a way it should not have been. The four of you out here beneath the sky, untethered by names or titles, by human skin or human fears.

And yet no matter how wild it seemed, how far the wolf ran, how high you climbed, none of you strayed far from each other.

You watched from your perch, high among the skeletal branches of an old oak. Below, the moon spilled its pale light in a trembling pool across the clearing where Moony stalked, nose low to the ground, every muscle taut with restless energy.

He had grown quieter as the hours passed, the early wildness in his steps slowing to a more deliberate, measured prowl.

Moony turned suddenly, nose twitching, body low to the ground. You stilled, claws sinking into bark, breath caught tight in your chest. Something had shifted in the air.

You felt it, sharp and sudden, like a string pulled taut. The wolf’s ears pricked, his eyes narrowing, gaze fixed on something deeper in the trees.

That was when you saw it.

A flash of russet fur, low to the ground, slipping silently between the trunks. A fox — large, lean, and bold, its sharp muzzle lifted to the wind, unaware of the danger only feet away. It moved with confidence, weaving through the underbrush, its eyes glinting in the moonlight.

And Moony saw it too.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within the wolf’s throat, darker than before. His hackles rose, claws digging into the earth as his body tensed, trembling on the brink of violence.

You felt it in your bones — this was no longer the Moony you knew, the one whose instincts had learned, slowly, to accept your presence. This was the wolf, wild and hunting, ruled only by the raw, ancient hunger that surged beneath his skin.

Before you could move, Padfoot was already there — a blur of dark fur, teeth bared, barking sharp and loud, trying to draw Moony’s attention away.

He leapt between the wolf and the fox, barking again, circling wide, ears flattened, doing everything to pull him back.

Prongs charged in next, antlers held high, stamping the ground hard, a warning. He swung his head, shifting his weight, ready to block if he had to.

But it was not enough. Moony’s gaze had locked on the fox, and the wolf within him would not be denied. With a sudden, savage snarl, he lunged forward, muscles coiling for the kill.

You moved before you could think.

Leaping from the tree, body light as flame, you raced down the trunk, claws skimming the bark. The ground rushed up beneath you and you bolted across the clearing, small and fast, paws flying over the forest floor.

You could hear the thundering of Moony’s breath behind you, hear Padfoot barking wildly, trying to stop him, but you had no choice — the fox would never outrun the wolf, but you could reach it first. You could save it.

You skidded to a stop between them, your small form a flash of red against the dark, and lunged at the fox, driving it away with sharp yips and snapping teeth. The startled animal fled into the undergrowth, vanishing in a streak of russet fur.

But too late.

A snarl split the night, closer than you had thought. You turned just in time to see Moony’s powerful form descending on you, teeth bared, eyes burning with wild hunger.

You tried to leap clear — but claws raked across your side, sharp and brutal, tearing through fur and flesh alike.

A searing pain burst through you, bright and hot, as your body tumbled to the ground. A raw, helpless scream escaped your throat — high and sharp in the voice of the red panda, a sound you could hardly believe was your own.

The world tilted, spun. You barely registered Padfoot’s furious barking as he rushed to your side, circling you protectively.

Prongs moved swiftly, antlers low, stepping between the wolf and where you lay crumpled. With careful, deliberate movements, he began to drive Moony back, forcing him away from you.

A sharp stamp of hooves, a commanding toss of his head — the stag herded the snarling wolf, inch by inch, back toward the shack.

You lay there, trembling, pain lancing through your side, the scent of blood sharp in the cold air.

Padfoot pressed close, his body warm and solid against yours, muzzle nuzzling your fur with desperate care, a low, frantic whimper rumbling in his throat.

He nudged at your trembling form with his nose, whining softly as he took in the torn patch of fur along your side. You whimpered faintly, curling slightly from the sharp flare of pain, your small body shivering in the cold. But your gaze, dazed and wide, remained locked on the wolf.

Moony was still tense, teeth bared, hackles high, though Prongs had stepped between you now. The great stag gave a forceful stamp of his hooves, then turned his antlered head and let out a deep, gruff snort — a pointed sound meant for Padfoot alone. An unmistakable command.

The shack. Now.

Padfoot hesitated only for a second, torn between instinct and reason, but the message was clear.

He stepped closer, nudging at you again, then dipped his head low and with immense care, grasped the scruff of your neck in his jaws — firm but gentle. Jjust enough to hold you, to lift you as a mother might carry her young.

You whimpered again as the movement pulled at your injury, but you allowed it. Trusting him.

The forest blurred past in streaks of dark and silver as Padfoot bounded toward the shack, his massive paws barely touching the earth, your small body swaying with each stride.

The door was already ajar from earlier, and he shouldered it open with a grunt, bolting through the familiar rooms until he reached the one where they had all waited before.

He set you down with the gentlest touch, then with a shimmer of movement, transformed. Sirius fell to his knees beside you, bare-chested, hair tousled, eyes wild with panic.

"Fuck, fuck, sweetheart, look at me, Flick, please," he gasped, already tearing off his shirt. The fabric ripped beneath his hands, his fingers shaking as he pressed it to your side. You whimpered beneath the touch, the burning throb of your wound sharp beneath your fur.

"You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay, love, please just… just stay with me. Don’t transform, not yet." His voice cracked.

His hands moved frantically, trying to gauge the depth of the injury. He peeled the torn fur back carefully, wincing at the sight of blood, but even through the haze of panic, he could tell it was not life-threatening.

Painful, yes, but not deep enough to tear muscle. His chest heaved in relief, though his hands never stilled.

"I’m so sorry, I should have— I should’ve been faster, fuck, you’re so bloody brave, Flicker, but gods—" he pressed another kiss to your head, voice breaking.

But beneath the sound of his words, you could hear it. Faint at first, through the thin wall separating this room from the main chamber of the shack.

A low growl, then a sharp, wet crack.

Your ears twitched toward it instinctively, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

Sirius froze too, gaze flickering toward the sound. "Shit… he’s changing back."

The noise swelled. Bones grinding, breaking, shifting. The wolf’s deep snarls unraveling into ragged groans of something less, something fragile. The air seemed to thicken with it, each tortured snap and sob a knife to your chest.

You whimpered again, curling instinctively, ears flattening against your head as the awful sounds of Remus’s transformation clawed at you.

Even now — after so many full moons — it never got easier to hear. And this time, with the sharp pulse of your own pain thrumming through your body, it seemed even more unbearable.

Sirius noticed. His breath hitched. In a heartbeat, he gathered you gently in his arms, cradling your small form against his bare chest, one hand still holding the torn fabric to your wound.

"Shhh, baby, don’t listen," he whispered, voice trembling with emotion. He cupped one large hand over your ears, shielding you as best he could. Pressed a shaky kiss to your head. His heart thudded beneath you, fast and frantic. "It’s almost over, I promise."

And then, at last, the noises shifted — the snapping and tearing gave way to gasping breaths, then softer, broken sobs. No longer the wolf but human againn.

Sirius let out a long, shaking breath, shoulders slumping in exhausted relief, though his arms remained wrapped tight around you.

"He’s back," he whispered, voice thick with feeling. "Our Moony’s back."

"You can shift back now, darling," Sirius murmured softly, voice close to your ear, fingers brushing with tender insistence over your furred form. "Come on, love. It’s alright. You’re safe."

It took effort, more than you cared to admit. Your body felt heavy, dragged down by the sharp throb of pain lancing through your side. But you breathed, slow and shallow, and let the magic coil and unspool through you. Fur gave way to skin, small trembling limbs reshaping until you lay against the floor in your human form once more, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

Your arms curled instinctively over your side. The torn fabric of your shirt clung damply to the wound, a jagged slash running across your ribs. It burned, deep and hot, though not mortal.

Before you could gather the words to speak, a low sound curled through the thin walls — a broken, fragile whimper.

Remus.

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest, a desperate pull beneath your ribs. “I need to be with him,” you whispered, voice breaking. “He’s hurting, and I have to—”

Sirius grabbed your face gently but firmly, his eyes wide with panic and urgency. “Listen to me, Y/N,” he urged, voice shaking. “Remus can’t see you hurt right now. I need you to stay here, stay safe. Please

“But Remmy he is—”

"Stay," he said quietly, voice rough with restrained emotion. "Please, sweetheart. You cannot… he cannot see you like this."

The meaning struck deep. Remus, raw and wrecked after the shift, haunted always by the weight of what he became under the moon. The guilt was carved into him already. If he saw you wounded, wounded because of him, it would undo him completely.

You exhaled a trembling breath and nodded, though every part of you longed to be with him.

Sirius gave you one last lingering glance, then rose swiftly and disappeared through the door.

Down below, the main chamber of the shack lay steeped in cool shadows. James knelt at Remus’s side, one arm steadying him as he lay curled upon the worn floorboards, trembling in the aftermath. His skin was pale, clammy with sweat, hair clinging in damp strands, his body racked with exhaustion.

"Jamie," Remus rasped, voice barely more than a ghost of sound. "Where… where is Sirius? Where is Dovey?"

James hesitated, throat tight. He could not bring himself to answer, to lie, nor could he bear to speak the truth — but before he could form a single word, the door opened with a rush of footsteps.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sirius said quickly, dropping to his knees, both hands cupping Remus’s face. "Easy, love. You’re alright. It’s over. You made it through."

At the touch, Remus sagged, a broken sound catching in his throat as he leaned toward the familiar comfort. But it was fleeting — the peace shattered by sudden panic blooming sharp and fast.

"Where is she?" he gasped, voice cracking. "Where—where is she?"

He pushed upward, limbs trembling violently beneath him. He barely managed to lift himself before collapsing back into Sirius’s arms, wild eyes darting between them. The terror in his gaze was palpable, raw and jagged.

"Moony, listen—" Sirius tried, voice low, soothing.

But it was too late. Remus caught it. The faintest shift in James’s face — the look of worry, the grief he could not quite mask.

"No," Remus choked, breath hitching sharply. "No. What did I do? Please—tell me—where is she—"

He fought to rise again, muscles screaming, breath breaking in harsh, uneven gasps. His body betrayed him, but still he struggled, frantic.

"Remus," James said urgently, catching him, holding him fast. "You cannot stand. You are barely—"

"She’s hurt," Remus gasped. The words tore from him like broken glass. "She’s hurt—I—I—please—"

The sound of it wrenched at Sirius’s heart. He could scarcely bear the sight of Remus like this, raw with fear, every inch of him consumed by guilt.

"She is safe," Sirius said at last, voice low, steady. "She is alright. I swear it."

But the words did little to quiet the storm in Remus’s eyes, wide and shining with helpless terror. He shook his head, breaths coming faster, shallow and ragged. "I need to see her," he whispered hoarsely. "Please—I need her—"

The door creaked open softly.

You barely paused in the threshold before you were moving, crossing the space in quick, determined steps, heart straining in your chest.

Remus and James looked up in unison — and both froze.

Their eyes fell instantly to your side, where your torn shirt clung crimson to your skin. James’s face paled visibly, mouth parting in alarm, while Remus’s entire body seemed to seize, panic flaring bright and wild across his features.

But before either could speak, you lifted a hand, voice quick and light, trying your best to sound calm. "It’s alright," you said softly, even managing a small smile, "truly — it looks worse than it is. Just a scratch, I promise."

"That is not a scratch," James said at once, voice strained.

Remus, however, looked utterly stricken. His breath hitched, eyes wide, horrified. "I —" he choked, trying to sit upright. "I did that — oh God — what have I done?"

You were at his side before he could fall apart, sinking down gently in front of him, cupping his face in your hands. His skin was clammy beneath your palms, trembling faintly, his eyes bright with tears.

"You didn’t," you whispered, voice soft but firm. You leaned in closer, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

"It was not you. I—I fell," you said, weaving the lie with care. "A branch caught me on the way down, that is all."

You fixed him with a steady, insistent look before shifting your gaze to James. For a moment, he paused, jaw clenched, but then the unspoken message in your eyes reached him, and he gave a small, knowing nod.

"Remus, love," you whispered softly, leaning in. "It was not you."

Tears glittered in his eyes. He shook his head faintly, breath hitching. "I—I saw—"

"You saw nothing," you said gently, voice warm, steady. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I fell and a branch caught me. That is all."

You glanced meaningfully at James, who caught on immediately, clearing his throat.

"She is telling the truth," James said with conviction, moving to kneel beside you both. "We saw it. Clumsy thing tried to fly out of a tree."

That earned a soft breath of laughter from you, and even Remus’s lips twitched, though his gaze was still worried.

"I—are you alright?" he whispered. His fingers hovered near your side, hesitant, trembling.

You smiled, catching his hand in yours, threading your fingers together. "I am alright," you promised, voice light and sure.

A little glimmer of mischief sparked through you then, and you leaned back slightly. "See for yourself."

Before either of them could protest, you let the shift wash over you — fur rippling into place, form shrinking down until Flicker, small and bright, sat before them.

James groaned dramatically. "Dove—"

But you were already on the move, padding in a slow circle around them, tail flicking playfully, showing them with every bounce of your step that the injury barely hindered you at all.

James laughed softly, rubbing a hand over his face. "You are such a menace."

Remus let out a shaky, relieved laugh of his own, shoulders slumping as the tension bled from his frame. He opened his arms invitingly.

With an eager chirp, you leapt into his lap, curling against his chest, pressing your little face beneath his chin.

His laughter broke free then — warm and breathless. "Merlin, I love you," he whispered, arms folding protectively around you.

When he shifted slightly and winced, you pulled back in alarm, big eyes blinking up at him.

Remus grinned, eyes twinkling. "What is this? Afraid of hurting me, dove?"

You gave a series of indignant little chirps, tail flicking in protest.

At that moment, Sirius swept in from the doorway, brows lifting at the sight before him. "Well, well," he chuckled, crouching down. "Look who is causing trouble already."

He scooped you up carefully, cradling you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your furry head.

"Alright, enough showing off," he murmured fondly. "Come back to us, pretty girl."

At the warmth in his voice, you let the magic ripple once more, shifting back in a blink, now nestled in Sirius’s arms, your bare skin against the warmth of his chest.

Remus and James were beaming at you, eyes bright with love and relief.

"There you are," James teased softly, reaching to brush his knuckles down your cheek.

You giggled, leaning into his touch as Sirius kissed your temple and Remus gave a soft, shaky laugh, still holding your gaze as though he could hardly believe you were truly alright.

The first pale light of morning was creeping through the thinning trees, brushing the world in soft, misted gold. The forest lay hushed in the aftermath of the night, the sharp edge of the full moon dulled now, fading beneath the slow, blooming light of dawn.

Sirius had an arm wrapped tightly around Remus, supporting most of his weight as they walked. Remus was swaying between steps, utterly spent, head drooping against Sirius’s shoulder, his breath still coming in slow, unsteady pulls. Sirius spoke to him in low, soothing murmurs, each word a tether keeping him grounded, close.

James stayed at your side, and the determined set of his jaw told you there was no use arguing. You tried anyway.

"I can walk, Jamie," you said stubbornly. Your side still throbbed faintly beneath your bandages, but nothing you could not handle.

James gave you a pointed look, one brow arched, hazel eyes dark beneath the stray curls falling into his face. "Not taking any chances with you."

He stooped then, swift and sure, arms sliding beneath your knees and back before you could so much as blink. You squeaked softly as he lifted you against his chest.

"James—"

He cut you off with a quiet look. "You do not get to argue. Not tonight."

You huffed, half exasperated, half endeared, curling instinctively into him as he carried you with maddening ease. His warmth, the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, was a comfort you could not deny.

They walked in pairs, Sirius and Remus behind you, James carrying you just ahead, each step steady and sure. The path wound gently through the soft hush of dawn, the castle spires beginning to rise through the misted distance.

James broke the quiet first, his voice low, for your ears alone.

"When we get back," he murmured, "Sirius and I are going to have a long talk with you."

You stiffened a little in his arms, glancing up at him. His mouth was set, serious now.

"You cannot do that again," he continued, gaze fixed ahead.

"You cannot throw yourself between Moony and a fox just because you want to help." His tone was quiet but sharp, firm beneath the softness. "That is not how this works."

You opened your mouth to speak, but he hushed you immediately, glancing back to where Remus leaned against Sirius, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"Not now," James whispered. "Do not wake him with this. Just listen."

You closed your mouth, gaze dropping.

James’s voice gentled a little, though the weight of his words remained. "We go as a pack for a reason, dove. We are there to protect him. But we are also there to protect each other. And I swear to Merlin, Sirius and I—and bloody Remus himself—would rather see a fox dead ten times over than see you hurt. Do you understand?"

You swallowed, heart twisting with guilt beneath your ribs. After a beat, you nodded softly against his chest.

"Good." James whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair.

You shook your head with a smirk. "You won’t be dead by twenty-one."

James laughed, a warm sound that held a hint of something more. "I sure hope so," he said, eyes gleaming. "But if you keep getting into trouble like this, I won’t make it."

You smiled softly, brushing your nose against his jaw. "I’m sorry," you whispered. "I promise I won’t give you another heart attack."

"You had better not," he said, though the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, eyes warm now, brushing away the sharpness of before.

Behind you, Sirius’s quiet murmurs carried through the still air, words of comfort for Remus, who remained nestled against him, too worn to do more than breathe slowly, softly, safe in the circle of their love.

The familiar stone halls of the castle greeted you like a sanctuary. The heavy oak doors gave way with a low creak beneath Sirius’s shoulder, James just behind him, still holding you carefully in his arms.

The corridors were quiet now, blessedly empty, save for the soft shuffle of your little group making its way up through the winding staircases.

Remus was barely conscious, eyes fluttering open for the briefest of moments before slipping shut again.

Sirius carried him with fierce protectiveness, whispering softly into his hair, words meant only for him, as though he could anchor him through the remnants of pain and exhaustion.

At last, your dorm appeared around the corner. Inside, everything was as you had left it, warm and waiting.

Sirius lowered Remus gently onto the wide bed, tugging the covers up and around him. Remus stirred only faintly, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he curled instinctively into the pillow. His chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythm now, sleep already pulling him under.

You had barely touched your feet to the floor before Sirius was there, reaching for you, strong arms sliding around your waist, pulling you in without a word. You melted against him at once, your cheek pressed to his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“I am so glad you are alright,” Sirius whispered into your hair, voice low and tight with something unspoken. His fingers curled in the fabric of your shirt, holding you close as though to prove to himself that you were here, whole, safe.

“You scared me tonight. You scared all of us.”

“I know,” you whispered, guilt knotting in your chest. You tilted your face up to meet his eyes. “I am sorry, Siri. I... I did not mean to put anyone at risk. It just— it happened so quickly. I only wanted to help.”

His expression softened at that, though a faint crease lingered in his brow. He kissed your forehead tenderly, breathing you in.

“I know, love. I know you did. But this is not going to happen again. We cannot lose you. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, throat tightening. “I do. I promise.”

Sirius held you for another long moment before finally letting you go with a sigh, brushing his knuckles down your cheek.

James had already set about stripping off his boots, tossing them haphazardly beneath the bed. He looked over at the two of you, his smile soft and tired.

“You will be the death of us yet,” James murmured with affection, voice low so as not to disturb Remus, already deep in sleep. “But you handled yourself well tonight.”

You gave him a small smile, warmth blooming in your chest despite the ache of the night. “I was lucky.”

Sirius snorted softly, shaking his head. “Lucky or not, next time you so much as think about leaping between Moony and danger, we will hex you to the bed until the moon has passed.”

You laughed quietly, easing onto the bed beside them, muscles finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion.

James climbed in beside you, tossing an arm lazily over your waist, pulling you close. Sirius settled in next, curling against your other side, one hand resting lightly atop your hip, fingers tracing idle patterns.

Remus lay at the center, soft breaths whispering through parted lips, brow smooth in sleep now, all tension melted away.

You glanced toward him, heart tugging with quiet fondness, with a love that ached in the softest corners of your soul.

Even if he never learned the truth of that night—how it was his own claws that caused the wound—and even though you had all agreed, silently, to spare him that burden, sometimes a lie was not cruelty. It was mercy, a fragile shield to protect a heart too fragile to bear the weight of guilt it did not need to carry.

And in the end, the four of you had been lucky.

It was, after all, only just a scratch.

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cece693 · 5 months ago

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Personal Bodyguard

pairing: tony stark x male reader tags: you can't tell me Tony isn't bi or at least experimented in his youth, you become his personal bodyguard after the cave fiasco and iron man revelation, enemies-to-friends-to lovers, Tony really needs a hug, reader is set to become his friend (and more), military background

You’re used to working in tense environments. The military taught you that complacency is death and that vigilance is survival. You’ve seen your fair share of conflict, learned to read people and situations at a glance. That’s probably why Pepper Potts sought you out after Tony Stark’s dramatic return from Afghanistan. She looked you up and down with calculating eyes, recognized a bit of herself in your “don’t mess with me” attitude, and decided on the spot—you were the best candidate to protect Tony Stark from himself, and from the new, dangerous world he was plunging into.

Tony’s penthouse overlooks the Malibu coastline, the sun reflecting off the ocean waves and onto polished floors. There he stands—fresh from the workshop, grease on his tank top and that lopsided grin that only half-masks the shadows under his eyes. He spots you, sizes you up, and crosses his arms. “Pep, this is the solution you found?” Tony gestures at you dismissively. “A glorified babysitter?”

Pepper forces a polite smile. “A bodyguard, Tony.” You don’t rise to his bait. The best reaction here is none at all—just a stony expression. Let him get it out of his system. He cocks an eyebrow at your silence, clearly expecting some snark in return.

“Fine,” he says, turning on his heel. “Follow me. Or don’t. Whatever." Pepper shakes her head apologetically as she goes to leave. Before she goes, she places a hand on your shoulder, giving you an unspoken good luck. You already know you’ll need it.

Tony tries his best to make your life difficult. He’ll disappear from his home at odd hours, use his snark to try and aggravate you, or do something reckless like attempt a suit flight test above the Malibu cliffs. However, you're never that far behind and your patience is endless. One night, he’s just touched down too hard in the Mark II, crashing through his garage and damaging several of his expensive cars. You rush in, weapon at the ready, scanning for threats.

“Relax,” Tony says, struggling to peel off the broken armor. “It’s just me doing some, uh, routine test improvements.” You exhale slowly, then calmly dismantle your sidearm. No threats—except the one Tony poses to himself.

“You know,” you say eventually, picking up a piece of the shattered gauntlet, “if you keep messing around with these half-finished upgrades, eventually I won’t just be your bodyguard. I’ll be the one scraping you off the ground.”

Tony stares at you, momentarily struck by the genuine concern in your voice, before clearing his throat. “Point taken,” he mutters, but for the first time, he seems less antagonistic—and almost thankful.

The slow thaw between you and Tony continues. He starts sharing details of the Iron Man suit, half to show off and half because he’s realized you’re more at ease when you know everything that’s going on. You learn that behind the smug exterior, Tony is propelled by guilt, determination, and a heart that aches to do genuine good. And for your part, despite your initial refusal to get personally involved, you find yourself caring about him—protecting him matters, but so does understanding him.

Late nights often find the two of you in the workshop. Tony’s hyper-focused on some new repulser tech while you stand guard, occasionally offering your own insight to whatever he was working on. You’d never guess Tony would be the type to listen, but he does, especially when your suggestions keep him from blowing up half the lab. He’ll acknowledge your tips with a half-smile, or a nod that says more than words.

Pepper noticed the shift. She’d smile at you in passing, relief evident in her eyes. She once patted your shoulder and said, “You’re good for him. He trusts you, and that’s not something I say lightly.” Rhodey, Tony’s closest friend, warmed up to you fast. He appreciated having another military mind around. When Tony got lost in his own arrogance, Rhodey and you would share an exasperated look.

Then everything changes again when Tony becomes an Avenger. Suddenly, it’s not just small-scale threats or paparazzi you have to worry about—it’s cosmic forces, alien invasions, global catastrophes. You do your best to keep Tony safe in these new, unpredictable situations, but it’s a challenge.

The Avengers team is a powder keg of personalities. Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, openly clashes with Tony over leadership and moral ideals. You see how the tension weighs on Tony; he deflects with sarcasm, but you’ve come to know the signs of when he’s hurting.

One night at the tower, you’re standing off to the side while Tony and Steve butt heads—again. "Take away the armor," Steve says, voice steely, "and what are you?" The words hang in the air. Tony’s jaw tightens, and you can practically see his heart sink. It’s a cheap shot. And it’s wrong. You step forward before Tony can snap back with a trademark insult. There’s a calm coolness in your voice, the kind that hushes even the Captain.

“Tony Stark is the mind that built that suit,” you say evenly. “He’s the one who sees solutions where everyone else sees dead ends. If you take away the armor, you’ve still got the man who pulled himself out of a cave and saved his own life with scrap metal—because that’s who he is. He’s more than the suit, Rogers, and you know it.”

Steve meets your gaze and steps forward, but you aren’t intimidated. There were lines you simply wouldn’t let him cross, not tonight, not after he delivered that cheap shot at Tony without even knowing him. You can see Tony stiffen beside you, as if ready to jump in—or bolt. But you’re not about to let Steve’s words cut him down.

“Think very carefully about what you say next, Rogers,” you warn, voice low and steady. “Because none of you would be here—Avengers, Stark Tower, anything—if it weren’t for this man. Armor or no armor.”

For a split second, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you. Clint shifts uneasily near the back, Natasha straightens from her casual lean against the wall, and even Bruce lifts his head from the tablet he’s been absorbed in. Steve’s jaw tightens; he clearly didn’t expect you to stand your ground so bluntly—and you don’t care. Your top priority is Tony’s well-being, not theirs. With nothing more to say, you turn on your heel and head for the workshop.

By the time you reach the corridor leading to Tony’s private workspace, the echo of your own footsteps has become a steady, reassuring beat. Only then do you register the soft tread following behind you. He’s close—but conspicuously silent, which is out of character for a man who thrives on quips and banter.

“Sir, you have arrived at the workshop,” Jarvis’s polite voice chimes overhead, and the door slides open with a hiss.

You step inside and finally turn around. Tony lingers just past the threshold, his eyes lowered. His silence seems almost heavy, like he’s struggling to find the right words. “I never asked you to defend me,” he murmurs. “But you…you did. Why?” The workshop’s lights glow softly, illuminating half-built armor pieces and scattered blueprints. You let the sound of humming machinery fill the short gap before you speak.

“Because you needed someone to,” you say simply, though your voice carries an undercurrent of heat—residual frustration from your confrontation with Steve. “And because I wanted to.”

Tony’s gaze flickers upward—he looks uncertain, almost disarmed. “I can handle myself,” he says, though he doesn’t quite meet your eyes. It’s a weak protest, more habit than conviction.

You exhale, crossing your arms. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to face it alone. Especially when the hits are coming from the people supposed to have your back.”

“You caught me off guard,” he admits, voice low, “standing up for me like that. Especially in front of the team.”

You stand your ground, letting the seriousness of the moment settle in. “You act like I never stand up for you.”

A wry huff of laughter escapes him. “Not the same way. Usually, you’re telling me not to blow up half my lab or reminding me to eat something other than coffee. This time you had my back when it counted.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” you ask, tilting your head. “I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Stark. That means I protect you—against outside threats and inside threats too. Even if that threat’s a super soldier with a knack for colorful speeches.”

“So that’s it?” he asks, a thin note of vulnerability in his tone. “You did it because it’s your job?” You take in his tense posture—shoulders rigid, hand flexing at his side. Tony’s never been good at showing his more vulnerable edges. Carefully, you move closer, letting your voice soften.

“Let’s get one thing straight. Defending you isn’t just me ‘clocking in.’ I do it because I care. Because I know you’re more than just the suit, no matter what Steve says.” Tony looks up at you in surprise, but you're not done yet. "If this was just part of my job, I wouldn't be spending all my free time down here with you. I would've jumped at the chance to quit when you offered it on a silver platter."

Tony cracks a half-smile, remembering when he outright tried to bribe you to quit, and you surprisingly rejected his offer. The money could've set you for life, supported you and a family if you so desired, but you simply shook your head and informed him about a meeting he had in the morning.

Tony moves closer, so close you can count the faint freckles along his cheekbones. “I hated the idea of having a bodyguard,” Tony admits, voice low. “But I’ve come to realize how much I needed you.” Your heart stutters, unsure of how to respond. Tony swallows thickly, looking uncharacteristically unsure. There’s no witty remark, no deflecting sarcasm. It’s just him, raw and honest, baring feelings you never thought he’d share.

“You’ve become one of the closest people in my life,” he continues. “I trust you in ways I don’t trust anyone else. Hell, Pepper might be the only other person who gets me anywhere close to this.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your gaze. “And…I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I might—well—I feel something for you.”

Your stomach flips, warmth blooming in your chest. There’s something surreal about this: Tony Stark, the man who refused to even acknowledge your presence at first, now openly admitting he cares—that he wants something more than just having you as security detail.

A ghost of a smile curves your lips. “I might feel something for you, too.” Tony’s grin is immediate—relief and mischief dancing in his eyes. He leans in, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades.

“Do I have to make an appointment to kiss my bodyguard,” he murmurs, “or is this—” You cut him off by closing the distance, your lips finding his in a slow, tentative kiss.

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sweetromanova · 1 month ago

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Crisis Management: Part Two🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

Chapter Two

The problem with press events wasn’t always the press.

It was the people.

All polished smiles and curated soundbites, the room filled with the kind of performative charm that could make even Tony Stark look humble. You’d been to enough of these events to know the drill, gloss over the truth, glam up the heroes and sell the illusion of unity over entrees and expensive champagne. They were less about valour and more about vanity. Tonight was no exception.

Or at least so you’d thought.

This one had started with a glimmer of hope and just a flicker of change.

Natasha Romanoff had shown up in heels, willingly and in a floor-length dress that she hadn’t threatened to set on fire. A slinky, dark crimson number that shimmered under the lights like wet blood and fit her like it had been tailored by a spy with too much time on their hands.

Another notch of progress.

But hope has a short shelf life when you're dealing with assassins and political theatre.

“Try to keep the murder-eyes to a minimum.” You’d whispered as the two of you stood at the entrance, side by side beneath the glow of a chandelier that probably cost more your whole apartment building.

She turned just enough to give you that same dry, flat look, equal parts boredom and threat. It said No promises louder than words ever could.

She was supposed to be the guest of honour, ‘hosting’ the pretentious elite of the Upper East Side. You almost laughed when at first invitation, she refused to ‘host’, the word that here meant playing diplomat, smiling just enough to be disarming, shaking hands with people who funded wars in countries she’d once bled in. It was a performance, one she hadn’t signed up for but couldn’t quite walk away from.

You watched her scan the room with that calculating stillness, the same kind she used before a mission went sideways. Something in her expression told you the evening was already unraveling. Or maybe it never even stood a chance.

After an hour of polite smiling and whispered profiles, you’d left her alone with some congressman that had brought his daughters, teenagers that looked at Natasha like she hung the moon. She’d smiled politely, engaged in conversations about academic interests like she’d ever even been to high school.

After a quick dismissal, you’d gone to get some water, leant across the bar to take it in and before you could think about what and where you needed to show her off next, you caught her eye.

The congressman and family were still stood with her, joined by another older couple with kind eyes but her eyes were locked across the room. On you.

You didn’t notice at first. The intensity had made goosebumps appear and you turned away for a brief second to catch your breath when a body almost slammed into yours.

“NO WAY! Oh my god, it’s you!” Catching a glimpse of the person who just body checked you into the bar, you almost rolled your eyes at your new companion. Emily Martins, a reporter that had begun her career around the same time as you and nearly tanked you both in the first week. You had been assisting in a press conference for some young influencer that was about to break out into the music industry, given the important job to brief the press on what questions were appropriate and what questions were going to get both of your necks on the chopping block.

She was the second person to put her hand up eagerly once it had commenced and the third person to ask her question. A question that had been forbidden by yourself.

So it took exactly 30 seconds for the influencer to stand up and walk off the stage and leave you with the fall out. She was the last person you wanted to see ever again.

“Emily. It’s… surprising to see you.” You politely smiled, stiffening as she’d hugged you warmly, like it was familiar.

“You look good!” She smirked. “Running PR for the Avengers is really paying off, huh?”

You grimaced. “In migraine and stress ulcers, mostly. But sure.”

She laughed and you thought maybe she had changed. The industry of journalism was cut throat, maybe she had shaped up. She looked a hell of a lot healthier than she did fresh out of college. Her eye bags were non-existent, her hair looked like she’d spent the better half of the day getting styled and her dress was flattering, hugging every curve like a second skin.

You couldn’t deny she was attractive, in that natural kind of way. Soft jawline, warm eyes, the kind of girl who didn’t have to try. She just had a calm, easy presence that drew people in without saying much.

What you didn’t realise was that somewhere across the room, Natasha Romanoff was gripping her wine glass like it was a live grenade.

She should’ve been circulating. Instead, she stood in the corner like a living security breach, every muscle tense, like she was calculating exactly how many steps it would take to cross the room and ‘accidentally’ spill red wine on her dress.

“So, what are you up to nowadays? Apart from babysitting Earth’s mightiest egos?”

You coughed up a laugh and smiled. “Honestly not much. All work, no life.”

“Nothing’s changed then.”

“I guess not. What about yourself? Still entertainment reporting?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Actually, I’m an editor now. It’s different but it means I don’t have to stand on red carpets for six hours in 7 inch heels and a corset.”

“Editor? Nice. Anything else on the cards?”

“Well I’m learning to balance it. Every friend I ever had I college became my adversary in the industry but I’m trying.” She jokes, leaning in just a little closer. “If you ever wanted to learn a bit of work-life balance then I’m sure we could arrange-“

You felt her presence a second a second before she spoke. “Hi.” All threatening eyes and an even more threatening posture.

“Hi! Natasha, right?”

“You’re standing in my way.”

You and Emily both blinked, caught off guard. “Uh- Nat-“

“Yes! Yeah, sorry!” Emily excused, stepping aside to let the redhead come directly between you.

“Don’t apologise.” She simply uttered, her shoulder brushing yours as she turned her back completely to Emily.

You stared at her. “Natasha, this is-“

“I know who she is.” She still didn’t look at her.

Emily looked between you, confused and more than a little awkward. “I was just saying hi to an old friend. But it’s great to meet you, Natasha. Thank you for your service.”

Natasha’s mouth curled, not in a smile. “Did you say hi?”

“Sorry?” Emily questioned.

“You said you were saying hi, did you say hi?” Emily glanced at you, her eyebrows knotted in confusion as she now tried to avoid the redhead’s gaze.

“Yeah-“

“Then what are you still doing here?

“But-“

“Natasha!”

Emily exhaled, almost a scoff as her cheeks flushed. “Emily, I’m sorry-“ You attempted to apologise but the damage was done, she simply gave you one sold nod and quickly retreated into the crowd.

Then you turned to her.

“What the hell was that?”

She didn’t flinch. “You don’t need to waste your time on people like that. A reporter? Seriously?”

“People like what? She was an old friend, not even that. You were supposed to be hosting, not playing bodyguard.”

She didn’t answer, just scanned the room again, jaw tight.

Then someone called her name, a panelist for the charity presentation. You’d agreed on it earlier. Easy lines, rehearsed points. She just had to show up and say the words.

She walked up to the mic like she was walking into a battlefield.

“Hi.” She spoke. No warmth. No inflection. “This organisation does… good work. With kids.” Pause. “Or gardens. I don’t know.”

You closed your eyes, the anger seeping through your skin.

“Anyway…” She continued. “It’s all very... important. Give them money.”

Someone near the front coughed. The host smiled too tightly. You wanted to disappear.

By the time she walked off-stage, you were already waiting for her.

“We’re leaving.” Your voice was sharp and quiet.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car was silent at first.

Then she spoke. “I don’t get it.” Natasha said, voice low and dangerous. “You say you want me to be real. To be myself. But the second I stop playing nice, you act like I’ve gone rogue.”

You exhaled, slowly. “What you did tonight wasn’t ‘being yourself.’ It was sabotage.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She snapped. “Was I supposed to just stand there doing everything while you’re stood making heart eyes at Ms Hollywood reporter?

You turned to her, eyes blazing. “You are the person of interest so YES! You were meant to be working the room. I stepped away from your for ONE second. I wasn’t making heart eyes at anyone. That was a conversation. You know, those things normal people have?”

Her laugh was humourless. “Right. Normal people, with normal pasts, normal trauma, normal ways of pretending to be someone they’re not.”

You looked at her then and under the anger you felt, the anger she was also expelling, you saw it. Not jealousy or pride.

Fear.

“Natasha.” You sighed, softer now. “I don’t want you to fake anything. I don’t want a script. I want you. But I need the version of you that tries. Not the one that pushes people away just to feel safe.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t get to tell me how to protect myself.”

“I’m not. But you don’t get to burn the place down and call it a security system either.”

She turned away, toward the window. Her reflection was stark against the glass, sharp cheekbones, haunted eyes, a woman built to disappear.

You didn’t speak again.

But as the car turned toward the Tower, you caught her hand twitch slightly between you on the seat.

Wanting to reach you but not quite ready.

As the car pulled into the assigned space, armed guards already waiting to escort you both inside, you felt the gentle press of fingertips on the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning, you knocked on her door at exactly 9:00am sharp.

No tactical gear. No detailed briefing. Just your well-worn jeans, your favourite shirt that smelled faintly of coffee and a little checklist with directions folded into your back pocket.

When she opened the door, barefoot and wearing a simple black tee, suspicion etched across her face, you raised your phone like a peace offering.

“What’s this?” She asked, eyeing the screen warily.

“Itinerary.” You said with a grin. “Today’s mission? Deep infiltration into New York’s worst influencer trends.”

Natasha blinked slowly. “This is a joke.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “If I’m going to manage your image, I figure I should at least know what people think ‘normal’ looks like these days. Plus, you still owe me for threatening Emily with those infamous eyebrows.”

She smirked, a flash of amusement softening her guarded expression. “They’re very expressive.”

“And yet, surprisingly not listed as a weapon. That’s what gets me.”

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, assessing. Then she relented, voice clipped but willing. “Fine. But if I end up on someone’s Instagram wearing a flower crown, I’m going to need bail money.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The cafe felt like choreographed chaos, walls sheathed in fake grass, neon signs buzzing with relentless brightness and at least three ring lights stationed on each table. It felt more like being sat at an interrogation desk than a marble counter where the drinks names were longer than the street addresses.

The barista behind the counter had a nose ring, half a dozen bracelets jingling on her wrists and the kind of energy that suggested she could recite your entire birth chart before asking your name.

You pointed at the menu with uneasy smile. “We’ll take one... iced matcha-lavender-oat-milk-foam latte with the edible flower garnish.” You could feel Natasha’s eyes looking at you like you’d just chanted a witches spell. “And one upside-down dirty chai, extra espresso, vegan whipped cream, shaken, not stirred latte.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making that up.”

“I wish I was.”

When the drinks arrived, Natasha stared at the green foam like it might lash out. “What’s the garnish for?”

“How do I know? Drama?” You guessed.

Snatching up the straws, you led her to a corner booth, half hidden behind a towering ficus. She leaned in, watching you snap a picture of the drink with a look of concern.

“Why post it if you’re just going to drink it?” She asked.

“Well what else am I supposed to do with it? It won’t stay pretty forever.” You said. “Anyway, real influencers don’t even drink it. They just tilt their heads and act mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes but took a tentative sip of the matcha, immediately grimacing. “That tastes like a garden and regret.”

You choked back a laugh. “That’s the lavender.”

She scrunched her nose. “Who decided flowers belong in coffee anyway? What’s next, a rose petal cappuccino?”

“Look at the third item under seasonal drinks on the menu. It’s already there.”

She gave you a sideways glance, passing you the next drink to try. “If I wanted to drink sadness and dirt, I’d stick to my morning kale smoothie. At least that doesn’t cost $10.”

You nodded solemnly. “I’m not mad at the chai though.”

She stared at the cup like it might bite back. “Promise me we’re not doing any beetroot lattes next.”

“Scout’s honour. Unless it’s trending.”

For the first time in days, she looked lighter like she’d momentarily shrugged off the weight she always carried. The door chimed once more, letting in a tidal wave of meticulously styled mayhem, all matching pastel sweat sets, cheeks flushed with heavy blusher and three girls leaning in close, whispering into their phones as they recorded an ASMR coffee review.

You both watched quietly.

Then Natasha leaned in, voice low and amused. “Which one do you think would cry first if her phone battery died?”

You pointed without hesitation. “Middle one. Definitely middle one.”

She smirked. “I was going to say left. The fake lashes scream ‘emotional fragility’.”

You sipped your ridiculous drink and sank back into the booth. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you all week.”

“I like judging people. It’s relaxing.”

“Noted.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Next, you stepped into a pop-up installation that felt like a haunted version of TikTok’s algorithm meets Stranger Things. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows as cold fog swirled around your ankles. Broken mirrors lined the walls, reflecting twisted, stretched versions of your faces. In the corner, oversized inflatable props lay half-deflated, their warped shapes looking more like creepy creatures than anything playful.

Natasha eyed a giant swing, complete with plastic tentacles, with a deadpan stare. “Is this supposed to be a sex thing?”

“No. But I’m sure someone’s turned it into one. You muttered, walking a little closer to her than necessary.

She didn’t smile but suddenly shoved you in to the swing. The air turned inexplicably colder as she pulled out her phone, the screen casting a ghostly light across her features. She snapped a quick photo, catching your wide-eyed expression against the flickering background. “NATASHA!”

“Sorry.” She said, utterly unapologetic, smirking away at the photo.

In the mirror room, she struck a mock dramatic pose beneath a sputtering neon sign that buzzed ‘I am the vibe’, the letters glitching like a dying transmission from another world.

You leaned in, voice low. “That’s definitely going in our next press kit.”

She groaned but her eyes kept darting to the shadows, ever-alert for the jump scare she knew was coming “Let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t even acknowledge it, just turned and started walking, a little too fast until a prickle of instinct made you glance over your shoulder.

She wasn’t there. “Nat?”

A cold breeze swept through the corridor of floating bubbles, each one bursting with a hollow pop that echoed too loud in the silence. You froze for just one second.

Then you bolted.

You just made it to the exit before a figure lunged from the darkness, fingers curling around your arm as you jumped a mile into the air.

“Gotcha!” Natasha grinned, voice low and teasing but with just enough menace to make your stomach drop.

“NATASHA!”

Once your heart stopped trying to beat its way out of your chest, you both doubled over in laughter, though your nerves still buzzed, raw from the eerie atmosphere that clung like smoke.

As you stepped into the harsh light outside, Natasha tried to play it cool, hiding a shiver behind her usual smirk.

She failed spectacularly

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“It said it was a walk. A moderate walk. This is not a walk.” You gasped, clutching your chest. “This is an incline from hell.”

“It’s barely a slope.” Natasha said, unfazed, striding ahead with her hair now tied up and sunglasses perched on her head, untouched by the exertion that was killing you softly.

You collapsed dramatically against a tree stump. “I’m filing a formal complaint.”

She glanced back, smirking. “Want me to carry you?”

“Want to be stabbed with a compostable straw?”

“I don’t think you brought one.”

“Don’t test me, Romanoff.”

Eventually the incline flattened and the city skyline stretched before you, all shimmering glass and fading sunlight, hazy and golden.

You stood side by side at the lookout’s edge. Natasha’s eyes followed the shifting light, watching people slow down to snap selfies. “I’ve never understood that.” She murmured.

“What? Sunsets?”

“No. The need to prove you were here.” She nodded toward a girl fiddling with her phone’s timer. “To capture a moment instead of just living it.”

You met her gaze, steady and thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not about proving it.” You said after a moment. “Maybe it’s just wanting to remember who you were in the moment, who you were with.”

She didn’t say anything but her eyes lingered on yours a little longer than necessary.

You held up your phone. “Let’s take one. Just for us.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Did you hear me say I don’t get it?”

“Exactly. So let’s try, for science.”

With a dramatic sigh, she leaned in. You both fit awkwardly into the frame, your heads tilted together as the fading sun lit your faces in warm gold. You snapped the photo then grinned at the screen.

“It’s good.” You said, surprised by how much you meant it. The colours in the background bled together, creating the perfect lighting for the both of you. Natasha’s face held a soft smirk, even softer eyes as you smiled next to her.

“Let me see.” She reached for the phone, studied the image. “Not terrible.”

Then after a pause, quieter. “Let me take one of you.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Seriously?”

“I want to see something.”

“See what?”

“Just let me. Please?”

With a huff, you agreed and awkwardly posed in front of her. You stood for a second. “Did you take it yet?”

“Hold on, it’s a little bright.”

“When did you turn into a photographer?”

“Just be patient and smile.”

“Take the photo already!”

With a laugh, you reached out for the phone in her hands and pushed it down. “Times up!”

“You totally ruined the shot!” She groaned but with a smile, opening the photo. The photo did look like something pulled straight from Tumblr circa 2012. Soft edges, motion blur, an almost dreamlike quality. You were mid-laugh, hand stretched toward the camera like you were reaching for her.

“You look beautiful.” She said, quiet again.

You looked up, only just registering how close she was now. The moment held for a second, you both enjoying the quiet.

Until… “Oh my god! So cute! Slay queens.”

You turned to find a young couple, both dressed in pastel pride jackets and sparkly eye makeup, grinning at you like you’d just won a reality show. One of them clutched a bedazzled tote that said ‘Gay Rights Or Else’.

“You two are adorable!” The taller one gushed. “Like peak sapphic excellence. Want us to take one of you together? We’ll get your good sides. Promise.”

You hesitated for half a second but Natasha was already nodding slowly, eyes narrowed in confusion. You were in a state of shock as she pulled you next to her, positioning you just a little in front of her.

Natasha suddenly held up her hand. “Wait. Sapphic, what?”

“Slay. Gay rights. Love to see it!” The shorter one added, positioning Natasha with the skill of a seasoned director. “Okay, just like that! Gaze longingly. Soft but powerful. Beautiful but not trying. Ok, put your hands around her!” Kill me now.

Natasha surprisingly did as she said, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind and resting her head on to the top of yours. “Oh my god, so perfect! Sapphic queens!”

Click.

They handed the phone back with theatrical bows and a chorus of compliments before flouncing off into the sunset like a rom-com ending you hadn’t asked for.

You glanced over at Natasha, who was still staring after them, slightly stunned.

“What just happened?” She asked.

“I think we were blessed.” You commented, looking at her with wide eyes.

She blinked. “By the queer pantheon?”

“Exactly.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

For the final act of the day, you entered a tall building, buzzing with neon signs and clusters of teenagers loitering around the entrance.

Because if you were going to commit to irony and indulgence, why not end the night on a rooftop, playing glow-in-the-dark mini golf and sipping neon-blue alcoholic slushies that looked like they might permanently dye your tongue?

You high-fived her after she sank a hole-in-one.

“Damn it!”

“You’re doing good!” She laughed.

You were definitely not doing good. You hadn’t finished a single game yet without being at least two over par.

Leaning closer, you whispered. “Let me win and I won’t make you do a TikTok for the rest of the week.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I get so much more enjoyment watching you pout.”

“I don’t pout!”

“You do.”

“Do not!”

“Take your shot!”

You laughed, trying to line up your shot but completely distracted. “You like this, admit it.”

She watched you for a beat. “I like you like this,” She said quietly, honestly.

Then just as casually, she took another sip of her radioactive slushie, like she hadn’t just lit your entire nervous system on fire.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The elevator ride back to the Tower was wrapped in the kind of warmth that made your bones soft. Laughter still buzzed in your chest, cocktails lingering on your tongue and Natasha’s low voice echoing in your memory. ‘You’re actually not bad at mini-golf. Don’t let it go to your head.’

You’d leaned into her somewhere between floors fifteen and thirty, a little too tipsy to realise. She didn’t pull away, she didn’t even shift.

When the doors slid open, you expected the usual, silence, the faint hum of late-night electronics, maybe a half-eaten pizza slice left to fossilise on the coffee table, courtesy of Stark.

Instead…

“And here they are!” Tony’s voice rang out like an announcement at a red carpet premiere, arms spread like he was presenting a scandal and thoroughly delighted about it.

You blinked.

The common room was full. Steve, Bucky, Sam, Clint, Wanda and Pepper were clustered around the massive screen, which had been paused mid-scroll on a random assortment of screenshots.

Instagram posts.

X threads.

Reddit conspiracies.

Tumblr GIFsets with aggressively emotional fanfic tags already stacked like a digital shrine.

And there, in perfect, high-definition clarity on each them.

You and Natasha.

Everywhere.

“I- What the hell?” You half-laughed, half-choked, stepping into the room like you were about to be interrogated.

Clint leaned over and tapped the screen. “Turns out your little day out was the world’s most successful soft launch.”

“Soft what?” Natasha deadpanned, crossing her arms.

Wanda beamed, leaning forward like she was discussing her favourite ship. She was. “It’s like a tease of a relationship before the people actually announce they are in a relationship. I read that earlier!”

Bucky piped in, dry as ever. “Someone made a thread claiming you’ve been secretly married since Budapest 2019. Then some say you’ve been dating since Nat was papped leaving that hotel at like 4am.”

Steve looked genuinely baffled. “I thought it was just a coffee run.”

Clint, practically vibrating, added, “There was sunset lighting. That’s like…. digital intimacy.”

Tony clicked through the evidence like he was presenting a case to a jury, all candid photos that you had no idea were being taken displayed.

A photo of the two of you at the cafe, Natasha holding a drink out to your, steadying the same straw you had your mouth around. A blurry video of you in the tunnel installation, your laughter echoing with Natasha’s arms loosely round you after she’d made you jump. A snapshot halfway up the hike, Natasha gripping your wrist, steadying you over a rock like she’d done it a thousand times. The sunset photo. You hadn’t even known it was taken. Silhouettes framed in fading light, shoulders touching, her head tilted the slightest bit toward yours. And finally the rooftop golf shot. Her arms around your waist, helping you line up the putt, your grin wild, hers softer than anything she’d ever shown in combat.

You turned, baffled. “Who even took that one?”

Tony smirked. “Drone. Probably. Or a very determined member of Gen Z.”

Natasha leaned in, studying the screen. “Why does this one have three hundred thousand likes?”

Sam answered with zero hesitation. “Because the internet’s never seen you smile like that.”

A silence settled, you glanced at her, expecting some dry deflection, maybe a sarcastic ‘it was fake’ and a storm-out.

But instead she tilted her head slightly. Eyes focused and narrow. “I don’t smile.” She said at last, voice low and unreadable. “That’s Photoshop.”

Clint let out a dramatic groan. “No, no, this is full ‘I’d kill for her and also bring her flowers after’ energy. Like, peak sapphic.”

Steve actually choked on his water. “Sapphic?”

“Why does everyone keep talking about ‘sapphic’ today?” Natasha groaned.

Tony looked far too satisfied. “They said it. Not me.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Wanda said sweetly, giving your arm a pat.

“Can we delete these?” Natasha asked but there was no real bite in it. “They’ll never leave us alone.”

Tony just shook his head. “Too late. They’ve been reposted, TikTok’d, translated into at least three languages and someone made a Spotify playlist already.”

Pepper held up her phone. “It’s called ‘SpyPR Agenda: Enemies to Lovers.’”

You looked at Natasha.

She didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t frown. She didn’t escape through the nearest window.

Instead, she looked at you.

And she said, voice quiet like it was just for you. “People can think what they want. They always do.”

But the way she looked at you then, unblinking, curious, soft, said something else entirely.

Let them.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning had all started with a bet.

Or maybe it was a dare. You couldn’t quite remember but by 9:14am, Natasha was standing in your borrowed room at the Tower, wearing grey sweatpants that looked too soft to be real, a hoodie three sizes too big and that blank, almost haunted expression of someone who’d been dragged far outside her comfort zone. You knew, without a doubt, that this was going to be fun.

You were already nursing an iced coffee, mostly oat milk, barely any caffeine, she eyed it like it was a suspicious potion.

“This is cold.” She gagged, not even taking the drink from your own hands, just pulling the straw towards her to take a sip.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Why? Why do you want to drink something this cold on a morning?”

“Because it’s comforting… and trendy.”

She took another cautious sip. “Tastes like vanilla and weakness.”

You grinned, savouring the victory. “Just wait. We’re only getting started.”

Not ten minutes later, you were stood in the bathroom, opening bottles of glass and plastic, looking very pleased with yourself. You handed her a neatly wrapped headband, complete with tiny, perky cat ears.

She held it like it might explode in her hands. “I’m not wearing this.”

“Yes, you are.”

Natasha sighed but after a long pause, tied it on, the ears standing at strict attention. You pulled out your phone and against all odds, she let you snap a picture. You even caught the faintest twitch of a smirk.

Then came the serums, the facial mist and the gua sha tool, which she immediately wielded like a weapon.

“Stop looking for arteries!” You warned.

She muttered something sharp in Russian and began delicately patting on hyaluronic acid with all the enthusiasm of someone defusing a bomb except the bomb was sparkly. “Okay, moisturiser next.” You said, pointing at a pink tube promising ‘dewy goddess energy’. She was still rubbing in serum.

“Why is this so wet?!” Natasha murmured. “I’ve killed people with less effort.”

“Exactly. This is effort. Discipline. Self-care.”

She glanced in the mirror. Her skin was glowing, annoyingly perfect for someone who’s actual skin care routine consisted of ‘soap’.

“I hate how good this looks.” She muttered.

Next, you settled her at the kitchen island, laying out a spread that could have been ripped from an Instagram influencer’s morning story. Avocado toast with chilli flakes and a bright squeeze of lemon zest, a mason jar of overnight oats dotted with chia seeds and a perfectly ‘Instagrammable’ iced coffee.

She took a bite of the toast, chewed thoughtfully. “…This is good.”

“Thank you.”

“I still hate the headband.” You laughed and took your matching toast to the couch. Natasha followed, stretching out beside you, a sigh escaping her that could have melted the ice in your coffee.

For a long moment, the apartment held peace, warm sunlight pouring through the windows, lo-fi beats humming softly from your speaker and Natasha Romanoff, legendary assassin, curled up beneath your throw blanket like a cat who’d never taken a life.

“This is what you do every morning?” She asked.

“Yep.”

She blinked slowly, contemplative. “I think I get the hype.”

You smiled, resting your hand on her knee. “Everybody deserves to have peace in the morning.”

Without a word, her hand found yours and squeezed lightly, like she was saying ‘thank you’.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Regret set in the instant you opened your eyes.

“Up!” Came her voice, sharp as a blade and way too awake for 5am.

You groaned. “It’s still dark. That means it’s illegal.”

“Illegal is subjective. Come on.”

She’d stood over your bed, fully reclaimed, she was dragging you into hell.

You stumbled out of bed, barely awake. She was already in full gear, sports bra, compression leggings, hair braided back with terrifying efficiency.

She tossed you a set of clothes. “Wear that. We run in fifteen.”

“Run what?”

“Your dignity into the ground.”

The workout started with a bodyweight circuit so merciless, it should’ve been banned by the president herself. It was borderline torture tactics.

Push-ups, lunges, Russian twists, which felt almost like a personal attack and something ominously named ‘core obliteration’.

You collapsed, face pressed into the mat. She stood over you, sipping water like it was the blood of her enemies. “You lasted ten minutes.”

“I have a desk job, Natasha.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You have no excuses.”

Then, she made you run five miles.

Five.

Miles.

You begged for mercy. She gave you one deal, if you didn’t puke, she’d carry you home.

You barely dragged yourself up the last incline, feet like lead.

She jogged backward, grinning like a menace. “This is fun for me.”

“You’re evil!” You wheezed.

“You agreed.”

“While vulnerable and emotionally compromised.”

“Still counts. Come on, get on.” You tried not to lose your head when her hands wrapped around your thighs as she piggy backed you on the way home.

Back at the Tower, Natasha tossed you a towel, grinning. “Sparring.”

You blinked. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Then you won’t feel the pain when I flip you.”

And flip you she did.

Every time you thought you had leverage, she slipped out like water and turned it back on you. You were pinned in seconds, again and again.

“Is this a dominance thing?” You panted, letting her help you up after she pinned you for the third time.

“No.” She smirked. “This is foreplay.”

You completely short-circuited and she took the opportunity to swipe your legs out from under you. “Come on. Time for breakfast.”

Breakfast, Natasha explained, was black coffee, a hard-boiled egg, oatmeal without sugar and fruit measured out to precise macros.

You stared at your plate. “Where’s the joy? The zest?”

She gestured at your battered, barely standing body. “You already had it.”

You glared. “I hate you.”

She took a sip of her coffee then leaned over just slightly, tapping your spoon with hers. “But you survived.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It was rare to have the Tower so quiet. After you spent the morning being tortured trained by her, you needed a massage, a vacation and at least a 10% increase on your pay for every time you were taken down during sparring.

Natasha was tucked away behind closed doors with Maria Hill, discussing whatever high-level, confidential and likely mind-numbingly dull intel they had received. You, on the other hand, were curled up on the common room couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, a glass of iced coffee within reach, and your favourite playlist humming low through the speakers.

For a few golden minutes, it was peace.

Then the door opened.

Sam walked in first. Then Bucky. Then Clint, followed by Tony, already sipping something suspicious from a monogrammed tumbler.

You didn’t look up but you did lower the volume. “This smells like a trap.”

Clint flopped into the nearest chair with all the energy of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. “Relax. We just came to talk.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “And observe.”

“And probe your emotional weaknesses.” Tony added, far too cheerfully.

You blinked. “Was there a memo I missed? I thought this was ‘sit quietly while your terrifying Russian Assassin shadow does Important Spy Things’ hour.”

Sam smirked. “Speaking of terrifying shadows… how’s that going?”

You tried for casual but the pause before your answer was just a little too long. “Fine.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “‘Fine’? You’re going with fine?”

You sighed, nudging your laptop shut. “We’re getting along. She’s… warming up. We’ve managed to turn the horror show of her press image into something halfway human. It’s actually kind of fun.”

“Fun?” Clint repeated, incredulous. “You just described working with the Black Widow as fun?”

“She’s got a sense of humor!” You defended. “You just have to dig past the murder stares and death aura.”

Bucky leaned forward, teasing. “And do you… like that death aura?”

You shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“No to the aura?” Sam asked, feigning confusion. “Or no to the liking?”

“I am not doing this with you guys.”

“Oh but you are.” Tony said, settling beside you. “Because we’ve seen the photos and the videos and the body language. She let you put glitter on her face?!”

“It was part of the skincare.” You defended, turning slightly away so they wouldn’t see the blush rising in your cheeks..

Tony grinned. “She let you touch her face. You do understand she once shattered a man’s wrist because he offered her sunscreen, right?”

“She was exfoliating.” You pouted. “And glowing.”

“And glowing.” Clint echoed with a dramatic hand to his chest. “God, she’s so gone for you. I can’t wait to tell Laura this!”

You tried to hold firm but your expression was already cracking. “You’re all absolutely unhinged.”

“Maybe.” Bucky said, with a shrug. “But we’re not wrong.”

You leaned back, groaning softly. “We’re working closely, that’s all. I’m good at what I do. Making her look human, even likeable, is the job. If we get along? Great. It makes things easier.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then from behind you, a voice chimed in, quiet, amused but impossible to ignore. “But do you like her?”

You turned, startled. Wanda had somehow appeared without you noticing, her arms folded, head tilted like she already knew the answer. Of course she knew the answer, her eyes fading from that scarlet red told you enough.

You sighed. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You have a livestream to do!”

She smiled. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Tony leaned in, resting his chin on his hand like he was front row at a drama. “Come on. You can tell us. It’s just the entire Tower watching you unravel like a 2000’s rom-com.”

You opened your mouth and faltered.

Because now all you could think about was her. You were remembering her giving you her hoodie when you shivered at mini golf, blinking at an iced coffee like it was alien tech, her fingers brushing yours under a blanket, her hands wrapping around your waist when she tugged you back into her when she knocked you on your ass for the sixth time. Her laughter, rare and genuine, when read a stupid comment about one of the guys online.

“She’s-" You swallowed, voice quieter now. “She’s complicated.”

“She’s got you.” Bucky teased, softly.

You looked at him, the vulnerability obvious to everyone in the room.

“And you’ve got her.” He reassured. “Even if neither of you are ready to admit it yet.”

This time, no one laughed. The teasing faded into something quieter, there was no smugness now.

Clint finally broke the silence. “We’re not judging you. If anything, we kind of love it. She’s less terrifying with you around. And you? You’re way more fun when you’re not alphabetising press kits by tone.”

“I’ve always been fun.”

“You once laminated a media itinerary.”

“I still do!”

Sam grinned. “Yeah but now you do it while in sweatpants while flirting with assassins. That’s called growth.”

You didn’t have time to retaliate.

The elevator chimed and everyone turned at once.

Natasha stepped out, jacket slung over her shoulder, eyes immediately scanning the room. When she found you, her expression softened.

You straightened up without thinking, flashing a soft smile back.

She crossed the room with quiet, purposeful steps, pausing beside the couch. “Everything okay?”

Everyone tried, and failed, to look casual.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… talking.”

Her eyes flicked to the others. “Interrogating?”

They all smiled a little too innocently.

She turned back to you. “Did you survive?”

“Barely.”

“Then I taught you well.” Natasha studied you for a moment longer. She breathed out a sigh, her eyes flashing to the watch on her wrist. “Ok I’m going to get a quick workout in.” Casually, she reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, her hand then falling to your shoulder with a soft squeeze.

The entire room froze.

“I’ll be in the gym.” She said simply, already turning to go. “If they bother you anymore, come get me.”

Once the doors closed behind her, Tony exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “That was so intimate.”

You buried your face in the throw pillow and groaned. “I hate every single one of you.”

But you were smiling.

Because maybe they weren’t wrong.

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literaryavenger · 1 year ago

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Obsessed

Summary: Your crush on Bucky may be getting out of control.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings: Dramatic Reader. Language. Angst. Fluff. My poor attempts at being Funny.

Word Count: 1.4K I'm physically incapable of making anything short.

A/N: I wrote this in like 2 hours and I don't even know what this is, just... Yeah.

Masterlist

This is terrible.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone. It's just the most horrible, dreadful, awful thing that could’ve ever happen to yo-

“Would you stop staring at him for fuck's sakes!” Natasha's hissed words make your eyes snap to her and finally away from the metal armed Supersoldier lifting weights. Shirtless.

You don't know when Bucky stopped feeling self-conscious enough to allow him to workout in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, but it has become literal torture for you.

Needless to say, Bucky's current level of undress is making it impossible for you to concentrate on the stretching you're supposed to be doing before your sparring match with Natasha.

But your very thoughtful and not at all exasperated friend makes sure to keep your attention on her during the entirety of our match by thoroughly kicking your ass.

What a lovely best friend you have.

Anyways.

Your entire mood shifts with one not intentionally overheard conversation. Steve enters the gym and goes straight to Bucky, who was putting his weight set down.

“She’s here!” Is all the blonde says to his friend and your heart stops at the way Bucky’s face lights up with a smile, not needing any more information before following Steve out of the gym.

She’s here? Who the fuck is she? Does Bucky have a girlfriend? And most importantly, she’s here? In the Compound?

Natasha can almost see the gears turning in your brain as you make no attempts to move from the mat after she knocked you on your ass for the hundredth time today. You didn’t even seem to notice her hand offering you help to get up, your eyes still looking where Bucky was just a moment ago, staring at nothing in particular while your brain drowns in your overthinking.

Natasha sighs and decides to end the match here, kneeling down in front of you and placing her hands on your shoulders, shaking you gently to snap you out of it.

“Don’t overthink this.” She tells you when she’s sure she has your attention. “It’s probably just a friend visiting.” She tries to comfort you, but you both know that’s highly unlikely.

Bucky has no other friends outside the team. He doesn’t know how to talk to civilians anymore after everything he’s been through, and gave up trying to after the hundredth time he saw fear in a person’s eyes just by recognizing him. So his friend circle now includes the team and the agents of SHIELD that are not intimidated by him. Point is, every friend he has already lives in the Compound.

So who the fuck is here just to see him?

Natasha can see that this is a lost battle, your eyes barely concentrating on her as you start drowning in your mind again. All she can do when you’re like this is try to distract you and keep you out of your head. So she takes your hand and helps you up, leading the way to the common room to watch one of your beloved romcoms together, because that’s how much she loves you.

Big mistake.

“Y/N! Y/N!” The excited high-pitched voice came just seconds after you set foot in the common room. And that’s about the only warning you got before the excited 5-year-old jumped on you, your reflexes thankfully quick enough to catch her.

“Hi, Maguna!” You say while chuckling as the little girl hugs you. “You seem excited today. Did you get into the sugar cabinet again?”

Morgan giggles at your joke and shakes her hand before taking your face in her little hands and dramatically saying, “No! A princess came to visit uncle Bucky! A real princess.”

You frown, confused at what she’s talking about, before you look around the room and finally notice everyone else in it. Pepper and Tony are on the couch, looking at you lovingly as you interact with their daughter.

You love Morgan, she’s like a little sister. You never miss an opportunity to babysit her and you spend as much time with her as you can. She also loves you, out of all the Avengers you’re her favorite, much to everyone’s dismay. She calls them all ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, but you’re just Y/N. You’re her big sister, you don’t need a title. Which is why you're the only one other than Tony allowed to call her 'Maguna'.

Then you notice the other people in the room: Steve, Bucky and… Shuri. The fucking Princess of Wakanda, standing in the common room of the Avengers Compound and just smiling at you as you carry Morgan.

You’ve never met Shuri, but you know she played an important part in deprogramming the Winter Soldier out of Bucky, and you’re grateful to her for it. She’s important to Bucky, and you can’t believe you forgot Bucky has Wakandan friends.

You put Morgan down on the ground again and the little girl takes your hand and aggressively steers you towards where Steve, Bucky and Shuri are standing, clearly thrilled to be in the presence of a real life princess.

“Hi, I’m Shuri.” She offers you her hand when you get close enough and you shake it with your free hand while introducing yourself.

There’s a bit of an awkward pause and you’re about to say the first thing that pops into your head when Morgan thankfully saves you by pulling on your hand, making you look at her. She tells you to come close and, chuckling, you kneel beside her so she can whisper conspiratorially in your ear.

“She’s a princess and she’s really pretty, but I still like you better.” She whispers and you can’t help but laugh.

God, you love this little girl.

You smile brightly at her and launch a tickle attack, her adorable giggles filling the room as everyone looks at you two with warm smiles.

Your attention is solely on Morgan, until you unintentionally hear the whispered conversation between Shuri and Bucky.

“So, this is the girl, huh? She’s pretty.” Shuri says and your heart skips a beat.

You glance at them as discreetly as you can while still tickling Morgan, only to find Bucky looking at someone behind you. You turn around less carefully and see Sharon just entered the room, and she's also looking at Bucky with a smirk. You quickly return your attention to Morgan, but your mind is going a thousand miles a minute.

Of course he’d like someone more like Sharon. She’s pretty, she’s talented, she’s a total badass and she’s not afraid to go after what she wants.

She’s not a mass of anxiety in the shape of a woman that overthinks everything and becomes a flustered mess every time she’s even near Bucky.

It’s time to admit it to yourself: Bucky just doesn’t see you like that and you need to move on.

Natasha is right, your obsession with Bucky needs to end.

What you don’t see is Bucky almost glaring at Sharon because he knows damn well why she’s smirking. She came in just before Shuri whispered to Bucky, when he was very intent on looking at you with heart eyes as you played with Morgan.

Just before you looked at him, Bucky noticed Sharon and he had to hold in a groan at her because he knows that she’s never gonna let him live this down.

Both Sharon and Steve have tried really hard to convince Bucky that you like him back and he should make a move on you. But Bucky, being as stubborn as they come, never believes them.

He obviously makes you uncomfortable, you’re always stuttering when he’s around and you avoid eye contact whenever possible. He’s just glad that you can stand his presence enough for the two of you to work together when necessary and to hang out with the rest of the team without problems.

So he just enjoys looking at you from a distance. He loves watching you play with Morgan and his thoughts always run wild with images of you playing like that with kids that are yours and his.

But he knows that’s never going to happen. Why would you like a damaged, PTSD ridden soldier that can’t even make it through the night without waking up from a nightmare? No, that’s definitely not your type.

Bucky accepts the truth: He doesn’t deserve you and you don’t see him like that anyways.

It doesn’t matter that Sam thinks he’s obsessed, that won’t stop him from looking at you whenever he’s lucky enough to get a glimpse of his little ray of sunshine.

Requested taglist: @vicmc624 @matchat3a @nerd-without-a-cause @sapphirebarnes @cjand10 @mostlymarvelgirl @julvrs @blackhawkfanatic @lillianacristina @armystay89 @imdoingbetternow @spookyparadisesheep @elizalexwil @aceofhearts25 @dontworryboutitsweetheartxx-blog @justab-eautifulmess @buggy14 @thedonswife13

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dameronspector · 3 months ago

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Philophobia (Masterlist)

[ divider by @saradika; collage by me ]

Pairings: Joaquin Torres x Stark!Reader, James Rhodes x Platonic!Stark!Reader, Sam Wilson x Platonic!Stark!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Platonic!Stark!Reader

Summary: Devastated by your father’s death and cutting yourself off from everyone, you are on the road of recovery, accompanied by your uncle Rhodey. After Rhodey has finally convinced you, you agree to reunite with Sam Wilson and help him with his tech. He introduces you to another techie nerd, named Joaquin Torres, for the first time. Will you let your phobia get in the way and push away your new found family and this beautiful boy? Or will you get better and let yourself be loved once again?

Warnings: Mentions of Death and Depression/Depressive episodes, Mentions of Panic Attacks, PTSD, Abuse by a parent (not Tony), Weight loss due to stress, Nightmares, Some cursing, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Rogers Slander- please don’t read this if that’s not something you’re looking for, Reader is sassy and a bit reserved because of The incident and because they’re a Stark, Reader has some phobias, Found family, (chapter specific warnings will be mentioned on the respective chapters.)

AN: apologies for any typos, grammatical errors, etc. as English is not my first language. I’m a new fic writer and this is my first ever series so mistakes are bound to happen. Please be kind <3 do like and reblog! Id love to hear your thoughts. Happy reading.🤍

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

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florencebirdsong · 1 year ago

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I am so normal and can be trusted with marvel women. Please give me marvel women. I won’t bite them. I am so normal about marvel women. Please give them to me

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prettydaisygirl · 2 months ago

Note

Hi!! I just wanted to pop in and say I am in love with streamer!james and superfan!reader 😍

Any chance we can get one where James skips stream for a few days because he's going to visit you (Maybe to surprise you for your birthday or something). She's come to him, so I thought it would be cute to see the reverse.

No pressure if it doesn't work.

Hi!! Thank you so much for your request! I might write a follow up to this with a big birthday date thing, so if anyone has ideas for that, let me know. I appreciate you so much! I adore streamer James and I just want to hug and kiss him, is that too much to ask? Hope you enjoy, love <3

streamer!James Potter x fem!superfan!reader who gets an early birthday surprise ✿ 748 words

cw: fem reader, established relationship, suggestive, pure fluff

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

previous part | next part

You’re a little worried. It’s two hours past the time that James was supposed to start streaming, but he hasn’t gone live. He hasn’t been answering your messages in the past few hours, either.

You’re not overly concerned. James is a grown man, of course, and even as his girlfriend, you don’t have to know where he is at all times. It’s just that it’s a bit unlike him, so you can’t help but feel a little bit uneasy.

The feeling gets worse when there’s a knock at your door. You aren’t expecting guests, and it’s not like people usually just randomly walk up to your apartment. You make your way slowly to the front door, trying to walk quietly. You peek through the peephole, but find no one there.

What? You definitely heard a knock.

You open the door, and you take a step out to peek around the corner and-

“SURPRISE!”

You jump about three feet in the air, hand flying to your heart as you gasp loudly. Your boyfriend stands there, beaming, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hand. Your terrified expression turns into an excited smile.

“James!” You find yourself jumping into his arms. He moves the flowers out of your way just in time, wrapping his free arm around you. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” He repeats your question, pulling away enough to look down into your eyes. “You know why I’m here. Happy birthday, baby.” He lifts his hand to caress your cheek.

“That’s not until tomorrow!” You say with a giggle, your voice bright and happy with the surprise and joy of seeing him.

“And I’ll still be here tomorrow,” He says, lowering his head to press a kiss to your brow, then his hand settles against your lower back. “C’mon, let’s get these flowers in some water, angel.”

You show him into your apartment. He’s seen it on video chat with you, but it’s different with him being here in person. You’re eternally grateful that you had the urge to clean this morning.

You put the flowers in a vase, placing them on your table. “They’re beautiful.” You say as James wraps his arms around your middle from behind. You lean into him, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw. He hums softly.

“Not as beautiful as you.” His cheesy words have you rolling your eyes but your cheeks feel warm. You let the comfortable silence hang for a moment before you speak again.

“You’re really here tomorrow, too? What about stream?” You ask softly, pulling away from him to turn and face him. He cups your face in his hands, his eyes so full of love as he looks at you.

“I really am. Today, tomorrow, and the next day too,” He bumps his nose against yours when your eyes widen. “Stream will be fine. I don’t have any sponsors or anything, and I think Sirius is doing something big, so everyone will be watching that. No one will even mind, angel, I promise.”

“I’ll mind,” You say, and James’ smile sweetens if that’s even possible. “I was waiting for your stream, I always miss you.”

“Well, if you’d rather me go back and stream I can, but what about your birthday plans?” He cradles your face like you’re the most precious thing in the world, and he truly thinks you are. You’re so incredibly lucky, and also incredibly excited.

“Birthday plans?” You ask softly, and feel his hands gripping at your waist as he tugs you closer. Your hands slide up his arms, butterflies in your stomach as your fingertips trace the toned muscles there.

“Well…” His voice is deep and smooth like coffee, and he dips his head to kiss at your neck. Goosebumps raise across your skin and you shiver, feeling him smile against your neck. “I thought we could spend together here, just you and I…” You moan softly as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. “I have dinner and dessert already scheduled for delivery tonight. I also have a cake and your gifts coming tomorrow.”

You let your eyes fall shut as his hands move to your lower back, then lower even further to your ass. He presses his hips against yours, sucking on your skin. Your knees feel weak, but James holds you steady.

“But for now, I want to go explore that bedroom of yours.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

#daisy's writings #james potter #streamer!james potter #james potter au #james potter x reader #james potter fluff #james potter drabble #james potter fic #streamer!marauders #streamer!james #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter oneshot #james potte x y/n #james potter x self insert #hp marauders #marauders fic

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amethystarachnid · 4 months ago

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TONY STARK MASTERLIST

The full masterlist wouldn't let me put more links so Tony, the one with most fics on my blog gets his personal masterlist...

Full Masterlist here (with other characters)

click here for my Tony works! ->

Anthony 'Tony' E. Stark

Love in Rehearsal

Fear

Sky Rockets and Robots - part I

Sky Rockets and Robots - part II

Soulmate Bond

Beacon of Love

The Challenge of You- part I

The Challenge of You - part II

Lazy Day

Mrs. Stark

Caffeine Chemistry

A Cowboy's Love - part I

A Cowboy's Love - part II

High School Sweetheart

The Crown's Heart

Always

Room for Two - part I

Room for Two - part II

Safe Arms

Falling Mr. Stark

Legacy

Snowy Love - part I

Snowy Love - part II

Time Traveler

Enough

Accidents Happen - part I

Accidents Happen - part II

A Blizzard for Two

Secret Santa

Christmas Proposal - part I Christmas Proposal - part II Christmas Proposal - part III

Frogs, Globes and Burnt Chocolate

Frogs, Globes and Burnt Chocolate (prequel)

Midnight Kiss

Stark Protocol - part I

Stark Protocol - part II

Christmas Magic

Christmas Secrets

Clinging to Christmas

New Year Eve - part I

New Year Eve - part II

New Year Eve - part III

Second Chance - part I

Second Chance - part II

Christmas Cookies

Christmas Date

Christmas Kitty

Christmas Morning - prequel

Christmas Morning - part I

Christmas Morning - part II

Christmas Morning - part III

First Christmas Morning

Movie Night & Kisses

Christmas Disaster

Stark Realities

Safety

The Stark Reality (Show) - part I The Stark Reality (Show) - part II

Paparazzi

Office Romance

Stuck

Tony Stark when y/n is sick - Drabble

Pampering Tony Stark - Drabble

Secret Admirer

Almost Home (RDJ)

Chaos & Confetti

Almost Wasn't

Bubble Baths

Tony Stark comforting reader - A Drabble

Forced Marriage

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incorrectwandanat · 2 years ago

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[angry natasha storming down the hallway]

tony: uh oh.

reader: what?

tony: i see an angry wife heading our way.

reader: yours or mine?

tony: does it matter?

reader: if it's yours, there's a chance we'll live, but if it's mine, we're dead.

#natasha romanoff x reader #sfw #marvel incorrect quotes #tony stark #pepper potts #natasha romanoff

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waltermis · 7 months ago

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Drive

*Natasha, Y/N and the team talking about driving with Peter to Fury*

Y/N: So... Peter got his learner's permit this week and some of us on the team have been taking turns driving with him...

*flashback to Steve, Bucky, Sam and Peter*

Steve: One of the really standard rules of the road is we want to keep a safe distance between us and the car in front of it.

Bucky *mildly panicking*: *through gritted teeth* That is not safe, right there. Not safe.

Sam: *puts on another seatbelt over his other seatbelt*

*flash to Natasha and Peter*

Natasha: Okay, merge.

Peter: Wait- I--

Natasha: Merge.

Peter: Na-

Natasha: Merge. Merge! Merge! Merge! Merge! Merge! Merge!

Peter and Natasha: FJJFIEAFJKEJFI AEJFKDXIEAKJFFKX

*flash to Y/N, Clint and Peter*

Clint: This navigation system's all messed up. It thinks we're in a park.

Y/N: OH MY GOD! IT IS A PARK!!

Clint: AWAY FROM THE KIDS!!!!!

Y/N: AIM FOR THE LAKE!

Peter *shrieking*: OH MY GOD!!!!

*flash to present time*

*Pepper and Tony coming back from a jog*

Tony *arriving at the compound's driveway*: I win!!!

Pepper: It wasn't a race...

Tony: That's what a loser would sa--

*Tony gets run over*

*Peter in the car*

Peter: Oh my-. What was that? Was that a person?

Tony: I'm good!

Pepper: Tony!

Peter: Mr. Stark?!

Tony: I'm good! I'm good! You're getting better, kid! Whoo!

*Natasha and Y/N looking from the window*

Y/N: We're all gonna die...

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salmonballsss · 2 months ago

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The Violet Hour

(Chapter 16)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: Fingering, Oral Sex, Mommy Kink, Praise Kink, Small amounts of Degradation

You sit there like a total dumbass for god knows how long.

Why does Agatha have to do that? Tease you like she’s bored—then kiss you like she’s starving?

Just… kissing you. Like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

You let out a groaning, frustrated sigh and fall back onto the bed, legs half dangling off the edge. One arm flops over your eyes, shielding you from the weak afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

What the hell are you doing?

You left your research. Your phone. Your clothes. Your whole goddamn life is still sitting back in Hollow Wood. A town that might as well be on fire now, for all you know. You came here for your thesis. For academic discovery. For Salem records and field notes and historical analysis.

Sure, you keep telling yourself. It was mostly true.

But now? Now you’re in a Vermont motel room, your thighs still warm from where Agatha had leaned in close, your heart still knocking around like it doesn’t know which way is up.

And now you’ve lost it. All of it. Your annotated timelines. Your cemetery cross references. Your damn notebook.

Agatha said she’d help you rebuild it. Later today, when she comes back with the toiletries. And maybe she will.

But it’s just not the same.

You sigh again, deeper this time, like you’re trying to exhale the feeling of her mouth on yours. It doesn’t work. You just end up staring at the ceiling like it has the answers.

It doesn’t.

She might. But asking her? That’s an entirely different spiral.

You groan one more time for good measure before flopping your arm off your face and dragging yourself upright. The bed creaks under you, the quilt rumpled, still holding the ghost of Agatha’s smirk and the burn of her kiss.

You need to move.

You push yourself up, stretching with a wince as your spine cracks back into place. Then you give the room a once over, just to... distract yourself. Totally normal.

It’s not a bad room—actually kind of nice for a small town inn. You step around the bed, bare feet padding softly, and glance at the little reading nook tucked near the window.

A chipped nightstand. A few dusty romance paperbacks. A lamp that’s probably older than you.

You eye Agatha’s bag on the dresser. It’s half unzipped.

You hesitate.

Then, because you’re you, you peek.

Just a little.

Inside are a few of the clothes she bought. Folded neatly, of course. A black long sleeve shirt. Another flannel. A soft grey tank top. A bundle of dark underwear and socks tucked in one corner. Nothing scandalous. Nothing weird.

But it still makes something flutter in your chest.

You zip it back up quickly, like it bit you.

Then you turn to the window, tugging the curtain aside with two fingers. Outside, the sun’s still high, the streets mostly empty. A few cars pass. There’s a woman walking her dog. Everything is... normal.

So painfully normal.

You press your forehead to the cool glass for a second and mutter, “What the hell is my life right now.”

No answer.

Obviously.

You wander over to the tiny bathroom next, flicking the light on. It buzzes overhead, too bright for the size of the space. The towels are clean. The mirror slightly smudged. Your reflection stares back at you like even she doesn’t have the answers.

You stare at yourself for a long moment. Your lips are still a little swollen. You smooth your shirt out and shake your head.

“Get it together.”

You leave the bathroom, give the room one more slow lap like you’re a ghost haunting it, and finally flop into the reading chair by the window.

The fabric is stiff but warm from the sunlight streaming in. You pull your knees up to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of a car passing outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath the bed.

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Just long enough to take one deep breath.

Then—

Click.

The door opens.

You blink, jerking slightly upright as Agatha steps inside, grocery bag looped on one wrist and a smug little knowing look already on her face.

“Well,” she says, kicking the door shut behind her. “You survived.”

Barely.

You give her a look. “Debatable.”

She walks over to the dresser, setting the bag down and pulling out its contents like she’s presenting a royal feast: a handful of travel sized toiletries, a box of ibuprofen, two bottles of water, and—

A folded set of pajamas.

Your eyebrows lift. “Is that for me?”

Agatha shrugs like it’s nothing. “You needed something.’”

You glance at the fabric. Soft. Cotton. A little oversized. Black with faint silvery stars printed across it.

You squint at her. “You chose that for me?”

She doesn’t answer.

But she doesn’t have to .

Because the knowing look on her face says enough.

“Figured you’d like something soft,” she says, sorting the rest of the items. “Also grabbed chocolate. Not for you. For me. But we’ll see how the night goes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, trying not to smile as you take the pajamas and walk them over to the bed, setting them down carefully.

You hesitate.

Then glance back at her. “Still wanna stop by the library later or…?”

Agatha answers by flopping onto the bed with a groan like the weight of all existence has finally settled in her bones.

She stretches out on her back, arms over her head, one knee bent, hair spilling across the pillow in a way that looks completely accidental and yet unfairly gorgeous.

“Mmmm. Eventually,” she says, eyes closed. “After I lie here and contemplate all my life choices that led to flying a broom in daylight and paying for your star pajamas.”

You snort. “They’re cute. Admit it.”

She cracks one eye open. “They’re... tolerable.”

You shake your head, turning toward the dresser and beginning to sort through the toiletries. “You’re lucky I didn’t grab the rainbow plaid.”

Agatha groans again, dramatically this time, and flings a hand over her eyes. “I’d have thrown us both to the beast.”

You smirk and toss her the toothpaste. “Come on, grandma. Let’s at least brush our teeth before you start monologuing.”

She doesn’t catch the toothpaste. It bounces off her shoulder.

She doesn’t even flinch.

“Rude,” she mumbles.

You’re still grinning as you head into the bathroom, the quiet padding of her steps behind you.

“Brats,” she mutters under her breath. “No respect for their elders.”

You glance at her in the mirror as you pop the toothpaste cap, trying and failing not to smile harder.

You start brushing, foamy mint filling your mouth as you watch her settle into her place beside you like it’s second nature. You side eye her while you scrub—she's got that same bored, regal air as always, brushing her teeth like she’s not standing in the world’s tiniest bathroom with a girl who’s been spiraling over her for days.

You keep brushing. Then, still with the toothbrush sticking awkwardly out of your mouth, you lean slightly toward her and mumble through the foam, “Come on, let’s look around town.”

Agatha spits into the sink, rinses, wipes her mouth off with the hand towel. “Then maybe you should’ve come with me when I was getting the damn toiletries.”

You grumble, rinse your own mouth, and wipe your lips off, turning to face her fully.

“Well,” you say, lifting your eyebrows with faux innocence, “you’re the one who kissed me and just left.”

Agatha pauses.

Her eyes narrow just a bit, the edge of her smirk curling. “You saying that kiss stunned you speechless?”

You blink. “That’s not —”

She leans forward slightly, smirking now. “You saying you needed recovery time?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. She’s already turning away, flicking the light off with a smug little click.

“That’s what I thought,” she calls over her shoulder as she saunters back into the room.

You follow her, indignant and still a little pink. “You can’t just keep kissing me and walking away like that!”

She looks back at you, deadpan. “Watch me.”

You groan, grabbing your jacket from the chair. “You’re the worst. ”

She grabs hers too, clearly amused. “And yet here you are. Still following me around like a lovesick grad student.”

“I am a grad student!”

“That explains a lot.”

You nearly throw your shoe at her. But instead, you smack her arm on your way past, lips twisting into a grin. “Let’s go, you wicked witch.”

Agatha snorts. “Careful, darling. I might take that as a compliment.”

You shoot her a look as you open the door. “You would. ”

She follows you out, pulling her jacket on with a dramatic little flair like she’s walking out onto a stage instead of into the sleepy streets of Vermont.

The air outside is crisp, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the pavement. You zip your jacket halfway and glance around the quiet town as you both descend the front steps of the inn.

Side by side now, your hands brush once—brief, barely there.

You pretend it didn’t make your heart skip. Agatha, of course, notices everything. But she says nothing.

Just smirks, tucks her hands into her coat pockets, and keeps walking. “Anywhere in particular you wanna go?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

Agatha shrugs. “Somewhere that doesn’t smell like old soap and wood varnish. A bookstore. Antique place. Maybe a tea shop if you're lucky.”

You hum. “Bold of you to assume I’m not the one dragging you around.”

“Sweetheart,” she says dryly, “you never drag me. I let you think you do.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. But still… you fall into step beside her, a little closer now.

The two of you walk in comfortable silence for a few blocks, the late afternoon sun casting golden light on cracked sidewalks and sleepy storefronts. The kind of town where nothing ever really happens. You can practically hear Agatha judging it.

Then, casually— too casually—Agatha says, “Let’s just get it over with.”

You glance over at her, confused. “Get what over with?”

She sighs like it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world. “Your thesis. The River Bend Library. Come on. Let’s put this academic disaster to bed.”

You stop walking, turning to face her with a gasp. “Disaster?! I’ll have you know it’s over 70 pages of carefully researched historical evidence and annotated cross-referencing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So only 30 pages of useless filler. Got it.”

You jab a finger into her arm. “I still have thirty pages to go!”

Agatha just shrugs, completely unbothered. “You’ve written entire chapters about grave dirt and teenage hysteria. I think you’ll survive.”

You glare at her, but there’s no heat to it. Not really. The teasing is familiar. Comfortable.

She turns back toward the road with that smug little smile on her face. You catch up to her in a few strides, bumping her shoulder lightly with yours.

The town is quiet as you walk. The sun’s dipped low enough to start casting shadows, but it’s not Hollow Wood shadows. No creeping sense of dread. No curling smoke. Just the breeze, the rustle of leaves, the distant sound of water.

You inhale slowly, the kind of breath you haven’t been able to take in days.

“The air feels lighter here,” you say softly, glancing over at her. “Not like Hollow Wood. Like I can actually breathe.”

Agatha hums in response, not quite looking at you. “This town hasn’t been cursed within an inch of its life. That helps.”

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, way too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “You did not just say—”

“Shh. You’re losing your lead.” She points to a small sign at the end of the street: River Bend Public Library.

You stare. “You changed the subject.”

“I sure did.”

And somehow, you let her.

Because even if she drives you insane—you’re still following her up the library steps.

Like always.

Once you guys finally walk in, you’re met instantly with the smell of books. A little dust. A little old carpet. Heaven.

It isn’t a huge library by any means—one floor, maybe two—but definitely enough books to get a bit of work done. And not to mention, you have Agatha with you.

She’s currently standing off to the side with her leg propped up on a nearby chair like she owns the entire establishment. She's surveying the room like she's either silently judging it or just pretending to be busy so you won’t talk to her. Classic.

You stifle a giggle and head toward the front desk, where a woman who looks to be in her mid 40s glances up from her computer. Honestly? Not bad looking at all. Blonde, blue eyed—classic stunner. There’s a warmth in her smile as she sees you approach.

“Hello!” you chirp, turning on that sweet, practiced tone—the one you reserve for professors, nice baristas, and women old enough to call you darling. “We were hoping to just use the computers and browse some books. We’re only in town for a couple days.”

Agatha stays planted in her corner, quiet and sharp, still perched like a pirate with her leg up. You don’t even bother looking at her.

The librarian smiles and slides her glasses off, resting her chin in her hand. “Of course, sweetie. If you want to check out anything, I can help set you up with a library card. But the computers are free to use.”

She gives you a once over that doesn’t feel creepy—just... interested. “And if you need any help at all, you just let me know...”

She pauses then—waiting.

So you give your name.

That earns you a bigger smile. “Beautiful name. I’m Pepper.”

You nod, about to respond—when suddenly, a hand settles on the small of your back.

You freeze. Your breath hitches. You don’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Thanks for your help,” Agatha says, her voice smooth and calm—but there’s an edge to it. “We’ll be going now.” And just like that, she’s steering you away, palm firm and unmistakably possessive against your spine as she guides you toward the computer section like she’s redirecting a child—or claiming property.

Your face burns.

You glance over at her. “You’re ridiculous.”

Agatha doesn’t even blink. “She was ogling you.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was picturing you on the help desk,” Agatha mutters under her breath, then pulls out a chair and gestures for you to sit. “Start researching.”

You huff. But your heart’s thudding. And you don’t sit right away. Because she’s still looking at you like you’re hers. And maybe... you like it.

“I’m not going to sit just because you tell me to,” you sass, chin lifting as you give her a look. “I’m not a dog.”

Agatha doesn’t blink.

She just smiles. Slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile that makes your spine straighten a little and your stomach flip.

“No,” she says, voice all honey, “you’re not a dog.” Her hand drifts to the back of your chair again, fingers tapping once against the wood. She leans in slightly—just enough for her voice to drop low, close to your ear.

“But you do respond best to tone, don’t you?” Your jaw drops.

Your cheeks flare. “Agatha—”

“You’re standing in a public library,” she murmurs, “trying to brat your way out of doing the thing you begged me to help with.”

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t beg— ”

She cuts you off with a raised brow. “Would you like me to list the exact words you used? I remember them. Vividly.”

You sit.

Hard.

She hums in approval. “Good girl.”

Your ears burn.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you mutter under your breath, turning toward the computer as fast as you can so she doesn’t see the way you’re biting your lip.

But she already knows.

She always does.

And as she turns and walks off toward the history section, leaving you flustered and burning at your seat, you swear you can feel her smirk from halfway across the library.

You grumble under your breath, cheeks burning, as you boot up the computer and search for Google, fingers slightly shaky from the ego bruising you’d just endured. You log into your document, the familiar loading screen making your chest clench with anticipation.

Then—there it is.

You nearly collapse from relief.

Your thesis.

Your messy, beautiful, painfully long thesis. Every footnote. Every citation. Every thought you’d left suspended like a breath in your skull for the past two weeks. Still here.

You let out a sigh, your entire body sagging with it.

You’d been this close to a full-blown Jo March meltdown. Pages in flames, throwing yourself into a snowbank, the drama of it all. And only now did you really understand that dread in her eyes.

Slowly, your gaze scans the last place you left off. The cursor blinks up at you. Waiting.

You smile. Shoulders drop. Breath steadies. This—this was your rhythm. You were back in your element.

Click. Type. Scan.

Your fingers move fast, muscle memory kicking in. You open new tabs, copy passages, drop in new citations, cross reference events like you never stopped. The Salem trials. Transcripts. Local burial reports. Everything. You’re flying.

Until—

Warm hands settle on your shoulders.

You jolt, just slightly.

Then freeze.

You can feel her leaning behind you, reading over your shoulder, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear.

“Don’t stop on my account, hon,” Agatha murmurs, her voice dragging along your spine.

You suppress a shudder.

Your hands twitch back to the keyboard, typing again—slower this time. Nowhere near the confident, furious pace you had a moment ago. You can’t even remember what sentence you were halfway through. Your brain is nothing but static and lavender.

“You missed a date,” she says, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

Then her hands give your shoulders a final squeeze before slipping away, leaving warmth behind.

You’re still trying to recover when she continues, wandering back toward the nearest shelf. “I looked around for some books,” she adds airily, “but this baby wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

You turn around, slowly, confused and squinting. “What are you even talking about?”

Agatha is halfway across the library, arms folded in that self-satisfied way she does when she’s being weird. One arm across her torso, the other bent up, fingers curled under her chin. She looks like she’s studying the shelves with the intensity of someone trying to decode ancient runes. Lips pursed. Head tilted slightly.

You just blink at her.

She looks like a cursed statue someone would find in a temple with a plaque that reads: Touch and be instantly humbled.

Her eyes slide over to you without moving the rest of her body.

You flush.

Her brow lifts—just a little.

The look says: What?

You open your mouth like you’re about to question her sanity—then just shake your head, deciding not to entertain the old lady and her cryptic library nonsense.

“Can you look this over?” you ask instead, waving a hand toward the screen like you’re being generous.

Agatha raises a brow. “Did you just assign me homework?”

You ignore her, scrolling to your latest paragraph. “You said on the broom ride over that you’d been a professor for a bit.”

She narrows her eyes. “In passing.”

“And I’m sure,” you drawl, slowly turning to look at her, “you can teach me… oh so much.”

Your lashes flutter. The grin on your lips threatens to break your entire face. Agatha blinks once. Then twice. Her mouth does this thing—this twitch, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or strangle you.

“Careful,” she says, stepping closer again, her voice all warning and velvet. “You’re treading very dangerous territory.”

“Oh?” you murmur, still all wide eyes and fake innocence. “Is that a threat, Professor Harkness?”

She leans down slightly, one hand braced on the back of your chair, the other resting on the desk near your keyboard. She’s so close you can smell her perfume again—like cedar and smoke and the exact kind of trouble you always seem to chase.

“No,” she says softly. “It’s a promise.”

Your breath catches.

Then she leans in even closer, her mouth nearly brushing your ear.

“But if I’m going to teach you anything,” she murmurs, “you need to actually sit still and focus.”

You make a small, wounded noise.

She pulls back, smirking. “Exactly.” And then—like she didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs—she casually starts reading your paragraph.

You sit there for a bit, eyes following the screen as she reads over your paragraph.

It should’ve been helpful.

It was helpful. She was murmuring corrections under her breath, catching inconsistencies in your phrasing, pointing out which sources might actually contradict your conclusion—like a real editor.

But none of it was sticking.

Because all you could do was stare at her.

That damn side profile. It got you every time. The sharp cut of her cheekbone. The soft curl of her hair against her temple. The jut of her nose leading down to those lips—the ones that had been all over yours just days ago.

The ones currently mouthing words like "this sentence structure is abysmal." You couldn’t even be mad. You were too busy mentally blacking out. “…and if you’re going to cite Reverend Parris’ testimony, you should probably note that it directly contradicts what he said on—”

You hum.

Just a vague, noncommittal noise. Agatha’s head tilts slightly. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

You blink. “Yeah, totally.”

Her eyes narrow. You grin, sheepish. “I’m absorbing. Like osmosis.”

Agatha’s head tilts slightly. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

You blink. “Yeah, totally.”

Her eyes narrow.

You grin, sheepish. “I’m absorbing. Like osmosis.”

Agatha stares at you for a long beat. Then sighs. A deep, dramatic, you're a lost cause kind of sigh.

You send her your best sheepish smile. “So uh… what were you on about?”

She turns her head fully to face you.

And fuck, she’s close. “I said,” she repeats, slow and deliberate, “you should note that your citation to the Reverend Parris testimony contradicts everything you just argued in the previous paragraph.”

You blink. “Does it?”

Her lips twitch—just slightly. “Did you even read the deposition, or did you just copy and paste the quote off a secondary site and hope for the best?”

“I—uh—”

Her voice goes sharp. “Tell me what day he testified.”

You scramble. “Um… March 2nd?”

“Wrong. March 1st. He was corrected on March 2nd. And if you actually read the notes from that hearing, you’d know that he backpedaled on nearly everything when his niece’s inconsistencies were brought up.”

You blink.

Agatha keeps going.

“Paragraph five, line two—you’re missing context. He said ‘spectral evidence’ was proof of guilt until after the second inquiry. You can’t use that quote to support a thesis that critiques spectral evidence being accepted without question.”

You just… stare at her.

She leans closer, eyes sharp now, fingers tapping the desk like a ticking metronome. “And you claim to be a historian?”

You let out a small, scandalized gasp. “You’re mean.”

She hums, satisfied. “No. I’m right.”

Then she taps the screen one more time. “You have two strong arguments, but you’re undercutting them with poor citation structure and lazy sequencing. Organize your timeline. Don’t assume your reader knows what you do.”

You can’t tell if you want to cry, take notes, or crawl into her lap and beg her to read the whole thing out loud.

Instead, you mumble “Okay… damn.”

She leans back finally, giving your shoulder another pat.

“Fix it. I’ll get us some books.” And just like that, she turns—coat flaring slightly behind her—and disappears into the stacks like some dark academia mirage, leaving you stunned, flustered, and incredibly turned on.

Professor Harkness was a menace. And you’d never survive an actual lecture.

You sit there in stunned silence for a second longer before dragging your hands down your face and groaning softly. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath. “She’s not even my professor and I feel like I failed the class.”

You look back at the screen. Cursor still blinking, judgmental as ever. You sigh and start correcting what she pointed out.

To your annoyance—and your reluctant awe—she’s right.

You shift a few paragraphs around, add a footnote, and remove that Parris quote completely. Two corrections down. Like… twenty more to go.

Your fingers hover above the keys for a second. There’s no way Agatha wasn’t the strictest professor ever. Her classes were probably terrifying. You imagine entire rows of students whispering she bit someone once and no one ever daring to question her citations.

You’re still halfway through reformatting a source when you hear it— slam.

You flinch.

Agatha drops a stack of books beside you like a fucking punctuation mark. She's already flipping through one of them like she didn’t just scare the soul out of you.

She’s scanning the pages—her brows furrowed, sharp eyes darting over the text as she reads with that same eerie, focused calm.

You glance at the titles.

Some are old. Like really old. Some in Latin. One looks like it was bound with actual string and blood. You’re afraid to ask where she even found them in this tiny ass library.

She closes one with a thud and finally glances at you. “Fixed the paragraph?” she asks, like she hasn’t just casually unearthed the fucking Necronomicon.

You give a weak nod. “Mostly.” She gives you that familiar, thin lipped stare.

You scowl. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m trying. Your teaching style is… unhinged. ”

“Effective,” she corrects.

“I feel like I’ve been bullied.”

Agatha shrugs, flipping open another book. “You’ll thank me later in life.”

You stare at her. She doesn’t look up. You glance back down at your document, shoulders tightening. “You’re really good at this,” you mutter.

“I know,” she says simply, not even pretending to be humble. You scowl again. She finally looks at you, just briefly, and smirks. Of course she does.

The Next 3 Hours:

You and Agatha fall into an unexpectedly productive rhythm.

After that initial chaos and sass, you settle in. The keys click beneath your fingers as you hammer through edits, Agatha occasionally looking over your shoulder with her arms crossed and a brow raised like a true Professor. She doesn’t say much unless you ask—except to occasionally mutter “That’s a weak transition” or “Try again.”

Meanwhile, she flicks through the books she brought over—some so old they smell like ancient dust and forgotten secrets. You swear one of them is handwritten. She makes notes on a napkin, because of course she does and occasionally rants under her breath about how historians keep “getting it wrong” because they weren’t there.

At one point, you challenge her—ask for a source to back up her claim. She just looks at you. “I was there. ”

You groan, shove her lightly, and keep working—because somehow, her cryptic bullshit only makes you want to impress her more.

You both work like that for hours, the sun shifting across the sky outside the library windows. The librarian—Pepper—offers you both some coffee from the back room, which you accept with a half smile that makes agatha weirdly jealous again.

By the end of it, you’ve finished revising three full sections of your thesis, Agatha’s filled two napkins with “corrections,” and you’ve caught her staring at you at least four times when she thought you weren’t looking.

Your side aches faintly, but not in a threatening way—more like the tension of a story slowly winding itself up again.

And you feel… good. Tired, but grounded. Like you’ve done something right.

When you finally pack up, Agatha slaps your shoulder and murmurs, “Not bad for a brat,” before heading toward the door.

You pretend to glare. But you’re smiling.

By the time you two get back to the room, you yawn and lazily kick the door shut behind you. The library may have been calm, but your brain was fried. You toe off your shoes and drop onto the edge of the bed with a groan that probably sounded a little more dramatic than necessary.

Agatha’s already tugging off her boots, back turned to you, flannel slightly askew. “I’m gonna take a shower,” she says, already walking toward the bathroom. “Then order takeout. What do you want?”

You glance up, blinking slowly like your brain’s buffering. “Italian? Chinese? I don’t know. You pick. You’ve tired out my brain today.”

Agatha scoffs, popping a few buttons on her flannel. “Chinese it is. You can shower after me.”

Your mouth opens.

Then closes.

You very nearly say we could just shower together —and honestly? It takes every ounce of willpower not to.

You bite your tongue, hard, and nod instead, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the TV remote like it’s going to save you from yourself.

She disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of the water starting sends a throb of arousal straight through you.

You let out a soft groan and throw yourself backward onto the bed like a Victorian woman overcome with lust.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you whisper to the ceiling.

The muffled sound of the water only makes it worse. You try not to imagine what she looks like behind the fogged glass. How she’d look with water running down her spine. How she’d sound if you just—

Nope.

You flick on the TV and scroll through channels without actually watching anything. Every few seconds, your brain betrays you with another mental image. Another memory of her voice in your ear. Her mouth on yours. Her body over yours. Or… under.

You take a few deep breaths, trying— failing —to calm your racing thoughts. But it’s impossible. Every time you blink, another flash of her lips on your neck, her hands on your hips, her voice saying something absolutely filthy crawls through your brain like it owns the place.

The pressure between your legs builds so fast it’s dizzying. You bury your face in your hands and groan softly.

“Get it together,” you mutter, voice muffled.

You’re getting worked up over your imagination like you’re some hormonal teenager with a one-woman Agatha Harkness fan club. Which, to be fair, might be entirely accurate.

And of course—because the universe has no mercy— that’s when she emerges from the bathroom.

Just a towel.

Wrapped loosely around her.

Her hair is still damp, curls sticking in soft clumps at her temples, and her skin glows from the steam. Your jaw clicks shut so fast you swear you hear it.

You don’t even mean to turn your head—but you do. Instinct, betrayal, sheer masochism.

And your mouth goes completely dry.

You snap your attention back to the TV so hard your neck pops. You force your face into a neutral expression, like you aren’t imagining that towel slipping. Like you’re not seconds from just disintegrating on the spot.

Your ears burn hot.

Agatha hums under her breath, totally unbothered, like she doesn’t know she’s the walking embodiment of temptation in a linen wrap. She casually pulls on an oversized white long sleeve and a pair of gray sweats like it’s no big deal. Like you’re not actively fighting for your life in a Motel 6.

She glances at you with one eyebrow raised. “Get in the shower.”

You blink, then fumble to your feet like someone just called your name in class. “Y-Yeah. Yep. I can… I can do that.”

You grab the pajamas she got you—that suddenly feel far too intimate—and head to the bathroom.

You shut the door behind you, lean against it, and whisper:

“Dear God, please let this be a cold shower.”

It isn’t. But you try anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, your skin is vaguely red from the effort, your hair damp, and you’re slipping into the clean pajamas while mentally preparing for what may be the most emotionally taxing moment of your life: sitting next to Agatha Harkness while fully awake, aware, and attracted, watching a movie and eating takeout like everything is fine.

Like you didn’t just ride a broom together. Like she didn’t just ritual magic the corruption out of your body. Like you didn’t ride her thigh to orgasm last night.

How the hell are you supposed to sleep in the same bed as her again?

Fully conscious? Eating chinese next to her? You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second. Then point.

“Behave.”

You open the bathroom door and step out, only to find Agatha already curled up on the bed, legs stretched out, her hair slightly damp and glasses on—glasses?—scrolling through the TV guide like a smug little demon of domesticity.

Your stomach does a somersault.

You stand there, awkwardly hugging your arms like it’s your first time over at some guy’s house and you don’t know if you’re supposed to sit or wait to be invited.

Agatha glances up, casual as ever. “I ordered takeout,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “Should be here in ten. I picked a movie for you.”

She nods to the TV where some charming, oddly spooky vintage film is paused on the screen. Something black and white, probably with ghosts or curses or sharp women in long coats. You don’t even know, but somehow it’s exactly what you needed.

She’s too calm.

Like this is the most normal thing in the world.

And somehow, that does calm you. Just a bit. Enough to remember how to move your limbs.

You cross the room and sit—carefully—on the edge of the bed. Perched like you’re waiting for a job interview. Or like the bed might electrocute you if you shift wrong.

Agatha doesn’t comment. Just keeps scrolling for a second before tossing the remote aside and leaning back against the headboard, arms behind her head, eyes on the screen.

You hesitate.

Then slowly— very slowly—you scoot further onto the bed, resting back against the pillows, but keeping a very deliberate three inches of space between your bodies.

As if you hadn’t moaned her name into her neck just last night. As if she hadn’t pressed you down and whispered that’s it in your ear while your body broke apart in her lap.

Nope. You’re civilized now. You’re friends. Watching movies and eating dumplings like totally normal, not sexually tensioned people.

Totally.

Normal.

You fold your hands in your lap and try not to look at her. She glances sideways anyway. Her lips twitch. And you pretend not to notice. You’re halfway through convincing your body to relax when there’s a knock at the door.

Agatha moves like she was expecting it—of course she was—and slides off the bed with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone in gray sweatpants and a white shirt.

“Food’s here,” she says as she opens the door.

The smell hits you instantly. Sweet garlic. Soy sauce. Steamed dumplings, and vegatable chow-mein. Your stomach makes a sound that’s both horrifying and deeply relatable.

She tosses you a grin over her shoulder. “Starving, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, already moving toward the edge of the bed. “You fried my brain today. I deserve noodles.”

The two of you sit cross legged on the bed, cartons and napkins spread between you like a sacred offering. The movie starts playing—something vintage and odd, with dramatic violins and over the top voiceovers.

Agatha’s relaxed. You’re relaxed. You’re eating dumplings and throwing snarky commentary at the movie like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Oh my god, did he really just walk into the haunted attic?” you groan, chewing your food.

“He’s wearing a cravat and quoting Byron,” Agatha says dryly. “He deserves what’s coming.”

You snort and almost choke on your rice. Agatha passes you your drink without missing a beat.

By the time the end credits roll and the villain has met his poetic, overly dramatic death, you’re both leaning into each other, shoulders touching, the space between you long forgotten.

Agatha glances at you out of the corner of her eye. “Still alive, grad student?”

“Barely,” you mutter around a yawn. “I think the dumplings saved me.”

She smirks. “I’ll make a note: food solves all your meltdowns.”

You nudge her with your shoulder. “Most of them.”

Eventually, she stretches, then jerks her chin toward the bathroom. “Brush your teeth. Movie night doesn’t excuse dental hygiene.”

You roll your eyes but hop off the bed anyway.

When you finish and swap places, Agatha leans over the sink, watching you in the mirror with a sly little smile.

“What?” you ask around your toothbrush.

“Just thinking,” she hums. “You looked cuter when you were all flustered earlier.”

You choke on toothpaste.

She pats your back once and glides back to bed like she didn’t just ruin your composure again.

You finish up, cheeks warm, and return to find her already curled up under the covers, scrolling through more movie options. She looks up when you slide in beside her, closer now than before, your knee just brushing hers.

“Ready for round two?” she asks, raising a brow.

“Of the movie?” you ask, playing innocent.

“Sure,” she says with a lazy grin. “Unless you have something else in mind.”

You groan, throwing a pillow at her. Agatah clicks a button on the remote and the second movie starts. Something less dramatic, more cozy. You settle into her side, warmth radiating between you. Your laughter mixes with hers as you poke fun at the outdated special effects, and every so often your hand brushes hers, neither of you moving away.

“You have such old lady taste in movies, you know,” you tease, stretching your legs out beneath the blanket and nudging her thigh with your foot. “You witch.”

Agatha just rolls her eyes, entirely unbothered, eyes still fixed on the screen. Like you hadn’t just insulted both her age and her entire essence in one sentence.

You poke at her arm. “Come on, show me at least some magic.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps watching like you're not even there.

You narrow your eyes, poke her again—this time closer to the ribs—but before you can land it, she snatches your wrist mid air with annoyingly fast reflexes.

“Would you stop that, pet,” she says, her voice low and sharp— that tone. The one that makes your spine straighten and your thighs clench. That tone you’ve come to recognize as Agatha’s polite way of saying keep going and I’ll ruin you.

You give her a small pout anyway, lips twitching. “Come on, Aggie,” you say sweetly, drawing out the nickname like sugar on your tongue.

Her eyes snap to yours.

You bite your lip to stifle a grin.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re getting bold.”

You hum, smug. “I’ve always been bold. You just like pretending I’m innocent.”

She doesn’t let go of your wrist. If anything, her grip tightens a little. Her thumb rubs slowly over your pulse point—lazy, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. But you’re acutely aware. The way your breath catches. The way your body seems to tune to hers like instinct.

“Show me a little som’ som,” you murmur, voice dropping just a touch. “Just a peek. Little spell. Little sparkle. I won’t tell.”

Agatha arches a brow, slow and unimpressed. “I don’t perform on command, darling.”

“But I said please .”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Okay,” you admit with a small shrug. “But it was implied.”

She holds your gaze for a long moment. Too long. And then—so fast it’s barely noticeable—she flicks her fingers. The lights dim slightly. Not the room lights. The TV screen itself shifts just a hair darker, like the shadows leaned in to listen.

You gasp softly.

Agatha smirks. “Happy?”

You blink. “Wait—did you just—was that—”

“I told you,” she says, finally letting go of your wrist. “Just a peek.”

You sit back against the pillows, eyes still wide, breath a little caught in your throat. You turn slowly to look at Agatha like she’s suddenly sprouted wings or maybe a second head—something equally impossible and yet... there.

“Oh my god.”

She quirks a brow at you, utterly smug.

“I mean, I know I saw it before,” you babble, gesturing vaguely, “with the rune and the broom and the whole fleeing-for-our-lives thing, but now?” You shake your head. “Now we’re not running. I’m not dying. And I’m watching TV with a literal witch.”

Agatha looks pleased with herself. “Took you long enough.”

“Wow.” You blink hard, like you can somehow clear your vision and make sense of everything again. “Okay—do it again.”

“No.”

“Oh come on!” you whine, half-laughing. “Wait—okay—make me levitate.”

She snorts. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?! I want to float!”

“You just want an excuse to throw yourself into my arms again.”

You look scandalized. “What? Me? That is—that’s—okay, maybe a little.”

Agatha hums. “Uh-huh.”

“Okay fine,” you say, bouncing a bit where you sit. “What about… conjure something. Like—make something float in your hand. Or catch fire! Or like, sparkle? Do you sparkle? ”

She gives you a look.

You’re grinning now, practically vibrating. “Come onnnn. Please? Just one more little spell?”

She sighs like she’s indulging a toddler, but her fingers twitch again, and a soft violet glow blooms in her palm—warm and humming and swirling like smoke in water. It’s beautiful. Quiet. And somehow... alive.

Your mouth drops open. “Oh my god.”

“Are you going to say that every time I do something?” she murmurs.

You nod, eyes wide. “Probably. Do it again.”

“Greedy little thing.”

You flop onto your side dramatically, eyes still locked on the glow in her hand. “You literally have magic hands, Agatha. This feels personal.”

She laughs— laughs —and lets the light vanish with a soft snap of her fingers. “Alright, that’s enough show and tell. If I keep going, you’ll pass out from excitement.”

You mumble sligtly under your breath "...or arousal.”

Agatha blinks, head tilting ever so slightly—sharp and amused. “What was that?” she asks again, but her tone’s already shifted. Lower. Slower. Like honey laced with heat.

You give her a sheepish, lopsided grin, feeling the blush rise on your cheeks. “Nothing.”

But of course that doesn't fly.

She shifts closer, the mattress dipping with her movement, and suddenly her face is right there—just a breath away. Her voice drops to that damn near-lethal octave, velvet and smoke curling around each word.

“Be a good girl,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips, “and tell me what you said.” And the smirk that catches her lips after? Oh, you’re doomed. Doomed in a very specific, very Agatha kind of way.

Your breath stutters, throat working around the sudden dryness. You’re sure your pulse is visible—your whole body wound tight. She hasn’t even touched you, not really, and yet every part of you is reacting like she has.

You mutter, barely above a whisper, “I said… or arousal.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes gleam with something wicked. “That’s what I thought.” Her lips find yours with the kind of slowness that makes you dizzy—measured, sure, intentional. It’s not the frantic, desperate edge of that first drunken kiss. Not even the thigh riding, breathless kind from the night before.

No—this is worse.

This is dangerous.

Because it’s slow. Because she’s taking her time. Because she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

You gasp softly into her mouth, and she takes that as invitation, deepening the kiss just enough to pull a quiet, aching sound from your throat. Her hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing under your cheek like she’s trying to steady you—when really, she’s the one undoing you in the first place.

Your fingers clutch the fabric of her shirt, needing something to ground you, needing to hold onto her.

She pulls back only slightly, lips brushing yours, and you chase after her without thinking. Agatha chuckles low in her throat. “So needy tonight,” she murmurs against your mouth.

You exhale, trying not to tremble. Her hand slides down, trailing from your jaw to your throat—just a tease of pressure before settling over your collarbone. “Agatha…” you breathe.

But before your mind can form another thought, she cuts it off with her lips— crashing into you with a purpose that sends a jolt down your spine. Like fire catching dry leaves, fast and all consuming.

Your lips smack together in an unspoken rhythm, her mouth soft yet demanding. She nips your bottom lip and then soothes the sting with her tongue, slow and purposeful.

You gasp—of course you do—and the second your mouth parts, she licks into you like she owns it. Like she’s been waiting to devour you for centuries.

A soft noise escapes from your throat, and Agatha doesn’t miss it. Her body shifts closer, one hand sliding to your hip, the other bracing beside your head as she pushes into you, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. You can feel her breathing through her nose, every inhale sharp, controlled, grazing your cheek like a brand.

Your body is molten. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s about to unravel.

Your legs shift restlessly beneath the blanket. Your thighs press together, desperate for something—anything—to help you manage the way your core is throbbing.

God, how does she do this to you? With just a few touches. Just a few looks. A kiss.

This kiss.

You whimper softly into her mouth before you even realize you’re doing it. The sound slips out—raw, needy, helpless—and maybe that’s what finally snaps the last thread of hesitation inside you.

Your hands tangle in her shirt, yanking her closer in a bold, reckless move that earns you a low noise from the back of Agatha’s throat. She groans into your mouth—deep, throaty—and that alone sends heat rushing through your entire body, pooling low in your belly like liquid fire.

Your tongue strokes against hers, slow at first, then deeper, more sure. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

The air in the room shifts. Charged.

Every kiss now is wetter, messier, like you’re both drunk on it—like stopping would actually hurt. The soft sounds of the movie still flicker somewhere in the background, long forgotten. All you can register is the sound of your breath hitching, the obscene pull of your lips parting for her again and again.

You moan— shamelessly —into her mouth when she tilts her head just right, and that only seems to spur her on.

Her hand slides up, cradling your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye as if to soothe, to anchor you while her mouth ruins you. Her other hand grips your hip with barely restrained force, grounding you, holding you still like she knows just how fast you’d come apart if she let you go.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because you would.

You’d fall to pieces under her in a second, and the terrifying, beautiful truth?

You want to.

Agatha pulls back just enough for breath, her lips a little swollen, her pupils blown wide and heavy-lidded. Her eyes flick down to your mouth—then lower, to the way your chest rises and falls in uneven bursts.

And that’s all it takes.

You’re already leaning back in, desperate, lips parting before they even find hers again. Your fingers tug at her shirt like you can’t get her close enough. You’re not even pretending anymore—not playing coy, not teasing—you’re needy, and it’s obvious in every moan that slips between your mouths.

Agatha groans softly as you pull her flush against you, her body fitting over yours with maddening precision. Her hand slides down your side, slow and deliberate, until it slips just under the hem of your shirt.

Her palm is warm. Too warm. It splays wide over your ribs, fingers stroking skin and making your back arch into her on instinct. You gasp into the kiss, and she takes it greedily—her tongue sweeping against yours, her grip on you tightening.

She kisses like she’s feeding off it.

Like it sustains her.

Your hands are shaking as they bunch into her shirt again, pulling, pleading—silent but so, so loud.

Agatha obliges.

She presses into you more, her knee shifting between your thighs as her other hand comes up to cup your breast through your shirt. The pressure is firm, perfect, and you let out a sound so wrecked it makes her growl.

She rolls her thumb slowly over your nipple through the fabric, and your body jerks like she’s lit a fuse. Your hips twitch—helpless, needy, grinding slightly into the leg between yours.

“Agatha— ” you gasp.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, mouth tracing down your jaw. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”

You whimper again—completely at her mercy now. Her hands, her mouth, her voice. The way she touches you like she’s memorizing you. The way she makes you feel like the only thing that exists.

“Can’t get enough of you,” she breathes, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Look at you…”

Your head falls back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut. You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—just soft, breathless pleas and her name like a prayer between every kiss.

And Agatha?

Agatha just smiles against your skin like she owns every sound.

Agatha’s mouth is everywhere now—your jaw, your throat, the hollow just above your collarbone. Kissing. Nipping. Savoring.

Like she’s starving. Like she’s waited.

You writhe beneath her, overwhelmed and aching, your hands slipping under her shirt, fingers trembling against the warm skin of her waist. You want to touch more. All of her. But you don’t know where to begin.

She’s not rushing you. But she’s not gentle, either.

Her fingers skim the underside of your shirt again, lifting it inch by inch until her hand finds your bare ribs. She exhales shakily, like just touching you like this costs her something.

And then she says it. Low. Hoarse. A confession buried in breath.

“I’ve waited thirty years to find you again.”

You blink—blown pupils and parted lips—and it barely even registers. It’s a string of sounds, lost between the blood pounding in your ears and the pulse thrumming between your thighs.

But she keeps going, her mouth pressing into your shoulder, her voice dropping into that older low tone—the one that holds too much weight for how young she looks.

“Do you know what that does to a person?” she murmurs. “To wait this long… To lose someone again and again… and still know they’ll come back to you.”

You’re breathless. Dizzy. “I—I don’t understand.”

Her eyes meet yours.

Soft. Ravenous. Honest.

“You don’t have to.” Her thumb traces the curve of your hip, reverent. “Not yet.”

Then her mouth is on yours again—desperate, hungry—and there’s no room left for questions. Not when her body is pressing into you, not when her hand is palming your breast like it belongs to her. Like it has.

Your shirt is pushed up, your skin against hers, and every inch she touches feels like a memory returning. Like something that was always meant to happen.

You can feel the tension in her—shoulders drawn tight, muscles flexed. She’s in control. But barely. And it hits you—she’s just as desperate for you as you are for her.

Maybe more.

Her lips hover over your neck, teeth ghosting against your pulse. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

Your hand curls into the back of her shirt, dragging her closer. “I want more,” you whisper.

Agatha groans against your throat, her breath shaking, and for the first time… she loses a little of her composure. “Then you’ll have it,” she murmurs. “All of me. Just like I want all of you.”

And god, you’ve never burned so beautifully.

You don’t remember how your shirt got halfway up your chest. Or when Agatha’s shirt slipped off her shoulders. Or when you started clutching at her like gravity was failing.

But none of that matters now.

Because she’s hovering over you, shirtless to the waist, skin glowing in the low lamplight, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain around your flushed faces.

And her eyes?

Her eyes are pure, consuming.

“Look at you,” she breathes, her voice a rumble of velvet and wildfire. Her fingers trace down your sides with maddening slowness, nails skimming just enough to make your whole body twitch. “You’re shaking.”

You are. God, you are.

You nod—barely—and she hums deep in her throat like she’s satisfied. Like she likes the way you tremble for her.

“Good.”

The word hits you right in the core, and your back arches without meaning to. She watches that too—hungry, head tilted, lips parted like she’s already imagining the sounds you’ll make next.

Heat throbs through you, hot and unbearable, pooling low and insistent. Your underwear is soaked. Ruined. You can feel it sticking to your skin. The way your clit pulses, throbs, aches.

And all she’s done is touch.

Not even there.

She leans in again, and you swear your soul leaves your body when her mouth drags from the hinge of your jaw to the column of your throat. She bites. Softly. Then licks over it.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to have you like this,” she whispers against your skin, her voice cracking just slightly—like she’s not immune either. “How long I’ve imagined this exact moment.”

You gasp when her hands finally slide under your bra, palming your breasts with firm, reverent pressure. She’s not tentative—she knows exactly how to make you gasp, arch, burn.

“You’re burning up,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your lips. “Is this all for me, pet?”

You nod helplessly, words gone.

Agatha smiles—slow, wicked, and devastating. “Of course it is.” And you whine. No dignity. No filter. Just a wrecked, needy sound torn from your throat.

Your cunt clenches so hard it hurts, and your hips grind forward without permission, chasing the friction like you’ve already forgotten how to breathe.

Agatha watches with the gaze of a queen surveying her kingdom—hungry, certain, possessive.

She leans in, kissing you again—deep, claiming—while her hands slip down to the waistband of your pants.

And god help you, you let her. “Please,” you whimper into her mouth, the word barely formed, and your hands fly to her waist—gripping tight, grounding yourself as your fingers slip under her shirt, palms flat against hot, smooth skin.

You’re already gasping, already chasing her mouth with yours, already lost in the ache spiraling through your body.

But Agatha still has the reins. and she reminds you of it.

She pulls back—not far, but enough—and her hands catch your wrists.

Firm. Commanding.

You freeze.

Then, she guides you. Doesn’t shove. Doesn’t bark. Just— repositions you like you weigh nothing, coaxing your wrists down and sliding her body upward until suddenly you’re the one beneath her again.

Laid out.

Breathless.

Helpless.

Your head hits the pillows, and before you can so much as blink, she’s already straddling your hips, her hair falling around her face, her legs caging you in like she’s claimed the space.

You blink up at her, dazed and shaking.

And she smirks .

“Did you really think you were going to take the lead, sweetheart?” she asks, dragging one palm slowly down your chest, her low and raspy. “That’s adorable.”

You whimper again—and then she lifts her arms, slow, deliberate, and pulls her shirt off over her head.

You forget how to breathe.

Time stops.

She’s glowing in the lamplight—shoulders bare, chest rising and falling with every slow, controlled breath. Your eyes go straight to her collarbone and down to her breasts, fully on display, and suddenly all the imaginations you had earlier feel pitiful in comparison.

They hadn’t captured this.

The flush on her skin—pale and subtle, just at her neck and dipping down between the swell of her breasts.

Your clit throbs.

Your fingers twitch beside you, aching to move, to reach out, to do something.

And you must look pathetic, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, because Agatha’s smile softens—not kind, not teasing, but knowing.

Like she’s been here before.

Like she remembers.

Her eyes drag over you, drinking in your blown pupils and parted lips, and then—then—she leans in, her voice just above a whisper

“Go on.”

You blink. “W-what?”

Her fingers catch your wrist and guide it—up, over the flat of her stomach, higher still, until your palm brushes the side of her breast.

“Touch me.”

you whine and your shaky fingers curling around soft skin, thumbs brushing slow, reverent. You lift your other hand, not even thinking, cupping her gently, like she might vanish if you squeeze too hard.

She doesn’t vanish.

She shudders —just a breath—but it’s real, and you feel it everywhere.

Your mouth quickly follows starting at her collarbone and down to her left breast, littering kisses there.

Agatha's fingers tangle in your hair, not rough but anchored —a claim, a grounding. Her breath stutters above you, and it’s everything. You’d do anything to hear her like that again.

Really hear her.

You glance up, and the look on her face nearly ruins you.

Lips parted. Eyes low and heavy. A flush spread across her chest, up her throat. Her mouth twitching like she wants to say something—warn you, maybe—but the words won’t come.

So you give her more.

A slow, deliberate lick over her nipple, then a firm suck—flat tongued and unrepentant—and the sound she makes? Deep. Throaty. Ripped straight from her core.

“Fuck.” It slips out of her like a secret she didn’t mean to share, and just like that, a fresh wave of heat crashes through your body.

You’re soaked. Your underwear’s a lost cause. And your pulse is so loud in your ears you can barely think.

Agatha’s hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head up.

You meet her eyes.

You’re panting. She’s flushed. And there’s something dangerous in her gaze now—something reverent, yes, but also possessive. “Look at you,” she breathes. Her thumb brushes your cheek. “Such a pretty little thing when you’re desperate.”

Your body arches toward her—needy, alive—and you don’t even realize your hands are back on her waist until she hums low in her throat and presses her hips down, pinning you.

Your breath catches. Your thighs clench.

Agatha kisses you again—sloppy, desperate, like she can’t get enough. Her hands leave your hair after a moment, tugging your shirt up and over your head. She breaks the kiss only long enough to toss it aside, then her gaze drops—roaming, devouring—and her breath catches, just slightly.

Then her hands are everywhere.

Rubbing up and down your sides. Palms smoothing over your skin like she’s trying to memorize it. She leans in again—kissing, sucking, biting down your neck—and your back arches, a moan slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

You swear you feel her smirk against your throat. Agatha's smirk. Agatha’s mouth. Agatha’s hands.

She continues her descent, trailing kisses down your sternum, pausing to lick slow and deliberate as she makes subtle eye contact—and God, you could’ve come right then and there.

Which of course only fuels the teasing glint in her eyes.

Her left hand moves to your breast, groping, squeezing with purpose, before her fingers roll and pinch your nipple—just enough to make your hips twitch, another moan pulled from deep in your chest.

“So pretty,” she murmurs against your skin.

Then her mouth replaces her hand, warm and wet and perfect as she engulfs your nipple, her tongue swirling in maddening circles before flicking lightly.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, voice breathless, high.

She hums in response—like she’s pleased with herself—and it vibrates through your chest, making you shudder.

Your clit is throbbing, your thighs clenched tight, a deep ache blooming inside you with no relief in sight. You’re clenching around nothing, your body practically begging to be filled, to be touched more, And she hasn’t even taken your pants off yet.

“What do you want?” Agatha murmurs against your skin, voice low and infuriatingly calm, as if her mouth hadn’t just left a trail of destruction down your chest.

She keeps kissing you—little teasing things, soft bites, a swirl of tongue here, a suck just too close to where you need her—and it’s driving you mad.

Your hips twitch, shifting toward her with instinct more than thought.

“Please,” you whisper, wrecked.

That makes her pause.

She pulls back just enough to look at you.

Her lips are red and kiss swollen. A small flush has crept up her neck. Her pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the blue. Her hair’s a little messy from where you tugged it earlier and God, she looks like sin itself, carved into the shape of a woman.

But her voice?

Still composed.

Still Agatha.

“That’s not what I asked, pet.”

Her tone is velvet and command, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine. You blink up at her, heart pounding, and you know— know —she won’t move until you answer her.

Won’t give you anything unless you say it. Tell her what you want. Tell her you’re hers. Your breath catches. You swear your heart stutters, fluttering hard against your ribs like it’s trying to answer for you.

But that’s not enough. Not for her. She’s watching you now—calm, patient, predatory. Like she has all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

“I—” Your voice breaks, and you close your eyes for a second to steady yourself. Your thighs squeeze together, searching for relief, but it’s pointless. You’re soaked. Pulsing. On the edge with nowhere to go unless she lets you.

You open your eyes again. She’s still waiting.

“I want…” You swallow. “I want your mouth.”

Agatha raises a brow. A soft, wicked smile curves her lips. “Where, pet?”

God. She’s going to kill you.

Your face burns. Your whole body’s burning. She’s leaning in again now, brushing her lips over your jaw, your ear, not quite touching— hovering.

You shiver. “Use your words,” she purrs.

You let out a trembling breath. Then, finally—finally— “I want your mouth on me.”

She pulls back enough to meet your eyes, gaze dark and pleased and terrifyingly fond. “There we go,” she says, and kisses you like a reward—deep, deliberate, claiming. And then she starts to move. Down your body. Slow.

Precise. Unstoppable. As if this was always going to happen. As if every version of you was always meant to end up here. Under her. Wanting her. Saying please.

Once she’s made her way down—trailing kisses, nipping and sucking at the softest parts of your stomach—Agatha pauses at the waistband of the pajama pants she bought you earlier.

You squirm beneath her, thighs rubbing together, the need inside you cresting higher with every breath. Whimpers slip out—soft, desperate, unfiltered. You’re sure you look like a wreck, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy. And you’re soaked. Soaked. It’s almost embarrassing.

Almost. But then she kisses the waistband.

Right there. And your hips jump. Her hands are on you in an instant—strong, grounding—as they slide up your sides before settling at your hips, holding you still.

“Easy,” she murmurs. The gentleness in her voice is in sharp contrast to the way she’s devouring you with her eyes. “Let me.”

She glances up once—just once—and that glance?

It shatters you.

Because even now, even while you’re panting beneath her, even while you ache with the need to be touched, she still checks in. Still makes sure you want this. That it’s okay.

It’s more devastating than anything. You nod. A small, needy movement. Barely a breath. “Yes, yes please just-” And that’s all she needs.

Her fingers hook into the waistband, sliding the fabric down slow, slow, slow. Like she’s unwrapping something precious. Her eyes stay locked on yours as the fabric peels away, her thumbs dragging down your skin.

You gasp, back arching slightly as the cool air kisses your soaked thighs.

Agatha hums—low and pleased, like she already knew, but seeing it confirms something in her. Her eyes flash with something darker. Something hungry.

“Still with me, pet?” she asks, voice rougher now.

You nod again, a bit more frantic this time, voice breaking as you whisper, “Yes.”

Her smile turns downright feral for a second—wicked and soft, yes, but with something reverent just beneath it. Like she’s seeing something she’s been waiting for. Longing for.

Her hands slide to your thighs, thumbs pressing in first, then her palms—warm, steady—rubbing slow, maddening circles as her nails drag gently down your skin, leaving tiny trails of heat in their wake.

You shiver under her touch, every nerve lit up.

Then she starts to guide your legs apart. You suck in a breath. Not out of fear—not even close—but from the sheer intensity of her gaze. Focused. Intoxicating. And then she sees it. The darkened patch of your underwear. The shine of you. The way the fabric sticks.

Her breath catches, just for a moment, and her jaw tightens. “Jesus,” she murmurs, almost under her breath. Not teasing. Not smug.

Just… wrecked.

Like the sight of you—open and trembling for her—touched something deep. Agatha lifts her eyes to yours again, and what you see there makes your whole body burn.

Desire. Possession. A hunger so deep it feels like it’s spanned centuries. Her voice is a rasp now, low and thick. “You’ve been like this for me all day?”

You nod, cheeks flushed, lips parted. Your voice barely works when you say, “Since the moment you kissed me.”

Her hands flex on your thighs. And that look in her eyes? Like she’s about to devour you. “God, you kill me,” she breathes, voice muffled against the skin of your thigh.

And then her mouth is there. Soft kisses. Open mouthed. Trailing slow up the inside of your leg. She’s not rushing—not even close. She’s savoring. Mapping. Worshiping every inch of you like it’s something holy.

You’re trembling. A mess. Every inch of you is strung tight, heat curling in your stomach, building with each pass of her lips. She reaches the apex of your thigh, and your hips jerk involuntarily.

Then she pauses—just long enough to look up at you. Her eyes are dark, unreadable, but so present. And somehow that makes it all worse. Or better. You’re not even sure anymore.

You whimper. And then— then —she mouths at you through the soaked fabric of your panties, the pressure soft but deliberate, her breath hot, her lips grazing the outline of your clit.

You cry out, your hand flying instinctively to her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands.

She hums—pleased, satisfied—and your entire body lights up like she flipped some kind of internal switch you didn’t know existed.

Her lips curl into a sultry grin as she presses another kiss through the soaked fabric. “Fuck, you taste amazing,” she murmurs, voice husky with something that sounds like awe.

Your hips lift toward her, searching—aching—and the desperation finally cracks through your voice.

“Please,” you whimper, your hand still tangled in her hair. “Agatha… I’m—I can’t—” Your voice breaks on the last word, and she laughs.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Just low. Dark. Knowing. “Sweet thing,” she purrs, and the sound of it sends another wave of heat rolling through you.

With practiced patience, she hooks her fingers into the sides of your panties and begins to tug them down—agonizingly slow. Like she wants you to feel everything. Like she wants to memorize the moment your body finally bares itself to her.

You squirm under her, thighs trembling as the fabric drags across your skin. Your breathing stutters, and you can feel the cool air hit the heat of your soaked cunt as the panties slide down past your knees.

Agatha doesn’t speak. She doesn’t tease. Not like before. She just stares. Still and reverent, like she’s afraid to blink in case you vanish. Like you’re some divine secret finally revealed.

Her breath catches—a low, restrained groan deep in her throat—and it cuts right through you. You’ve got your lip between your teeth, trying not to beg again, trying to hold yourself together. But it’s useless. You’re unraveling. Coming apart under her gaze alone.

And then— Her touch. Agatha’s long, slender fingers trail up your thigh, slow and steady, not even pretending to be anything but deliberate. She watches you, not her hand—never her hand—because she wants to see exactly what you do when she reaches you. And when she does—when her fingers slip through the slickness gathered there—you gasp.

Your hips jerk.

Your head falls back against the pillows. She exhales like it’s the first breath she’s taken in hours. Like this— you —has shaken something loose in her.

Her fingers glide through your folds again, slow and easy, spreading the wetness with maddening precision. And she moans, low and hungry. “So ready for me,” she murmurs, her voice velvet dipped steel.

You nod frantically, breath shuddering. Your hands clutch the sheets, your thighs already twitching. And still, Agatha’s eyes are locked on your face—so controlled, so focused.

Like she’s learning you in real time. Like she’s memorizing every expression you make. Her fingers move with maddening patience, slicking through you again like she’s mapping every inch—every reaction. She watches your face the whole time, her jaw tense with restraint, like she’s holding herself back from something.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You’re so wound up, so hypersensitive, that even the drag of her fingertips—barely pressing—has your hips twitching and your mouth falling open.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, the slightest rasp in her voice. “Messy little thing.”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes snap to hers, wide and already glazed, a whimper caught in your throat.

Agatha leans in—not to kiss you, but to rest her forehead against yours, close enough for her breath to fan your lips. Her hand never stops moving, dragging through you slowly, gathering more of your wetness with each pass. She’s not even inside you yet. And you’re already clinging to her like you’ll fall apart if she lets go.

Her voice is softer now. Too soft. Too knowing. “Tell me what you want, darling.”

You can barely form words. “Y-You. I want you—please, I—”

She hushes you with the press of her nose to your temple, her lips brushing your cheek. “I know, sweetheart. I know. ”

One of her hands shifts, sliding up to your waist, grounding you. Holding you still.

And the other?

Still moving. Still slow. Still so sure.

She kisses your jaw, then lower—your throat, your shoulder—murmuring soft nothings between each press of her mouth, like she’s easing you into something deeper. And you can feel it, in your bones, that this isn’t just want. This isn’t just hunger.

You feel her shift—just barely—and then her fingers slide lower.

Then—slowly, finally —they slip inside.

You gasp.

The stretch is everything. It’s not sharp or overwhelming—it’s delicious. Full. Slow. Perfect. You rock your hips into her hand instinctively, a moan tumbling out of you before you can think to catch it.

“Oh—god,” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut.

Agatha exhales like she’s feeling it too. “That’s it,” she whispers, voice low and wrecked. “You take me so well.”

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips already moving, chasing the friction like your body knows her. The noises slipping from your mouth are soft, needy things—whines, whispers, breathy calls of her name. And Agatha eats up every single one. “Let me hear you,” she says, a little closer to your ear now, lips brushing your skin. “Don’t you dare hide those sounds from me.”

You nod frantically, a high pitched moan leaving your throat when she curls her fingers just right. She groans low, like she’s the one unraveling. “ Fuck, I love the way you sound.”

You’re trembling—voice cracking as you try to form words between each breath. “Feels—feels so good, Agatha, I—please, don’t stop—”

“I’m not going anywhere, pet,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “Not this time.” And then she moves again—steady, deep, sure. And you swear, in this moment, she’s the only thing keeping you together.

Her fingers curl just right —a devastating drag along that sensitive spot inside you—and your back arches clean off the bed with a gasp that rips from your throat. “Agatha—!”

The sound of her name like that— shattered, wrecked, desperate —only spurs her on. Her fingers begin to pump faster, more deliberate now, curling with every thrust in a rhythm so precise it’s like she’s reading your body. Like she’s done this before.

And then— Her thumb presses down. Direct. Perfect. Circling your clit in tandem with the motion of her fingers inside you.

You cry out, hips stuttering beneath her hand. Your legs tremble. Your hands scramble for her—her wrist, her arm, her shirt—anything to keep you tethered.

“Oh my god— ” you choke, blinking hard, chest heaving.

Agatha’s eyes are locked on your face, drinking in every inch of you like she can’t get enough. She leans down, her lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your temple—soft, grounding touches.

“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs, breath hot and reverent. “So, so good for me.”

You whimper at the praise, hips moving without thought now, rocking up to meet her hand, chasing everything she’s giving you and more. You start to clench around ehr fingers, and you know she can feel it too because her voice drops, husky and sharp at the edges. “Let go for me, darling. Come on. I’ve got you.”

And you believe her.

You feel it—her, holding you together, driving you forward, letting you unravel right in her hands.

“I’m gonna— ”

Your voice is thin, high, broken by the way your body coils tighter and tighter, every nerve drawn like a bowstring. Your stomach clenches, legs trembling as the sensation builds, spiraling. Your hands fly to her—gripping her shoulders, her hair, anything—and she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. Her fingers stay deep, curling in perfect rhythm, her thumb never wavering.

“Come on, pet,” she whispers, a grin in her voice. “Come apart for me.”

Your body snaps taut, a gasp torn from your throat as it all crashes through you—white-hot and blinding. You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching around her wrist, and still she keeps you steady, grounding you through it like a tide she’s carried a thousand times before.

Your chest rises and falls in rapid waves, your skin flushed and slick with sweat, your eyes damp.

Agatha presses a kiss to your temple, her voice quiet and steady in your ear. “There you are,” she murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

You don’t have the energy to respond—not yet. You just cling to her, breathless, pulsing with aftershocks, and let yourself exist in her arms. Agatha slowly draws her fingers from you, slick and shining in the low light. You whimper at the loss, still trembling, your breath ragged in your throat.

And then—without a word—she brings her fingers to your lips.

Her eyes never leave yours. She taps your bottom lip lightly. “ Open. ”

You hesitate—not out of resistance, but sheer awe. Your eyes search hers, wide and glassy. She looks calm. Controlled. But there’s something burning just beneath her skin. Possessive. Worshipful. Like she’s reclaiming something that was always hers.

You part your lips.

She slides her fingers in gently, resting them on your tongue.

The taste of yourself hits instantly—warm, musky, familiar—and your cheeks flush.

Agatha watches every second. The way your mouth closes around her. The way your breath hitches. Her jaw ticks, her eyes heavy-lidded.

She just watches you.

Like you’re hers. Like you’ve always been.

“Good girl,” she murmurs finally, her thumb brushing your cheek and your eyes flutter closed.

Your tongue laves over her fingers with a hum, like you were savoring something sacred. And when she finally slips them free with a soft drag against your lips, a whine tumbles out before you can even stop it.

Your eyes blink open, glassy and wide.

Agatha is smiling down at you now.

That same dangerous, smug smile that always makes your stomach flip. “Whiny, whiny baby…” she purrs, brushing her thumb across your cheek again. “Why don’t we find something more useful for that mouth?”

Your whole body tenses—heat blooming in your chest, your neck, everywhere—and your eyes go wide, breath catching.

Agatha chuckles. Low. Sultry.

And then she leans in, voice soft and smooth, but edged with something darkly playful. Her lips brush your ear.

“I bet mommy can think of a few things.”

You jolt—like a live wire just snapped inside you.

Your breath stutters, and your thighs instinctively press together as a full body shiver rolls through you. You nod—quick, needy—barely aware you’re doing it until her fingers catch your chin, steadying your gaze.

Agatha grins. Slow. Satisfied. “Yes?”

You answer before you can think, your voice soft, almost desperate. The very idea of her, of tasting her sends heat curling through you.

“Yes.”

And like you’ve walked straight into her trap, she tilts her head, eyes glittering. “Yes what?”

Your eyebrows pull together as you search her face, daring to glance down—her body, the curve of her smile—then back up again. You don't know what she wants or—oh.

Oh.

Your eyes widen. You swallow hard. Your fingers fidget against your sides.

“Yes, mommy,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Her eyes darken instantly, satisfaction flickering there like flame catching dry kindling. Then she’s on you—her hands back, her mouth on yours—kissing you hot and heavy, like she’d been waiting all night for that single word.

Agatha presses you back against the bed, and your hands reach for her sweatpants, but she catches your wrists with a smirk.

“Mommy can undress herself.”

Your lips part to protest, but your mouth goes dry once she starts to shimmy them off. She wasn’t wearing underwear underneath, and you get a full view of her swollen, glistening folds.

You bite your lip to suppress a needy noise, your heart racing again.

“Agatha—” you mumble, aching to reach out again.

Agatha just tosses her pants off the bed and turns back to you, and you gulp. She comes back down to kiss you again, slower now, and you press on her shoulders, trying to maneuver her onto her back. You wanted to taste her. “Mh, someone’s bossy,” Agatha purrs, letting you lead—but you're anything but in control.

“Just want to taste you,” you mumble, blushing at how eager you sound.

You slide down her body, coming face to face with her glistening folds. Your mouth waters as her musky, sweet scent fills your nose. Agatha’s hand comes down to rest on the top of your head—a small, commanding gesture that sends a fresh rush of heat through you.

You glance up to see her watching, bottom lip caught between her teeth. You’re trembling with anticipation as you lean forward and place tiny kisses over her soaked cunt.

A low hum escapes from above you, followed by the subtle shift of her hips. Her hand tightens slightly, encouraging you.

Of course you listen.

You wrap your arms around her thighs and lean in, licking up her slit. Her hot taste clings to your tongue, and you moan unconsciously against her. The vibration earns a soft whimper from Agatha.

You’re aching now, soaking, need pooling between your legs. You give her another firm lick and glance up—Agatha’s mouth is parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, her hand tightening in your hair as she pulls you back just enough.

“Be a good girl and don’t tease,” she rasps.

You nod quickly, licking your lips for her taste, then lean right back in, giving a slow, deliberate lick over her clit and around it. More slickness seeps onto your chin as you work her up. She throbs beneath your mouth, and you lick down to her entrance before gliding back up, swirling your tongue around her and flicking gently.

Agatha moans above you, and you swear you could’ve come just from that sound alone.

Her hand tightens in your hair, and you lose yourself in her—her scent, her taste—your tongue moving more enthusiastically now. The noises she makes drive you further, each strangled sound from her lips fueling you, her hips beginning to rock slowly against your mouth.

Your eyes flutter shut as you find a rhythm, the wet sounds and her gasps filling the room. You’re sure you're dripping down your thighs.

You slip your tongue up inside her and feel her walls clench tightly. You flick your tongue upward, earning a deep groan from the witch.

“Fuck, pet,” she moans, her hips bucking harder against your face.

Your tongue thrusts in and out of her, effectively tongue fucking her, drawing louder moans as her thighs begin to tense around you. You push, parting her open, determined to please her.

“Making—shit! Making mommy feel so good—” she gasped out. You could tell she was losing control—her noises were getting louder, and she was getting more vocal.

Your tongue trails back to her clit, sucking the bundle of nerves into your mouth. Agatha’s head falls back against the pillow with a loud keen, her skin blotched with blush from her cheeks down to her chest. Her hips roll against you once more, her hand tightening harshly in your hair, making you groan into her. Her back arches, pressing herself against your mouth, which you take with grace—swirling your tongue, sucking gently.

You feel her hand in your hair tug you down again, and you know exactly what she wants. Your tongue moves back inside her, your nose pressed to her clit, making it harder to breathe—but god, the noises you’re pulling from her are worth everything.

Tangling both of her hands into your hair, she begins to move your head in small circular motions. The idea of Agatha using you to get herself off was almost too much to bear.

You moan shallowly into her cunt, the vibrations making her throb as she doubles down, practically humping against your face, her breathing quick and heavy with whines of pleasure.

“Gonna cum soon, hon,” her voice strains with shaky arousal, making you redouble your efforts as she cranes her neck to look down at you—taking in the image of your pretty little eyes looking up at her, between her legs, watching her fall apart.

You feel her clench tightly around your tongue as you flick up against her g-spot.

“Oh god! Good girl, such a good mouth—mommy’s gonna cum, using your pretty mouth,” she spits, her words lewd and filthy, making your pussy clench around nothing.

Her thighs tense and shake around you, her nails digging into your scalp, holding you in place for a few final seconds before she goes stiff—her orgasm tearing through her, back arching off the bed as she cries out your name loudly, and you’re sure your inn neighbors will have noise complaints again in the morning—but at this moment, you could care less.

She jerks against your mouth as you lick her through it, lapping up every last drop of her pleasure as her cum floods your mouth. Agatha mumbles dirty praises you can’t quite make out before she collapses back against the bed, her chest heaving as you stay between her legs, licking over her puffy, twitching cunt, cleaning her up.

Before you’re fully aware of what’s happening, Agatha’s fingers slide gently into your hair, tugging you back with a lazy sort of possessiveness. She looks down at you with a smirk that’s all satisfaction and indulgence, then leans forward and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“Come here, menace,” she murmurs, pulling you up into her arms.

You melt against her instinctively—pliant, warm—letting her guide you back to the pillows. The two of you settle into the sheets like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Like your bodies already know the choreography.

Agatha reaches for a tissue on the nightstand and casually wipes at the corner of your mouth, her smile going sharp with amusement. “Mm. Look at you. A mess all over again.”

You give her a half-hearted glare, too blissed out to commit. "Stop.”

She hums, not stopping. “No, no—this is important. What would the library lady say if she saw you now?”

Your face flames. You swat weakly at her chest. “Shut up.”

Agatha just chuckles, clearly satisfied. Her hand traces light shapes over your shoulder now, soft and idle. She shifts beneath you, pulling the covers up with one hand while the other stays low at your back, fingers drawing slow, looping patterns.

You breathe her in—lavender, cedarwood, and something warmer beneath it all. Something that’s distinctly her.

Your eyes drift shut for a moment. Not quite asleep. Just sinking. Drifting.

Until she speaks again. “Sticky thighs, flushed face…” she muses aloud, her dry lilt unmistakable. “Someone was a little eager to impress.”

You groan and bury your face in her shoulder. “Agatha.”

“What?” she says, utterly unbothered. “I’m complimenting your enthusiasm. It was… spirited.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Not my fault you looked like you were trying to ascend.” You slap her stomach weakly. She just laughs—low and pleased. There’s a pause after that. Quiet. Steady. Her fingers find their way back into your hair, stroking gently, methodically. “You’re remembering,” she murmurs finally—not a question. Just a truth.

Your body tenses—just slightly—then softens again. You don’t respond with words. Just press your forehead a little closer to her collarbone. She smiles. You can feel it in the way her chest shifts against yours.

But she doesn’t push. She doesn’t need to. Instead, she kisses the top of your head, murmurs something unintelligible against your hair, and sighs.

You yawn, nestling in.

And as her fingers continue their slow, familiar pattern over your spine, the world fades into quiet.

Just the two of you, tangled together in warmth and breath and something that feels dangerously close to home.

Sleep takes you like it always should have—gently, deeply, with her.

TagList- @morgananyx @xblinkx2 @atlasimagines @6stolenangel9 @sapphicfleur @inhibitedminds @appleredasblood2196 @redkarine @cordeliafoxxe

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