#so i'll be about all night to be writing and/or plotting! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aila0veyou2death · 2 months ago

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𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𖹭 pairing: mohawk!mark grayson x male!punk!reader (A.K.A rage-fueled delinquent with piercings and unresolved mommy issues x grin-wearing misfit with a punk playlist and a history of bad ideas)

𖹭 TW: cheating, blood, violence, cursing, mommy issues, reader is slightly older than mark, depressing thoughts, strangers-to-friends with benefits trope?, slight angst, anger issues, substance use (alcohol/smoking implied), marking, unspoken feelings, unhealthy coping mechanism, overstimulation, 4nal s3x, handj0b, belly bulging, spit as lube, some gay shit, top!mark, bottom!reader, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: there's seriously not enough mohawk!mark content out there, and even less mark grayson x male!reader fics—so i said, screw it, I'll just write one myself. This fic was inspired by @asaarii's mohawk!mark x punk!reader—definitely worth to check out ♡

Warning though: this fic is long, messy, and it's my first time writing a bl, so bear with me! Hope you enjoy :P

Mark's knuckles were still sore from yesterday.

He flexed his hand slowly under the cafeteria table, watching the faded bruises bloom purple under his skin like wilting flowers. The skin around his knuckles was split in places, rough and raw. He hadn't even noticed when it happened—he just kept swinging.

Some creature had ripped through a mall parking lot yesterday. Another ugly, screeching thing from god knows where. Mark showed up because it was what he was supposed to do—what Omni-Man's son was meant to do. Be the hero. Save the day. Do it all with a clean conscience and a smile for the cameras.

But he snapped.

He didn't just stop the monster—he beat it down until it stopped moving. Until it stopped breathing. Until it was just a twitching, pulpy mess under his fists. He remembered the sound more than the sight. The dull thuds, wet and meaty, echoing off concrete. He remembered the cameras catching every second of it. Some hero.

He didn't know if he regretted it. But he knew Debbie saw it.

The footage had aired on the news loop last night. Blood splattered across his uniform. His eyes, shadowed behind broken goggles, burned with fury. His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, looking less like a man and more like something barely human. Debbie hadn't said a word when he got home. She didn't yell. Didn't ask if he was okay.

She just turned off the TV.

This morning, she didn't speak to him at all.

She sat in silence, sipping her coffee with that same blank look on her face, like she couldn't even stand to look at him. Like having Mark in the house was a reminder of a mistake she never wanted to make in the first place. He felt like he was losing it. She just sighed, murmured something about being late for work, and walked past him like he was part of the furniture.

It always started the same: the tightness in his chest, the quietness in the house, the echo of his own footsteps. Mark hated that house. It was too clean. Too empty. Too haunted. His mom barely spoke to him anymore, and when she did, it was with that tired voice like she was talking to Nolan again.

He hated being the only damn thing left that tied him to the man he used to call his father.

And what he hated even more was that, day by day, he was turning into him.

Across from him now, Eve was still talking about yesterday's events, about what he did. Her words came soft and careful, like each one might be the one that finally set him off. She hadn't touched her food either, just picking at the corner of her napkin, glancing up every now and then like she was hoping he'd meet her halfway. But Mark was stone still, his silence was heavy and his eyes were distant. The only sign he was even present was the slow clench of his jaw and the flex of his bruised hand beneath the table.

She took a small breath. "You didn't have to kill it like that…"

Mark didn't look at her.

"You know, she called me..." Eve said after a moment. "Your mom. Last night."

That got his eyes on her.

"She didn't say much," Eve added quickly, like it would soften the blow. "Just that… when she saw you on the screen, all bloody like that—she said she could barely recognize you, Mark. And, um… she said it reminded her of your dad."

Mark's lips pressed into a hard line. "Of course it did."

"Every damn thing about me reminded her of that fucking bastard."

Eve shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip, her eyes scanning him, as if trying to read what was behind the hardness of his expression. She finally sighed, the tension between them were too thick for her to ignore any longer.

"Mark..." She began softly, her voice quieter than usual. "Are you... okay?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes flickering to hers but quickly darting away again. Eve pressed on, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup, trying to keep her tone neutral, but there was a hint of concern in her voice. "You've been kinda ghosting me lately. I get that you've got stuff going on, but..."

He finally looked up at her and his expression was unreadable. There was something vulnerable in his eyes—just for a split second, but it was there.

"You don't have to worry about me." Mark muttered, his voice quieter now. "I'm fine."

Eve didn't buy it, and he knew she wouldn't. She knew him too well. Her eyes searched his face, her brow furrowed in concern. "Mark, don't shut me out. You can't just—" She stopped herself, the words hanging in the air.

"You don't know what it's like," he said suddenly, his voice strained, like he was holding something back. "To always be... that person. The one people expect to save the day. The one that always has to be strong. Or tough. Or... whatever."

Eve took a deep breath and reached out, placing a hand lightly on his. The warmth of her touch, so simple, was enough to break through some of the distance. "I get it, Mark," she said, her voice was soft but steady. "But that's not why I'm asking. I'm asking because I care about you... and I haven't heard from you in days. So... just let me in, okay? Don't push me away."

For a moment, Mark stayed silent, with his eyes searching for hers. There was a flicker of something behind his hardened exterior, something softer—vulnerable, even. But it quickly vanished as he pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine." he said again, the words sharper this time. "I don't need you looking out for me like I'm some damn kid, Eve. I don't need a babysitter—I need a girlfriend who actually gets that."

Eve let out a slow breath, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her voice steady. The frustration bubbling inside her was getting harder to ignore, clawing its way up her throat like something alive. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Mark. I just… want to be there for you. Is that so bad?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, a mix of hurt and exasperation slipping through.

KRING-KRING-KRING—

The shrill ring of the bell cut through the tension like a blade.

Mark immediately stood, the legs of his chair screeching against the cafeteria floor. He scooped up a handful of whatever was left on his tray and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn't just spent the entire lunch period brooding in silence.

Eve barely had time to say anything before he was already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Mark—" she started, standing halfway from her seat.

"I'll see you around." he muttered through his teeth, not even sparing her a glance as he walked off, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

She watched him go, still holding the edge of her tray with her fingertips, like she was hoping he might turn around. But of course, he didn't.

He never did.

He went through the day with furrowed brows and a bored expression, dragging his feet from class to class like the world had personally offended him. Professors talked, assignments piled up, and conversations buzzed around him, but it all passed through him like static.

People gave him space—some out of respect, most out of discomfort. He didn't care. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be asked if he was okay.

Not when his head was a mess and his patience was long gone.

By sixth period, Mark's mood was radioactive.

Every hallway felt too loud, too bright. The screech of lockers, the smell of cheap cafeteria food lingering in his hoodie, the way people walked around him like he was a puddle of something they didn't want to step in—it all fed the gnawing thing inside him.

His head was a static storm, and he didn't really heard anything anyone said all day.

So when William slid into the seat beside him, Mark didn't even glance his way. He just stared straight ahead, with his jaw locked and shadows under his eyes.

"Hey..." William started, his voice careful.

Mark's fingers twitched against the desk.

"You okay, man? You've been... different lately."

Silence.

"I mean—different in a bad way."

Mark's lips twitched into a humorless smirk, but he still didn’t look at him.

"You're not answering any of my texts. You skipped out on our group project yesterday. Eve's worried too. She said you've been ignoring her for days. And then the whole..." William trailed off, like he was debating whether to go there. And he did.

"Monster thing. I saw the news. The fight.”

Now Mark turned to look at him, slow and sharp.

"That creature you fought. You didn't just beat it—you ripped it apart. It looked like a horror movie, man."

"It was a monster." Mark said flatly.

"I know," William replied quickly. "I know it was. But still—you usually hold back. You used to at least try to keep it clean. This time, you just..."

"I finished the fight."

"You slaughtered it, Mark." William's voice dropped lower. "In front of everyone."

There was something in William's eyes that made Mark’s stomach twist. Not fear. Not disgust.

Worse.

Pity.

Why?

Mark's fists clenched under the table. The bruises on his knuckles burned.

"It was going to kill a kid..." he muttered.

William sighed and said, "I'm just saying you didn't look like yourself up there. You looked... angry. Almost like a madman."

"I was angry."

William hesitated. "Does this have something to do with your parents?"

Mark's eyes narrowed.

"She called me the other day..." William continued, oblivious or maybe just determined. "Your mom. You're acting out again. Said she didn't know what to do with you anymore."

"You talked to my mom?" Mark's voice was barely a whisper, tight with disbelief. "What is it with you people talking to my mom!?"

"Look, she's upset, man." his friend said, holding up his hands. "She even embarrassed herself, ranting to her kid's friend about everything. She said you've been acting more and more like your dad and—hell, I don't know—it's freaking her out. I didn't know what to say."

"How about you just stay out of other people's business."

"Hey! I'm just worried, okay? I'm your best friend, Mark. I know things are hard right now—with your dad and everything... I-I just... I miss the guy who wasn't trying to pick a fight with the world every time someone looked at him wrong."

Mark's chair scraped back violently.

He stood up, looming over William, with his eyes dark and his mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Mind your own damn business, Will. You don't get to talk about her or what's going on with my fucking family. And don't talk like you know a damn thing about what I'm feeling."

William stood up too, but not to fight—just to try to hold his ground. "I'm just trying to help."

Mark's vision blurred red.

"You wanna help?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then shut the hell up!"

One punch—straight to the jaw. A sickening crack echoed off the walls. William crashed backward into a desk, landing hard and clutching his face with a pained yell.

For a second, the room was still. It was silent.

Then came the chaos.

A few classmates gasped and shouted. One girl screamed. Another guy jumped up and shoved Mark back, yelling, "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Mark's temper snapped like a whip.

He swung again, this time at the guy who'd shoved him. Fists collided, desks crashed, and chaos exploded around them like a fuse had been lit. Someone tried to pull him back, but Mark jerked away, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.

Bodies scrambled. Chairs screeched across the floor. A girl screamed. The room was warped into noise and panic.

A teacher finally burst in, breathless and red-faced, shouting his name like it was something vile.

"Mark Grayson!"

It was enough to snap everything to a halt.

Mark didn't fight it when they dragged him out of the classroom, leaving a mess of overturned desks, dropped notebooks, and stunned faces in his wake. William was still sitting on the floor, hand pressed to his jaw, staring at him like he didn't know who he was anymore.

Mark didn't apologize. Neither did he explain himself.

He kept his head high and his mouth sealed shut, walking out with his bruised, bloodied knuckles burning like a badge of everything he didn't want to say out loud.

The teacher behind him spat out words about disciplinary action, and how they were going to call his mother.

As if that meant anything to him.

As if she still gave a damn.

They threw out the word “detention” like it was a threat.

Fine.

He could rot in detention.

Better than rotting in a place full of people who thought they knew him. Who thought they had the right to poke at wounds they couldn't even begin to understand.

Let them talk. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

He hates them all equally.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were trying to get on Mark's nerves. He sat slumped at the back of the near-empty classroom, his cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. His eyes were half-lidded, locked on the painfully slow second hand of the wall clock as it ticked, ticked, ticked—like it was mocking him.

The room smelled like pencil shavings and old coffee. A single ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to move the stale air. The teacher assigned to babysit them hadn't even looked up from her book since he walked in. Mark figured she probably didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

His knuckles were still split from earlier, wrapped in a shitty paper towel he found in the nurse's office. The sting was dull now, just a reminder. A quiet throb that matched the one in his chest.

William didn't say anything when they dragged him out and just stared.

And his mom—yeah, she was probably ignoring the school's voicemail by now.

Whatever.

Mark didn't regret it.

He just wanted the day to end.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Mark lifted his head off the desk, just enough to glance at you when the door opened.

You stepped in like you owned the place—shoulders loose, boots scuffing against the tile, a lazy grin tugging at your lips like you were in on some joke the rest of the world missed.

Everything about you screamed defiance. From the bold blue and white lettering on your black Hellfire shirt to the layered chaos of your outfit, it looked like you belonged on a fashion runway and in a back-alley brawl all at once.

A red plaid wrap skirt hung over distressed cargo jeans, cinched tight at the waist with overlapping black leather belts that added a sharp edge. Chains clinked softly with every step, swinging from your belt and wrapped around your bag—the shape of it almost like a purse, covered in enough enamel pins to count as armor. A black guitar case rested against your back like a weapon, and a guitar pick swung from your neck, catching the light as you moved.

Mark slowly blinked. You looked like a warning label for every bad idea he was trying not to have lately.

The teacher didn't even lift her head from her desk. "Rules are the same..." she murmured, with her voice flat. "No phones, no talking, no food and try not to breathe too loud. You know how it is..."

You gave her a mocking salute.

Then—only then—you turned your head, catching Mark's eyes. Your grin softened just a little into something more like a smirk. You gave him a casual nod as you walked over to the desk beside him. It was cool and effortless. Like the two of you already knew each other in some parallel universe where the world made sense.

Mark stared at you. He didn't nod back. Just dropped his gaze and set his cheek against his palm like he hadn't just felt something shift in the air.

You slid into the seat next to him, like you were settling into your throne, and dropped your guitar case gently beside you. Then, without a word, you pulled out a sketchbook from your bag and a pencil from your pocket. You flipped to a blank page and started drawing—quiet, focused, like none of this mattered. Like the room wasn't full of tension and apathy and the kind of silence that cracked if you breathed too hard.

After a long stretch of silence, just the ticking clock and the occasional scratch of pencil on paper, Mark felt a light poke against his shoulder.

He barely moved, just flicked his eyes sideways in a slow, tired glance. You were staring at him with a casual expression, pencil still in hand.

"You got any sharpener there, buddy?" you asked, with your voice low but playful.

Mark sighed through his nose. "No, I don't..." he muttered, eyes flicking forward again, already annoyed.

But you didn't back off. "Hm, nah, I don’t think so," you mused, tapping your chin with the pencil. "You sure you don't have any?"

"I already told you I don't." he snapped, barely above a whisper, jaw tight. "Leave me alone."

"Too bad," you said with a shrug, tone breezy. "Looks like I won't be able to give you any hair."

Mark's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "What?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned your sketchbook around and held it out to him with both hands. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth as you pointed at the half-finished drawing on the page.

It was him—the drawing was detailed, sharp, and it was unmistakably Mark. His scowl was perfectly captured, that permanent scorn etched between his brows like it belonged there. The angle of his jaw, which is tight and clenched. Even the slight hunch in his shoulders, like he was always bracing for something, was drawn with care. You'd even shaded the dark circles under his eyes with a soft smudge, capturing the weight he carried in silence.

The drawing was half-body—his arms were folded over his desk, head tilted slightly to the side, just like what he had been doing minutes ago. His hoodie was outlined with quick but deliberate strokes, the texture of it was sketched in with surprising detail.

But the top of his head?

It was completely smooth.

Bald as a boiled egg.

You had shaded it with the same level of dedication, even adding a little shine line on the crown of his skull for dramatic effect. Like you hadn't just forgotten to draw his hair—you had committed to erasing it from existence.

Mark stared at the drawing for a long second. Then at you.

You raised your brows and smirked.

"What the hell, man." Mark deadpanned, with a glare as his eyes flicked between your face and the drawing.

A chuckle slipped past your lips, low and amused as you leaned back a little, twirling your pencil between your fingers. "Don't worry, you'll get your hair back." you said, grinning. "I just couldn't see it right from the angle you were sitting at, so I figured getting your attention was the best way to get a good look at it."

Mark narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the excuse—or maybe just not used to anyone talking to him like that without flinching.

"But now that I can see it…" You tilted your head, eyes scanning him slowly like you were taking mental notes. "That innocent haircut of yours? Doesn't suit you at all."

You didn't wait for a response, already turning back to your sketchbook. The pencil began to move again, fast and light, making faint scratching sounds as you added new lines. "A mohawk would do you more justice. Maybe throw in a couple of piercings. Eyebrow, nose, lip—hell, all three. Anything to give you a little edge."

Mark blinked, clearly taken aback. "Have you been observing me?"

"Obviously. How do you think I managed to draw you like that?"

His lips pressed into a line, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Annoyance, sure. But also curiosity. No one had ever drawn him before—let alone imagined him bald, pierced, and wearing a mohawk.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, with your lips tugging into that same lazy smirk. "What are you in for, pretty boy?"

He looked away for a second, like he was debating whether he should answer or just let the silence stretch. His jaw clenched faintly, the muscle twitching under his bruised skin.

Then, finally, he muttered, "Got into a fight."

Your smirk widened, pencil still moving on the page. "Yeah, no shit. Let me guess…" You tapped the eraser against your chin theatrically. "You broke someone's nose just 'cause they were breathing too damn loud near you?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Jaw actually... He just wouldn't shut up."

"Ah," you murmured, eyes still on your sketchbook, pencil scratching softly. "Was he a friend of yours?"

Mark didn't answer right away. His expression tightened, the way it always did when something touched too close to raw. He stared ahead, jaw locked, hands curled into loose fists on the desk.

You didn't press, just let the silence breathe.

"He must've hit a nerve." you added lightly, still doodling.

His eyes flicked toward you for a split second, cautious. You weren't grinning like an asshole now—just watching him with that unreadable calm, like you were piecing him apart without asking permission.

"Used to be..." he finally muttered.

Mark looked away again, biting the inside of his cheek. "He kept asking what was wrong with me. Said he was worried. Like he didn't already know."

His voice was tight, edged with something bitter. "Acted like I needed help. Like he knew better. Just because we used to hang out, he thought that gave him some kind of right."

You hummed low under your breath, pencil still moving across the page. "So, you hit him."

"I warned him." Mark muttered coldly, "Told him to drop it."

You leaned back a little, smirk tugging lazily at your lips. "Yeah… that kinda makes sense."

Mark's eyes narrowed at you, like he couldn't figure out if you were agreeing with him or setting him up for a joke. Your tone was too smooth, too casual—like you were letting him fall into something and not warning him about the drop.

Then you spoke again, while still not looking at him. Your voice was calm and detached. Like you were just stating facts.

"It's the classic, you know? People act like they care, when they're really just digging around in your mess. They don't give a damn about your feelings or any shit...They just want to feel like they did something about it."

Mark stared at you, with his brows drawn low.

"And when you don't let them?" You shrugged. "Suddenly you're the asshole."

The way you said it—it wasn't pity. It wasn't even empathy. It was like you were just giving shape to the thoughts that had been bouncing in his head for weeks. Stuff he couldn't even name before. And now there it was, out in the open, like you'd peeled it off his ribs and held it up to the light.

It unsettled him.

He blinked, slowly, still watching you. He didn't know whether to feel called out or understood. Whether to be grateful or pissed off. Your voice hasn't changed, still easy and almost too chill for someone who just cracked his walls open like it was nothing.

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "Either way, you did what you had to do."

A beat passed.

"I mean, maybe you're not the bad guy. It’s not your fault that loser wasn't listening."

It landed harder than it should have. And Mark wasn't sure why.

"Why are you here, again?" Mark asked, brow furrowing like the question had been burning on his tongue for a while.

You chuckled, low and amused. "Gonna be honest with you, man… I'm not here for detention. Or any real reason, honestly." You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on the desk. "I just like coming here sometimes. Sketch people who look like they're going through it. Crisis faces are the most honest, y'know? Raw. If they're interesting enough, I kinda turn them into something else. Give 'em a new look. A better one."

Your gaze flickered down to your sketchbook. You picked it up, flipping it toward him with a small, lopsided smirk. "Look. It's you. Or, well—what I think you should look like right now."

Mark blinked, then tilted his head slightly to get a better look.

It was him—again. Same harsh lines, same intensity in the eyes. But this version had traded his shaggy, too-long hair for shaved sides and a fierce mohawk. You added piercings now too, bold and unapologetic—one pair through his eyebrow, two on either side of his nose, and another pair just beneath his lower lip. Like a version of him from some grungy, punk parallel universe type of shit.

You tapped the page lightly. "See? It works. Matches the storm in your head a lot better than that innocent 'boy-next-door' cut."

"You're weird as fuck," Mark muttered, glancing between the sketch and you, like he couldn’t decide which one was more bizarre.

"Thank you." you replied smoothly, bowing in your seat with an exaggerated flourish. One hand splayed dramatically across your chest like you were accepting an award. "I do try."

Mark snorted, shaking his head, but you caught the corner of his lip twitching—just barely.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Ever since that day, Mark started noticing you more around campus.

You're a chaos in eyeliner and plaid, a walking contradiction—half performance art, half delinquent gospel. Sometimes he'd see you surrounded by others who looked just as reckless and alive, lighting up the dead corners of school with laughter and graffiti. Other times, it was just you—hunched over your electric guitar in some shadowed stairwell or forgotten hallway, the strings humming something raw and distant, like an old song no one remembered how to sing.

And it was weird, how often your eyes would find him. Across the cafeteria, the courtyard, in-between classes. Always with that signature smirk like you already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn't even heard yet. And you'd nod at him—greet him with the kind of ease that felt like you weren't trying to be nice. You just saw him. Like you actually saw him.

And that messed with him.

Because most days, Mark felt invisible.

He walked through school like a shadow with a pulse. Noticed only when someone needed something—answers, help, a target. He didn't reach out anymore. Friends became people he used to talk to. People avoided him now, or they looked at him like something was off. And maybe they weren't so wrong.

After all, the more he saved the day, the worse he felt. Each time he flew off to stop some disaster, each time he pulled himself out of rubble or wiped blood off his hands—something inside him shifted. Got heavier. Angrier.

His mom barely looked at him anymore. Ever since his dad vanished—no, fled—after revealing himself as a monster who killed thousands, she'd been a ghost. Sitting in silence. Staring at nothing. It was like the light inside her died with her marriage. She checked out everything—motherhood included. And Mark had to carry it. Alone.

He couldn't even talk to her about it. He couldn't talk to anyone without angry.

And then there was you.

You, with your sketchbook and devil-may-care grin. You, showing him drawings of himself with mohawks and piercings, like you were trying to see the version of him that still haven't existed yet. You didn't ask him how he was. You didn't tell him what he should feel. You just said the things he was too scared to say out loud. About people pretending to care. About the weight of being misunderstood. About the anger.

It freaked him out—how much you got it.

Because Mark was angry. At the world. At the way it kept breaking, no matter how many times he tried to fix it. At his mom, for disappearing without ever leaving. At his dad, for showing him what strength really looked like and then shattering every part of that illusion. At himself—for still wanting something back. Some recognition. Some thanks. Something.

But all he ever got was more pain.

So yeah. He started thinking maybe you were right. Maybe he should have a mohawk. Maybe he should look the way he feels—like he's been through war and no one clapped when he made it back. Maybe the world didn't deserve the version of him that kept trying to do the right thing.

And every time your sketchbook came out—every time you greeted him with that smug, lazy grin like you saw right through the cracks—he couldn't help but wonder...

Were you mocking him?

Or were you the only one who actually got it?

It was their third detention together that month—when you kinda asked him out.

You were perched on top of a rusted metal desk by the window, one leg swinging lazily, munching on a fried chicken sandwich you'd somehow sneaked in without anyone knowing. The afternoon sun made everything feel hotter than it needed to be, dust swirling through cracked window panes. Mark sat slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed, hood up, eyes glazed in that tired, dead-inside kind of way. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—and maybe he hadn't.

You were in detention for real this time, after one of the faculty finally pieced together who'd been behind the graffiti in the east stairwell and the mysteriously exploding vending machine. Mark was in for, reportedly, beating the shit out of some assholes at lunch. Again.

"You know..." you started, words muffled around your bite of sandwich, "Me and the gang are playing tonight. Not at the club—the city kicked us outta there for good. So we're taking it somewhere more… public."

He glanced at you, brows low. "Public?"

You licked your fingers, brushing crumbs onto your already-ruined jeans. "Yeah. Rooftop by the train station. Abandoned building. Broken elevators, busted windows, rats everywhere. Total dump. But the view? Killer."

Mark looked back at the floor.

You grinned. "Cops don't care about that place anymore. Probably forgot it even exists. And rooftops just feel kinda apocalyptic these days, don't they? Like the perfect place to scream into the void."

His jaw ticked. Lately, it felt like everything annoyed him—people, noise, silence. Himself most of all.

You leaned back on your arms and said, casually, "Bring your little girlfriend if you want."

Mark stiffened, but didn't look up.

"…We're not exactly on good terms."

You raised a brow, feigning a gasp. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Fuck off." he muttered, barely audible, and scoffed bitterly under his breath.

You clicked your tongue. "That sucks. But hey, maybe some loud music and social unrest will fix your dying love life."

He finally turned, shooting you a flat look. "Shut up. You're so annoying."

"And you're so grumpy." You smiled like it was a secret joke only you got. "We balance."

You hopped down from the desk, rummaging through your backpack until you pulled out a worn, creased flyer, edges curled and ink smudged. You handed it over. "Here. It's not official—obviously. Government types don't like it when kids hand out papers anymore. Might catch rebellion or something."

He took it and unfolded it slowly. The hand-drawn logo of The Demonheads screamed off the page: a snarling skull, cracked halo glowing above its head, wings made of rusted barbed wire. Below it was written it's time and place, in a messy scrawl—"NO COPS. NO HEROES. JUST NOISE."

Mark blinked. "The Demonheads?"

"Yup." you said, leaning close enough to see the crease in his brow. "The one and only."

"Ever heard of us?"

He shook his head.

You pressed a hand to your chest with a mock offense. "Ouch. I'm wounded."

He snorted, and for the first time all day, it wasn't sarcastic. Not really.

"The city hates us," you said. "Says we're bad influence. Loud. Unstable. Dangerous. They call us anarchists like it's an insult." You shrugged. "Maybe we are. Maybe we're just angry. But someone's gotta be."

You watched him trace the ink on the paper, his thumb brushing over the crooked halo.

"This whole place—" you added, quieter, "—the world, I mean. It's a joke. Rich assholes sit comfy while the rest of us rot. Government's just another gang in suits. Heroes pick and choose who's worth saving. And people pretend everything's fine 'cause they're scared of what happens if they admit it's not."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Because you saw it. That flicker. The shift. Like your words hit something in him that had been vibrating under the surface for a long time.

"Sounds like a riot," he muttered.

You grinned wide, sharp. "Only if we're lucky."

He kept the flyer.

Didn't say he'd go. Didn't say he wouldn't. But something in his expression changed—just a little. A crack in the mask. Curiosity, maybe. Or that quiet desperation to belong somewhere that didn't feel like a goddamn prison.

You just smiled and looked away.

You never asked if he was coming.

You already knew he would.

It was after detention when you met her.

Eve.

She was waiting for Mark outside the school gates, arms crossed tight over her chest, back straight like she was holding up some invisible weight. Her strawberry orange hair caught the dying afternoon light, golden and soft in contrast to the scowl she wore. You spotted her right away—she had that "angry girlfriend about to beat her boyfriend's ass" energy written all over her. And judging by the way her eyes immediately flicked to you, she'd been watching the building for a while.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, the chains on your ripped jeans jingling with every step as you and Mark walked out together. You still had smudges of sharpie ink on your fingers from the flyer you gave him earlier, your boots heavy against the concrete.

Mark slowed the second he saw her.

"…Great." he mumbled under his breath.

You raised an eyebrow. "That her?"

He nodded, already tense.

"Cute," you said with a smirk. "She looks like she could make the toughest guy piss himself just by looking at him."

Eve's gaze sharpened the closer you got. Her eyes trailed over your black spiked vest, the band patches stitched to your sleeves, the silver piercings on your face, the faded eyeliner smudged around your eyes. She didn't bother hiding the way she sized you up. Judging. Reading. Assuming.

You were used to it.

Mark stopped a few feet from her, but you kept walking—slow, unrushed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.

"Hey," Eve said, but it wasn't to you. It was for Mark. Cold and flat. Her eyes didn't leave you. “Who's this?”

"I'm his detention buddy." You replied, grinning like the devil.

Mark sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's a senior." he muttered. "Name's [Y/N]. He's… cool."

"Cool?" She echoed, unimpressed.

You could feel it—her judgment thick in the air like perfume. Like she thought she had you all figured out just from the scuffed boots and chipped nail polish.

You leaned forward slightly, flashing a crooked smirk. "Don't worry, I haven't sacrificed him to Satan or anything. Yet."

Eve didn't laugh.

She just looked at Mark, eyes narrowing like she'd stepped in something foul. "Mark, I thought we were supposed to have dinner at your place tonight. I told you I was gonna grab groceries and everything, and instead, you're busy sitting through detention with...him?" Her eyes slid to you, unimpressed. "Are you serious right now?"

Mark frowned. "I'm sorry, okay? I forgot." he muttered, clearly not in the mood for a fight. "It's just detention."

Eve crossed her arms tightly over her chest, jaw tense. "Is he the reason you're like this?" she asked, casting a sharp glance at you like you were some kind of bad omen. "Skipping things. Picking fights. Getting into detention for throwing punches? What the hell is going on with you, Mark?"

You didn't say anything.

You just stood there, hands tucked into your pockets, quietly chewing the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicked between the two. You could feel the heat of her judgment crawling up your neck like smoke—like she’d already made her mind up about you the second she laid eyes on your boots and torn-up jacket.

Mark exhaled hard, looking away. "It's not like that."

"It looks like that."

Eve's voice wasn't loud, but the weight of it hit harder than if she'd screamed. Her gaze lingered on Mark for a long moment—hurt and disappointed—before she shook her head and stepped back.

"You've changed," she said flatly. "And not in a good way."

Then she turned around and walked off, disappearing into the late afternoon traffic of students still lingering on campus.

For a second, there was silence.

You shifted your weight and finally spoke, voice quieter than usual. "You should go after her."

Mark didn't move.

You gave him a look, more thoughtful than mocking this time. Then you turned, adjusting your guitar case over your shoulder, already halfway down the steps.

"See you around, pretty boy." you added without looking back.

The dinner at Mark's house was quiet—tense in that way where even the clinking of silverware felt too loud. Debbie sat at the head of the table, posture straight, polite smile etched onto her face like a mask she'd forgotten how to take off. The roast in front of them was overcooked, and the potatoes were dry. Not that anyone seemed to notice.

Eve tried. She really did. She made light comments here and there, complimented the food, and asked Debbie about her work. Debbie answered everything with short, courteous replies. She was there, physically, but something about her always felt far away. Like she was operating behind glass, reaching for a life she no longer recognized.

Mark didn't say much. He stabbed his food. Ate in silence. Eve's gaze kept drifting toward him, subtle but insistent—the way she looked at him that said say something, try, she's your mother, but he never returned her looks. Just kept his head down and his jaw tight.

Debbie poured herself a glass of wine halfway through. No one commented.

The air thickened with each passing minute, like the house itself was suffocating under the weight of everything left unsaid. Eve's smile started to falter. Her back straightened. Frustration flared in her eyes.

"So, uh..." Eve started again, clinging to conversation like a life raft, "Mark said he might check out Upstate University soon. They're expanding their programs—might be a good fit."

Mark didn't even glance up when he said, "I'm not going."

Eve blinked, caught off guard. "But… you were thinking about it. You said—"

"I changed my mind." His voice was flat and final.

Debbie didn't look up from her plate, but her grip on her fork visibly stiffened. The sound of her swallowing her wine was the only reply.

Eve frowned, lips pressed tight. She leaned back in her chair, her voice a touch sharper. "You could at least try, you know. Talk to her."

Mark's eyes flicked up at her, the kind of look that could freeze a bone.

"Why?" he said coldly. "So she can pretend everything's okay?"

Debbie still didn't say anything. But her breathing shifted. Just slightly.

Mark pushed his plate away. The screech of ceramic on wood made Eve flinch. "I'm done."

He stood, not waiting for permission or even an acknowledgment.

"Mark—" Eve tried, but he was already gone, disappearing down the hall with heavy steps that sounded like every bottled emotion crashing out of him at once.

Debbie sat still for a moment. Then quietly picked up his untouched plate and began to scrape the food into the trash.

She didn't cry. She just cleaned. Like always.

Eve didn't say another word. She only watched her, and for the first time, maybe started to understand why Mark was slipping further and further away.

Mark locked himself in his room, not bothering to say goodbye when Eve left. The slam of the front door barely made him blink. He laid on his bed, hoodie still on, boots half-kicked off, staring blankly at the ceiling before letting his phone fill the silence.

The screen glowed against his face in the dim room, flickering through news articles, memes, garbage content—and then, a post. A grainy black-and-white clip of a post-punk band mid-performance. It was loud and raw. Screaming into the mic like the world wronged them. The crowd moved like a single beast, thrashing and alive.

It reminded him of you.

That casual chaos in the way you existed. The worn-out jeans, the eyeliner smudged from who-knows-what, the bite in your sarcasm that made him want to respond even when he didn’t feel like talking.

"We balance." You said, with that crooked grin on your face in detention, like the two of you are friends.

Mark stared at the video a bit longer, then typed the band name "The Demonheads" into the search bar.

Then, there it was.

Clips. Posts. Grainy concert footage. Shaky camera angles. Protest posters. A video of a rooftop set, you at the front, guitar slung low, shirt ripped at the shoulder, eyes wild. You screamed into the mic like it owed you money, like the city needed to hear you or it'd die trying not to.

There's another clip—someone caught you between songs, sweaty and laughing, flicking off the camera with a middle finger and a wink.

Mark didn't smile, but something in his chest shifted. Tightened.

He kept scrolling. Watching.

It wasn't just music. It was something else. Something angry and loud and weirdly honest. Like every part of you was up there bleeding out into speakers and cracked pavement.

He watched until his phone screen dimmed from inactivity, only then realizing how long he'd been scrolling. With a quiet sigh, he locked it and let it drop onto the bed beside him. Then, from his hoodie pocket, he pulled out the flyer you'd given him—creased, half-crumpled, but still intact.

He stared at it for a long moment, sitting up with his elbows on his knees, fingers brushing over the sharpie-scrawled ink like he was trying to feel whatever it was burning under your skin when you handed it to him.

Mark's eyes narrowed, then looked up across the room. On his desk, the glow of the digital clock blinked: 8:10 PM.

The concert wouldn't start until nine.

He stood slowly, like something was pulling him up from the weight that had been pressing him down all night. He walked out of his room and into the dimly lit hallway, made his way to the bathroom, and flicked the switch. The mirror greeted him with his own reflection—with his messy, overgrown hair, and his hoodie that had stretched and worn from too many restless nights, and eyes that carried more exhaustion than they should.

He opened the drawer under the sink and reached for the electric clippers. They were still there. Nolan's, probably. The same kind his dad used to trim up his clean, perfect image. That alone made him want to throw it against the wall.

Instead, he turned it on. The sharp, vibrating buzz filled the bathroom, and Mark stared down at it.

Then, slowly, he raised his head to the mirror.

He remembered the drawing you showed him weeks ago—chuckling, half-teasing, as you claimed, "A mohawk would do you more justice." It had been you who sketched him with a jagged mohawk and a jacket scrawled with band patches and flame motifs. He'd rolled his eyes then, said you were weird. But now… he saw it. Felt it. The version of himself in that sketch felt closer to who he wanted to be than the stranger in the mirror now.

He lifted the clippers to the side of his head.

Hair began to fall. Tufts slid down his neck, scattered over the white sink like shedding something that didn't belong to him anymore. The buzz filled the silence, grounding him in each reckless stroke. He wasn't a pro—his hands shook slightly, and it wasn't perfect. The lines were messy, the angle a little too sharp on one side—but he kept going. He didn't stop until both sides were shaved down and the middle was left tall, raw, and real.

He turned off the clippers. Silence then returned.

His reflection didn't look like that innocent Mark anymore. The boy who used to just nod along, keep his head down, try to be what everyone expected him to be. What stared back at him now was someone new—sharper, rougher around the edges, but somehow more honest.

Still buzzing with something raw, he stepped into the shower, letting the water rinse away the fallen hair and whatever else he didn't need anymore. The steam curled around him, clouding the mirror, hiding what he used to be. He stayed under the stream longer than necessary, fingers running through the damp ridge of his new mohawk. It still felt unreal. Bold. Stupid. But right.

When he stepped back into his room, towel around his neck and waist, water still dripping from his collarbones, he crossed to the closet. For once, he didn't reach for the usual hoodie or school-washed jeans. He dug deeper. Past the clothes Debbie bought. Past the ones Nolan once folded for him like it meant something.

He pulled out an old black denim vest that has rips on its shoulders—the one he barely remembered owning. Then a dark long-sleeve to wear under it. He tugged on some beat-up jeans with a few chain loops and grabbed his boots from under the bed, knocking off its dust as he shoved his feet into them.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't supposed to be.

He glanced at the time: 8:48 PM.

He still had enough time to show up.

To see you.

That thought alone made his chest tighten—some strange mix of nerves and something warmer, something stupid and bold.

So he shoved the flyer back into his pocket, cracked the window open, and slipped out into the night.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

When he arrived at the rooftop, he touched down without a sound, unnoticed by the swarm of bodies and buzzing energy from afar. The music hadn't started yet, but the place was already alive. Neon lights flickered across the open space, casting strange colors onto swaying silhouettes. He stayed in the shadows, taking it all in. You were right—the view was killer. The skyline burned in the distance, and the wind tugged softly at his mohawk, carrying the chill of the night across his skin.

Then, it began.

A girl with wild green hair, dressed in a electric blue and black outfit that flashed under the lights, stepped onto the stage with a mic and a manic grin. She shouted something that was lost to the rising cheers, and just like that, the rooftop exploded into sound.

Lights flared, speakers boomed, and a red handheld flare shot up from the crowd, bathing the chaos in blood-colored smoke. People screamed, jumped, and danced, their shadows stuttering with each flash of the strobes.

But Mark didn't hear any of that. Not really.

Because the second your voice echoed through the rooftop—raw, loud, and commanding—the lights stuttered and then snapped to you. And there you were.

You stood at front in the center like you owned the world, shirtless, the pale light catching the sharp lines of your body. You wore only leather—black and heavy, strapped with rows of silver-studded belts that ran from your wrists, across your pants, down to your boots. Each step you took looked like it was weighed down by chaos itself, and yet, you moved like it was nothing.

You looked like a piece of art, underneath those lights.

And something twisted in Mark's chest.

His breath caught, just for a second. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you before—but it had never been like this. There was something about seeing you up there, in your element, drenched in sound and fury, screaming into the mic like you were born to tear the world apart with your voice.

He blinked. And swallowed.

He stood there frozen, with his heart pounding in a way he couldn't quite name.

Was this admiration?

Was it awe?

Was it—?

No. Whatever it was, he didn't have a word for it.

So he stayed hidden, staring. And listening.

He watched as you strummed your electric guitar—each note sharp, cutting through the heavy night air. With every motion of your hand, the lights seemed to respond, pulsing and dancing along, casting glimmers over the metal buckles and silver spikes of your belted pants. You glowed in movement, alive and uncontained.

You sang with that mischievous grin of yours, reckless and free, tossing your voice into the sky like it didn't owe anyone anything. You laughed between lines, bumping shoulders with your bandmates, playing like the world was yours and you knew it. The crowd roared and sang with you, hypnotized, addicted.

But then—something shifted.

In the middle of the chaos, as the next verse rolled in and the bass dropped, your eyes scanned the crowd… and paused.

Mark felt it again. That exact moment.

The exact second your gaze locked with his.

It was brief. Just a flicker.

But it hit him like a fist to the chest.

Time didn't stop—it just warped. The music kept going, the lights kept flashing, but Mark couldn't hear any of it anymore. Not when your eyes found him in the crowd, even from behind the smoke and bodies and noise. Not when you tilted your head the slightest bit, lips curling like you knew something he didn't.

And for some reason… his heart clenched. Hard. Like it was trying to fight its way out of his ribs.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Just watched you.

And wondered what the hell that feeling was.

He watched you throughout the whole show—mesmerized, almost dazed.

Whether you were stepping forward to sing a solo or slipping back to let the other vocalists take the spotlight, your presence never dimmed. You carried the stage even when silent, even when your fingers were the only ones speaking, dragging thunder out of your guitar like it was a living thing. You didn't just play—you breathed life into every chord, every beat. You made the music move.

And god, it was fire.

He had never seen you like this.

Sure, you always looked like trouble—sharp around the edges, untouchable, wild—but now? You looked like chaos. Beautiful, roaring chaos. Unapologetic and magnetic.

Your band's songs burned through the speakers—shouting rebellion, bleeding freedom, aching with love and loss and rage and euphoria. They weren't just songs. They were war cries. Anthems. Screams from the inside. And you were at the center of it all, feeding the storm like it was your religion.

Mark stood still on the rooftop, hidden in shadow, yet feeling more exposed than ever. Something in his chest was clawing its way up, confused and fast and hot. He didn't even realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the railing until his knuckles ached.

He should look away. He should snap out of it.

But instead, he kept watching you like a man who just realized he'd been starving.

It was midnight—closer to 1 AM—when the noise finally began to die down. The music faded, the lights dimmed, and the crowd slowly unraveled into the night, laughing and buzzing with adrenaline. People were saying their goodbyes, shouting thanks for the killer performance. You and your band took turns giving small speeches of gratitude, rough and sincere, before the rooftop slowly began to clear out.

The energy was still buzzing in the air as you helped gather cables and carry down amps, sweat clinging to your skin, your voice a little hoarse from the night.

That's when you saw him.

Mark.

He stepped forward from the shadows, quiet but not exactly trying to hide. The second your eyes landed on him, you froze mid-movement, then a grin curled at the corners of your lips.

"Holy shit..." you breathed, wiping your hands on your pants and stepping toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You actually came!"

You gave a soft laugh, walking closer. "I thought I was just high when I saw you in the crowd, man." You looked him over with a playful smirk, gaze flicking up to his mohawk. "God, you definitely look the part tonight."

He didn't say anything right away—his throat tightened up, words jammed behind it like a traffic pile-up. Up close, with the flickering rooftop lights hitting your skin, you looked even more unreal. The metal on your pants glinted like stars, and the lingering heat from your performance clung to you like a halo.

He swallowed and finally muttered, "You were… insane out there."

Your smile didn't falter. "That's kind of the goal." You said, before your tone shifted into something softer, "I'm really glad you came, Mark."

You didn't let the moment linger too long.

Instead, you grabbed Mark by the wrist, tugging him gently as you said, "C'mon, I gotta introduce you to the gang."

One by one, you brought him around to meet your bandmates—each with a unique look, a different edge, but all warm and welcoming in their own rough way. They exchanged greetings, a few handshakes, nods of respect, and some smirking gratitude for him showing up. One of them even clapped him on the back and said, "Didn't think you were real, man. We were starting to think they made you up."

You laughed, throwing an arm over Mark's shoulder like you'd known him forever. "Well, I told you he's real. Real enough to help us pack up, right?"

Mark blinked. "Wait—"

Too late. You were already tossing him a bundle of cables and pointing to a nearby case. "Come on, rockstar. Earn your afterparty."

He didn't argue. Not really. What else did he have to do? Go home? Sit in that cold, quiet house with nothing but his own thoughts gnawing at him?

Nah.

He helped carry down amps, coiled wires, and stacked boxes with the rest of you, his movements eventually syncing up with the rhythm of your crew. The whole thing was messy and loud and filled with exhausted laughter and the occasional burst of music from someone who just couldn't stop playing.

And when you slung your jacket over your shoulder and looked at him with that wild glint in your eyes, asking, "You down to go celebrate somewhere? For the show, and for, y'know... not getting arrested, tonight." Mark didn’t even hesitate.

"…Yeah." he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Yeah, I'm down."

And just like that, the night wasn't over.

The underground club was like another world—dim neon lights glowing against graffiti-splattered walls, bass-heavy music pulsing like a second heartbeat. It smelled like sweat, beer, smoke, and something else—something electric. Your band blended right in, sliding into cracked leather booths, ordering drinks with familiar smirks, lighting up like they owned the place.

Mark kept close to you at first, still a little stiff, wide-eyed at the chaos—but you handed him a drink, your fingers brushing his, and just like that, the edge dulled.

The alcohol hit him fast. Maybe it was his first real time drinking. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that you looked like some kind of devil in human skin tonight—jacket unzip, sweaty from the show, with a cigarette hanging loose between your lips as you leaned back with a half-lazy grin, shadows and red light dancing across your face.

God, you looked good.

Mark didn't say anything at first—just sat beside you, his drink nearly slipping from his hand as his limbs got heavier and his laugh got louder. The band was wild, one of them screaming out a chaotic love song into the karaoke mic, their voice cracking beautifully over the synths. Everyone was high. High on smoke, high on adrenaline, high on surviving another night.

You elbowed Mark gently. "Hey, pretty boy..." you grinned, "you alright?"

He looked at you, really looked at you. You had your boots kicked up on the edge of the table, smoke curling from your lips, and the glint in your eye made something twist deep in his gut. He blinked slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over from drink and something else. His mouth opened like he had something to say—but nothing came out.

You just laughed, low and soft, and nudged your drink toward him.

"Don't pass out yet, you're just getting started."

And Mark… smiled.

A real one. Loose. Crooked. Almost smug.

Something was shifting. Something dangerous, something exciting.

He leaned back, head tilting as he studied you through the blur and haze of the club's lights and sound. His lips parted again, just slightly, and even though his thoughts were swimming, one thing stood out—loud and clear through the fuzz:

You were beautiful. And maybe the kind of trouble he was starting to want.

The night blurred in colors and noise, everything spinning in rhythm with the music—your bandmates were laughing at something stupid, throwing arms around each other, play-fighting, dancing like the world might end tomorrow. Mark couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard. Maybe never. The weight that had pressed on him for weeks, months—it lifted. Just for a while, he was nobody's son, nobody's weapon, nobody's disappointment.

He was just… Mark.

And you? You were everywhere. Teasing him with that smirk, knocking back drinks like they were water, shouting out lyrics into the mic beside him with fire in your throat. He didn't know when it started—this pull toward you—but it felt like gravity now.

You leaned into him, chest nearly brushing his as your laugh turned into a shout when the chorus hit, your voices tangled together in that dumb love song. His heart was pounding, alcohol surging through him, his skin was buzzing.

He took another drink—something bitter and burning—and then he looked up.

And there you were.

Suddenly straddling his lap, body close, breath warm, eyes half-lidded but sharp. His hands landed on your waist instinctively, like it was natural, like this had always been building up to this moment.

Then your lips were on his.

And everything else faded.

The music. The crowd. Even the ache he'd been carrying deep inside—it all disappeared as you kissed him like you meant it. Not sloppy or drunk. Intentional. Confident. And Mark? He didn't even hesitate. He kissed you back like his life depended on it, fingers tightening on your waist, mouth parting under yours, breath catching somewhere between surprise and need.

He didn't know what this meant.

But he didn't care. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was yours.

You pulled away with that same cocky smirk curving your lips, your pierced tongue flicking out, a thin strand of spit still connecting you both for a heartbeat before it broke. Your eyes glittered under the club's dim, pulsing lights, and Mark felt like he was falling into something he wasn't sure he wanted to escape from.

From somewhere in the chaos, one of your bandmates let out a loud, slurred cheer.

"Yooo! Let's gooo!"

Another one threw a crumpled napkin in your direction.

"Tongue action! We saw that, man!"

Laughter erupted all around.

Mark let out a breathy, flushed laugh, still a little dazed, still high on the kiss.

"That's gay, bro." he said through his chuckle, voice rough from drinking and from whatever the hell this feeling was.

You just grinned wider, sitting comfortably on his lap like you belonged there.

"Yeah? And? you said, tilting your head, cocky and so damn cool with a cigarette lazily held between your fingers. "You complaining?"

Mark met your eyes, lips still curled into something between a smile and disbelief. He looked away for a second, heat rising to his ears.

"...No" he mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. "Didn't say that."

You let out a low laugh, taking a slow, casual puff from your cigarette, the tip glowing red before you exhaled a stream of smoke right past Mark's flushed face. Then you leaned in again, stealing another heated kiss from his lips—tasting of alcohol, ash, and chaos. The music blared on, people kept dancing and yelling in a haze of neon lights and smoke, but Mark… he was just there. With you sitting on his lap, drunk, kissed breathless, and falling.

It was electric. It was dangerous. It was fun.

But like all things that burned too hot—it had to end.

Eventually, people started trickling out. A few were dragged off by lovers or friends. Others staggered into the night, still singing off-key lyrics or laughing like idiots. Someone shouted their love for everyone. Someone puked behind the bar. The night was winding down, but Mark looked like he didn't want it to.

He leaned against you, heavy and out of it, eyes barely staying open.

"…I don't wanna go home." he muttered.

You didn't even need to ask. You just nodded once and slipped your arm around his waist, hoisting him up and getting both of you back through the city night like it was nothing.

Your place was dark, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. You dropped him on your couch with a grunt—he landed with a soft, drunken laugh, sprawling out like he belonged there.

You peeled off your layers lazily, kicking off your boots and stripping down until you were just in your black boxers, the cold beer hissing as you popped it open. You sat on the edge of the couch beside him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, head leaned back as you exhaled into the silence.

Mark turned his head slightly to look at you—dazed, maybe half-awake, with his pupils blown wide.

"You did great out there, buddy." you said, voice low and a little hoarse from all the shouting, singing, and smoke. There was a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took another swig of your beer, glancing over at him from where you sat, the glow from your cigarette tip briefly lighting your face in the dim room.

Mark shifted on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him as he blinked slowly, looking up at you like he couldn't decide if this was real or a really vivid dream. His mohawk was a little messy now, his cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed.

You raised your brows. "Need anything? Water? Beer?"

He blinked again, then mumbled, "You."

The moment stretched.

Your cigarette paused mid-air.

Then you let out a small chuckle, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek, amused and maybe just a little caught off guard. "Damn," you muttered, taking another drink. "Were my kisses really that good?"

Mark groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "Don't—don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." You leaned back, smoke curling out from between your lips. "It's kinda cute."

He groaned again, face buried in a throw pillow now.

You grinned, biting back a laugh. "Beer it is, then."

You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with another cold can of beer in your hand. Mark was where you left him—half-slouched, flushed, eyes tracking your every move like a predator trying not to pounce too soon.

You plopped down next to him, handed the can over with that lazy smirk of yours. "Here. Might sober you up a little."

But instead of taking it, his fingers curled around your wrist. Firm and steady.

You blinked, confused for a split second—then he yanked you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened briefly, your heart skipped, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back with equal heat, until the taste of beer and smoke and something raw took over your mouth.

Then you gasped.

Because the next thing you knew, he pushed you down against the couch, the beer can slipping from your grasp and thudding to the floor with a dull clink!

Mark was on top of you, hovering and pressing you down, with his hands gripping your wrists and holding you there like he was afraid you'd vanish. The weight of him. The heat. The surprising strength in the way he pinned you down—it made your breath hitch.

His kiss grew hungrier. Deeper. His mohawk brushed against your face when he tilted his head. One of his knees pushed between your thighs. His body told you everything his mouth hadn't yet.

And for once… you weren't the one in control.

"You're stronger than you look." you breathed between kisses.

He smirked, lips brushing against your jaw. "You're hotter than you act."

Mark's lips then attack your neck, kissing, nipping, sucking—each one more desperate than the last. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven, and then the sharp pull of his mouth leaving marks where no one else had dared before.

Your fingers gripped the couch cushions, pulse racing. The pressure of his body on yours, the tension in his movements—it was all hitting you at once.

Each nip and suck sends electric jolts straight to your core, your body arching into his touch instinctively. One hand released your wrist to grip the waistband of your boxers, yanking them downwards with a rough tug. The cool air hit your newly exposed flesh, your hardened cock springing free and slapping against your stomach.

"Fuck, you're so hot." Mark murmured and pulls away just enough to tug his own pants and briefs down, freeing his impressive cock. It's larger than you expected, thick and hard, probably around 7.5 to 8 inches long. The head is flushed deep, angry red, leaking pre-cum that he uses to slick the way as he begins to stroke your cocks together, the hot, velvety flesh sliding against your own in a way that makes your toes curl.

He leans in to growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his hand continues to wrap around both of you, stroking and grinding the heat between you two.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and ragged. "Look at us… you're just as hard for me as I am for you."

A shaky breath leaves him, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Shit—you're driving me crazy."

Mark's stroking grew faster, more insistent, his grip tightening around both your throbbing cocks as he chased his own release. The obscene sound of skin moving against skin filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths and desperate moans. His eyes burned with desire, remained locked onto where our cocks were slick and sticky with pre-cum, watching the show with a hungry, almost feral intensity.

Suddenly, your body tensed, back arching off the couch as a shockwave of pleasure ripped through you. You let out a soft gasp as both of your cocks pulsed and throbbed, painting both of our stomachs with streaks of sticky white cum.

Both of you were breathing hard, chests rising and falling as the haze of release clung to your skin. Your body was slack against the couch, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you looked down at the mess painting your stomach. You giggled—soft, breathless, a little fucked-out.

Your fingers trailed through the sticky white on your skin, lazy and dazed, until Mark's hand caught yours. He smirked, leaning over your disheveled form, and without a word, he brought your fingers to his mouth—his tongue warm and slick as he slowly licked them clean.

You stared at him with wide eyes, lips parting—until you let out another small, stunned laugh.

"That's so gay, bro."

Mark laughed low, the sound rolling deep from his chest as he leaned in closer, his hand already trailing down your thigh.

"I think it's hot as fuck," he muttered, voice husky and eyes dark.

Before you could respond, he pushed your legs apart with a firm grip, eyes locked on you like you were something he was starving for.

You watch with your heart pounding, as Mark brings his hand to his mouth. He makes a show of spitting into his palm, working the saliva between his fingers until they glisten obscenely in the low light. Your own mouth goes dry at the sight, anticipation coiling tight in your gut.

Without preamble, Mark reaches down and circles your entrance with a slick finger, teasing the sensitive flesh until it's dripping with his spit. Then, slowly, he pushes inside, his finger sinking into your tight heat and making your back arch off the couch.

"Oh fuck..." you gasp, the stretch unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Mark's finger pumps in and out, curling and scissoring to open you up, to prepare you for what's to come.

"Relax for me, baby… Gonna ruin you just right." Mark murmured, voice thick and dark with desire. He works a second finger in alongside the first, then a third, stretching you wider, pushing you open until you're panting and writhing beneath him.

Mark captured your lips again, the kiss rough and messy, tongues tangling like neither of you could get enough. When he finally pulled away, a strand of spit still connected you both. His fingers slipped from your hole, leaving you empty and aching for more, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, holding you wide open beneath him.

"Tell me what you want." he said, voice low and raspy, his dark eyes roaming hungrily over your flushed body. "I wanna hear you say it."

You bit your lip, your breath shaky as your eyes met his — half-lidded, burning with lust, a cocky smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

"Shut up and fuck me, Mark." you whispered, your voice hoarse with need. "I'm done waiting."

He smiled and grips your hips tighter, fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass, as he lines himself up. The swollen head of his cock prods against your slick hole.

Then, with a single, powerful thrust, Mark buries himself inside you, his thick length splitting you open and stretching you wider than you've ever been before. You cry out, back arching off the couch as you're suddenly, brutally filled. Mark doesn't give you any time to adjust, setting a hard, fast pace as he starts to fuck into you with deep, claiming thrusts.

"Shit—you're tight!" Mark grunts, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive forward. "Gonna ruin this fucking ass. Gonna make it mine."

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails digging into the firm skin and muscle as you try to anchor yourself against the relentless force of his thrusts. The room is filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your desperate, wanton moans as Mark takes you with a fervor that steals your breath.

"Fuck, yes! Just like that," you cry out, your voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "Harder, Mark! Fuck me harder!"

Mark snarls in response, gripping your hips even tighter as he complies with your demand. His thrusts become more forceful, more demanding, the tip of his cock kissing your prostate dead-on with every plunge forward. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, and you can feel your own cock throbbing and leaking against your belly, aching for his touch.

The brutal pace of Mark's thrusts rocks your entire body, each powerful drive forward making the couch creak and shake beneath you. Your stomach bulges slightly with every impact, his heavy cock pushing into your core and stirring up the contents of your belly. It's a lewd, filthy sight and you can't look away, intoxicated by the raw, animalistic way he's claiming you.

"Oh fuck, oh god!"

You threw your head back in ecstasy as Mark pounds into you. The pleasure is overwhelming, drowning out any semblance of coherent thought. Your hands scrabble at his back, trying to find purchase, to ground yourself against the tidal wave of sensation crashing over you.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls as he splits you open. It's too much, too intense, and you know you won't last much longer.

"Aah! Gonna... fuck, I can't... I'm gonna... Aah!" you stammered, your voice high and thin with impending release. Your cock throbs urgently against your belly, the head was angry red and leaking steadily.

Mark feels it too, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Fuck, me too!" he snarls, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of bruising. "Gonna fucking flood this ass. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be fucking dripping for days."

His words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your cock pulses and jerks, painting your chest and belly with streaks of pearly white. Your ass clenches down around Mark's cock, gripping him like a velvet vice as you ride out the intense pleasure.

Mark lets out a guttural roar, slamming into you one last time as his own release takes him, flooding your insides with his hot, thick cum. You can feel each, heavy spurt of his semen painting your inner walls, marking you, claiming you as his. It's an intense, overwhelming sensation that makes your spent cock twitch weakly against your belly.

"Fuuuuck!" Mark groans, his hips giving a few more shallow thrusts as he works himself through the aftershocks of his release. "So fucking good, baby... Took my cock so well."

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions of the couch. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his ragged breaths mingling with your own as you both struggle to catch your breath. Mark's mohawk is damp with sweat, a few strands plastered to his forehead as he pants softly against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both bask in the afterglow. Your body feels deliciously sore, aching in the best possible way, a testament to the thorough fucking you just received. Mark's softening cock is still nestled inside you, plugging you up, making you feel full and claimed.

"Mmmm... that was... intense." you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of Mark's neck. You can taste the salt on his skin, smell the musky scent of sex that clings to him.

Mark chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Gotta be the best sex I ever had." He said, tilting his head to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It's different from the hungry, dominating kisses before - this one is softer, almost tender. "You're fucking incredible..." he murmurs against your mouth.

He rolls his hips slightly, making you both groan at the sensation. "And we're not even close to done." he smirked darkly, a wicked glint in his eye. "I'm still horny, [Y/N]... Still so fucking hard for you. I need more—need to fuck you again."

You shiver at the implication, already feeling your spent cock twitch with renewed interest. You know you should be exhausted, but the thought of more, of endless rounds of this intense, filthy pleasure, makes your heart race with anticipation

"Can't wait…" you say, voice low and breathless, lips quirking into a smirk. "Y'know? I think I need someone to break the bed with me tonight."

You pause, just for a second, softer now. "Stay with me?"

Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he leans in, his eyes dark with heat, mouth curling into a slow, knowing smirk. Then he crashes his lips against yours again—hungry, claiming, and promising.

And just like that, the night starts all over again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Everything changed after that night.

You and Mark weren't just two guys orbiting the same messed-up world anymore. Something shifted. Something hot and reckless, magnetic and impossible to ignore.

Mark couldn't stay away from you after that. You'd catch him watching you across the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, full of unspoken need. He started skipping classes more, just to be near you. Smoking with you behind the school. Slipping into detention even when he didn't have to, just to sit in the same room as you, leg pressed against yours under the desk like it was some secret he wanted someone to discover.

He even showed up at your band's practice, sprawled on the old couch in your little hideout like he belonged there. Head tilted back, mouthing along to the lyrics while his eyes stayed glued to your fingers that were moving across your guitar. Sometimes after those sessions, you'd barely make it to your place before he was on you—pushing you down onto some mattress, kissing you like he was starving, tearing off clothes with shaking, desperate hands.

Sometimes, he didn't wait at all.

The boys' bathroom, after the third period—he'd lock the door and shove you up against the cold tiles, hands already down your pants. Or behind the gym, underneath the afternoon sun, with your back against the bricks, with his breath hot against your skin while he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

It wasn't just sex.

It was desperation.

It was an escape.

It was an addiction neither of you wanted to shake.

And Eve?

You never talked about her. You didn't have to.

She was still there—still his girlfriend, still part of the picture—but when you were around, she barely existed. Mark would ignore her texts while he was with you, glance past her in the halls like she was a stranger.

She didn't exist in those stolen moments when you were on your knees for him, lips wrapped around his cock while he groaned your name and tugged your hair like he'd lose his mind if he let go. She didn't exist when he whispered filth into your ear while you were bent over the school's bathroom sink, struggling to stay quiet. She didn't exist in the heat between your bodies when he panted against your neck, saying how tight, and how perfect you were.

And the scariest part?

You loved it.

Mark had changed. And people noticed.

He was sharper now. Wilder. That brooding, broken shell he once carried cracked wide open, revealing someone louder, cockier, violent—someone who didn't take shit from anyone. If someone even looked at you too long, Mark was already in their faces, eyes sharp and voice dripping venom—ready to throw punches. Like he was ready to burn everything down for you.

And then there were the piercings.

The ones you'd draw in your sketchbook couple of months ago.

And fuck—he looked even hotter than you imagined.

He wore it for you.

He was yours.

And in his own twisted, violent way…

you were his too.

With you, he wasn't numb. He was alive. You brought something out in him no one else could. He smiled more. Laughed harder. Got more reckless, more dangerous, but honest. He stopped hiding. He'd kiss you in the stairwell like he didn't care about hiding anymore. He'd shove a guy for looking at you wrong in the cafeteria. He'd lock eyes with you in a crowd like it didn't matter who was watching—because you were the only thing that mattered.

Mark never said much, not out loud. He didn't talk about how he felt or what any of this meant. He didn't put names to things, didn't label you, didn't explain the way his eyes always found you in a room like you were gravity and he was just trying not to fall apart.

But the way he looked at you?

It said everything.

It was in the heat behind his stare, the way his jaw would clench when someone stood too close to you, the way his hand always found yours when no one was watching. You could feel it in the way he kissed you—rough, deep, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there. Like he didn't know how to be gentle with something he wanted this much.

You had him. Fully, completely, undeniably.

And he had you, just as wrecked.

He was still angry. Still dragging chains from the past he never talked about. Still haunted by things you could only guess at when you caught glimpses of that hollow look in his eyes after sex, like he'd been somewhere else for a second and had to claw his way back.

But with you, something changed.

He let his guard down, if only in stolen moments. You saw the softness beneath the sharp edges—the boy who wanted to be touched, wanted to be seen, but didn’t know how to ask for it.

With you, he wasn't just surviving.

He was living.

And yeah, maybe the whole thing was messy. Maybe it was twisted and wrong and so far past the line of what should've been. But you didn't care.

Because in the end, no matter how fucked up it all was…

you wouldn't trade him for anything.

Not the calm, clean version of love people wrote songs about.

Not the easy kind of boy who smiled politely and stayed in the lines.

You wanted him.

Just like this.

Wild. Possessive. A little broken.

And entirely yours.

"I'm gonna kill you, Mark." you wheezed, body aching as you lay tangled in your sheets—sweaty, sore, absolutely wrecked. "I told you me and the gang were rioting tonight."

You turned your head, glaring at him with zero energy behind it. "Now I can't even stand without my knees shaking, dumbass."

Mark was laid out next to you, with a cocky grin on his lips, eyes still heavy-lidded from the high of it all. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, bruises blooming along his neck, piercings glinting in the low light. He looked like sin personified—sweaty, smug, and so damn pleased with himself.

He let out a short laugh, deep and careless, before blowing smoke toward the ceiling like he didn't just rearrange your guts.

"That's on you for moaning like that." he said, voice rough and dripping arrogance. "You think I was gonna stop when you kept saying my name like a damn prayer?"

“You're an asshole." you muttered, dragging a pillow over your face.

He just grinned wider, sitting up slightly to watch you suffer with a predator's calm. "You love it."

You peeked out from the pillow, watching as he tilted his head back and ran a hand through his mohawk, those wild curls still clinging to his forehead. His body was littered with old scars and fresh scratches—your scratches. He looked like a goddamn menace, and he knew it.

"Gotta admit." he said, eyes drifting over your naked, sore body like he hadn't already wrecked you twice, "You limping into that riot later? Kinda hot."

Mark chuckled, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your jaw, then tracing the angry red mark he’d left on your neck with far too much pride. "You know…" he drawled, lips brushing against your skin, "If you're going out... maybe I should tag along."

You turned to squint at him. "For what? To start more chaos?"

His grin sharpened. "No, babe. I was thinking I could fuck you behind a dumpster while Molotovs fly in the background."

You blinked. "You're kidding."

He didn't even hesitate. "I'm not. That'd be so hot. Firelight on your face, sirens in the distance, you begging for me to go harder while the city burns a little."

"God, you're deranged."

"And yet," he smirked, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, "you're still gonna let me come."

You snorted, tossing a pillow at his chest. "You're freaky as hell, man."

He caught it with ease, tossing it aside before climbing over you again, voice low and rough by your ear. "Say the word, and I'll make sure you really can't walk straight into that riot."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: listening to Hamilton while writing this is insane :0

#𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒕🐈‍⬛𖹭.ᐟ #mohawk mark #mohawk invincible #mohawk mark x reader #invincible variants #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #invincible fanfic #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible smut #this took so damn long to finish #my phone is burning

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cosmicmunsonwrites · 4 months ago

Note

can you make one where rafe showed his friends a private pic between and reader and she gets all pissed

do you think i deserved it all?

mean!rafe cameron x desperate!fem!reader

cw — explicit picture, manipulation, gaslighting

summary — you overhear your boyfriend and his friends talking abt a certain photo.

authors note — i’m writing with nails so this may have some typos but please ignore that. this can be read as a standalone but is apart of my mean!rafe series that is listed in order on my rafe masterlist under au's. if you guys have any longer requests, please send em in so i can make these a little more detailed cause my creativity is not flowing for some reason.

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

you weren't paying attention at all to what was going on around you. rafe, topper, and kelce always talked about stuff you couldn't care less about and that is exactly what they were doing now. the four of you were sat in the living room of the thornton mansion on the couches. your boyfriend was sitting beside you with your feet in his lap as you laid across the soft cushions and his friends were sat across from you two on the other one.

you were currently just mindlessly scrolling through instagram as you plotted your next post. you could faintly hear the boys talking about a variety of things along with the tv playing in the background. you sighed in annoyance when you couldn't find enough pictures and decided you'd be needing to go take some more. you swiped out of the app and began listening to whatever rafe was saying so you could let him know that you'd be needing a photoshoot soon.

"you guys gotta see this shit," he said as he scrolled on his phone and sat up a little straighter. "it's like fuckin' heaven, i'm tellin' you. 'nd she just doesn't care. none of those tantrums about privacy and all that other bullshit. i do whatever i want with 'em."

he leaned forward to show the two whatever he'd pulled up on his phone and their jaws immediately dropped. "holy shit, dude," topper mumbled, completely mesmerized by the screen.

kelce had the same look, leaning in a little to get a better look. "goddamn man. you got her all to yourself?"

your ears perked up at that and you shut your phone off, eyeing rafe wearily. "all mine," he stated with a smug grin. "i've got hundreds jus' sitting in this album. they just keep gettin' better every time i add one."

you felt your heart drop to your stomach and bile begin to rise in your throat. "you're one lucky son of a bitch," topper said with a laugh before sticking his hand up for a high five. "i'll be right back. y'all want any drinks or anything."

rafe looked at you momentarily. "jus' water," he replied, knowing you didn't care for anything else too much.

"i'll take a beer," kelce said while standing along with the blonde. "i gotta take a piss. be back in a minute."

topper let out a hearty laugh and slapped him on the back playfully. "yeah right."

as soon as the two left, you were quickly crawling over to rafe and snatching his phone from his hands. "what the fuck is your problem?" he snapped.

you stared down at it in shock. it was a picture of you from a few nights ago. one taken from a higher angle with your ass propped up in the air, you hair disheveled all across the pillows, your hands gripping onto the sheets by your head, and his cum coating your cheeks and mid-back.

your lip began to tremble and you dropped the phone into his lap rudely. "are you serious? why would you show that to them? do you know how embarrassing that is?"

he laughed. genuinely laughed in your face. "are you serious? it's not that big of a deal. you always blow things like this way out of proportion. you say you want me to show you off and shit and now you're pissed when i do?"

"i didn't mean in a disgusting way," you spat back. "i didn't expect you to go show off a vulnerable picture of me and have you and your friends talk about me like and object as if i'm not sitting right here!"

you could see the frustration building inside of him. he grabbed your wrist harshly and used it to pull you closer to him. "don't you dare fuckin' talk to me like that. before you ever even think about raising your voice at me again, think about who runs this shit, alright? cause it sure as hell isn't you. just remember, i wasn't the one begging for a chance, you understand me?"

a deep red blush creeped up your neck and onto your cheeks out of embarrassment. "I didn't mean it like that rafe," you said quietly. you didn't like when he was mad at you and you definitely didn't want him to leave you. "i'm sorry, i wasn't thinking."

"thats what i thought," he said cockily as he let go of your wrist. "you think i was gonna make a cute little instagram post or somethin'? that what you wanted?"

yes. it was. it was what you were dreaming of. but you knew better than to upset rafe. you were meant to say what he wanted to hear in times like this. you began to convince yourself that maybe he was actually right. maybe it was better this way. "no. i don't want that."

he smiled and chuckled. "good," he replied. “now get your shoes on and get your ass to the car."

your brows furrowed in confusion. you had only been here for and hour or two. "but rafe--"

"do i need to repeat myself?" he was pissed. you didn't need to hear anything else to know that. "get in the fucking car. we're gonna go home and you're gonna sleep off this bratty fuckin' attitude. then when you get up, you're gonna drop all this bullshit and apologize to me the right way. got it?"

you nodded shyly and began to move quickly to find your shoes. you were in for a long, exhausting night.

#gracies asks and requests 💌#gracie writes rafe cameron 🌺#rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks rafe #obx #outer banks #rafe obx

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rosenclaws · 3 months ago

Text

Cute || Logan Howlett x Reader

summary: Sometimes dating Logan comes with its difficulties. Especially when you feel like you just can't compare.

warnings: fem!reader, insecurity, jean slander im sorry bby but ur a plot device for this fic.

wc: 2.4k

a/n: I'm gonna be so honest I had this idea last night and I thought it would be fun to write but I finished it and I really hate my writing for some reason this week so I'm not happy with it but I wanted to get something out so here it is ig 😭

You never should have eavesdropped. You didn't mean to. But you heard Logan and Jean talking and you just...you couldn't resist.

Logan. Well he was everything to you. You never dreamed of being the one to wake up next to him. To be the one who gets to kiss him, to call him yours. You pined after man for a long time. Ever since you stumbled your way to the mansion Logan had invaded your heart. Powers that felt like nothing compared to the omega level mutants just down the hall.

Super senses and magnetic sensitivity that could barely movie a fridge magnet. People could shapeshift, teleport, and turn to metal. Compared to them you were no one, just another mutant living at the mansion.

For years you watched him from afar, falling deeper in love with him every day. Despite being so private Logan was gossiped about fairly often. The kids were drawn to him and his protective nature. The stories spread until he was something of an urban legend walking among commoners.

He’s over 150 years old who knows what he’s done in all that time. Stories of his heroics, his dark moments, his triumphs and his devastating losses. You tried not to pay any mind to them but you just couldn’t help yourself. He is the Wolverine. He may not lead the X-Men or enjoy the spotlight but he is undeniably a legend.

Whether he wants to be or not.

He didn’t even know your name, or at least that’s what you thought. It was something out of a fairytale the first time you two truly talked. The mansion was on lockdown because of a blizzard but you needed to get stuff for the lab. It was urgent and it couldn't wait. You were going to go alone but Logan had stopped you before you could even take one step out of the doors.

"Now where do you think you're going?" You yelped at the sound of his voice. Your ears folded back as you spun to see Logan standing behind you.

"Out." You said shyly. This is the longest conversation you think you've had with him. Your eyes glanced up to meet his but you could only look for a second. He just made you so nervous.

"Out? In 10ft of snow? You're going to freeze your damn ass off sweetheart." He raised an eyebrow as he gestured to the heavy snowfall outside. You felt your face heat up at the nickname.

"I'll be fine, promise." You bundled your coat and headed down the driveway, your ears perked up as you heard a second set of footsteps behind you.

"Logan, I said I was fine." You stopped and stared at the white snow in front of you. His heavy footsteps caught up to yours as he stood in front of you. Snow fell on top of his poufy hair, a cigar sat in his mouth.

"I'm sure you can take care of yourself, but I won't let you. So this better be worth it." Without another word he turned and continued down the driveway, leaving you stunned and rushing to catch up to him.

How he knew you were leaving was a mystery, you never asked. But you keep that moment close to your heart. By the time you returned to the mansion you were covered in snow and your face was freezing but you didn't care. Not when Logan had given you his jacket half way through the trip.

As you shake the snow off your hair you see Logan watching you, he's stripped down to just a t-shirt and your eyes dart to his arms. He walks up to you, a small smirk on his lips as your heart stops in your chest. You could smell his cologne and it was utterly overwhelming.

"Cute." He hummed. He walked away, whistling lowly as he headed back to his room. Oh it just wasn't fair how easily he could turn to you to a puddle of mush.

Logan continued to flirt and find ways to be around you, to talk to you. Until he actually asked you out on a date. Taking you to a diner just outside of town and buying you a milkshake. A little old fashioned to the point you asked if he had done this back in the 50's too. He just rolled his eyes at you but you saw that little smile he tried to hide.

You could barely believe that the Wolverine wanted you and honestly neither could some of the other mansions residents. You tried to block them out as best as you could but your super hearing made it hard. But Logan could hear them too and he always did his best to soothe your worries. But sometimes the words buried themselves under your skin, wrapping around your heart and they just won't let go.

There's...one thing that has always bothered you, maybe it's why you let those words get to you so much. Logan loves you, he's said it before and you know it's hard for him to be open and vulnerable. You kiss, you hold hands, you do...other things behind closed doors. But there's one word that just seems to haunt you.

Cute.

Logan calls you cute all the time and you like when he does but that's all he calls you. Not beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, stunning. Just cute. Your quiet nature and shitty powers already make it hard for people to take you seriously sometimes and for Logan to just see you as cute, it hurt.

You're not a literal goddess like Ororo or stunning like Jean or beautiful like Marie. It was slowly killing you inside every time he called you that. But you kept it to yourself, you couldn't lose him. You loved him and you just had to believe he loved you too.

Which brings you to this stupid conversation with Jean. She was never your biggest fan and you think it has something to do with the fact that Logan used to chase after her. It was no secret that Logan had a thing for Jean since the day he showed up at the mansion. But that was years ago and he promised he was over it, that he's moved on.

So why is it so hard to see them together?

You really didn't mean to intrude, you were just looking for Logan. Your ears perking up when you heard his voice coming from the kitchen. As you neared closer you heard that he wasn't alone.

"You seem happier." Jeans voice was light but you could sense a hint of hostility as she talks.

You peaked into the kitchen and saw them together, alone. Logan was leaning against the counter with a root beer and Jean was next to him, a little too close for your liking. You should leave, you shouldn't listen this is an invasion of privacy. But your feet stayed rooted to the ground. Unmoving.

"I am." Logan says as he takes a sip of his drink.

"Look Logan, we're old friends right? So you can be honest with me." Jean places her hand on his wrist and he doesn't move.

"Are you sure about her? I mean the two of you together, it's a bit odd isn't it."

"Odd? The hell is that supposed to mean?" Logan narrows his eyes as he tries to understand what Jean was saying. She laughs and you feel your heart clench.

"She's like your pet Logan, cute but not very serious. She's not what you need." There's that damn word again. Cute. Her voice cruel and uncaring. As if she was just stating the obvious. And maybe she was. There's the knife, stabbing right into your heart.

"Be honest Logan, is she really what you want?" She asks. You wait for his response. You wait and wait. The knife twisting with each passing second. Shredding your heart to pieces as he stays quiet.

"Stay out of my head Jean." He growls, slamming the now empty bottle onto the counter.

Is that all he has to say? Really? The knife falls to the ground a bloody mess, leaving your heart completely and utterly broken. Suddenly the once comforting smell of his cologne is suffocating.

So you just run.

Run far away from the mansion, from Logan and Jean. From everybody. You just run and run until you can't anymore. You bury your face in your hands and let the tears fall. Tears of anger and hurt and sadness stream down your face. Who were you kidding? Logan is the guy of your dreams and now you're waking up. A pet. Is that really how everyone sees you? Some cute little thing to entertain Logan until he moves on to someone else? You don't know how long you're out in the small forest behind the mansion.

You slowly walk back, needing to just lock yourself in your room for the foreseeable future. The sun is gone and you've definitely missed dinner. There's a few lights left on by the time you reach the open clearing. Your arms are wrapped around your self as you keep your head low. You just feel purely defeated. You slip in the back door and up the stairs to your room. As you place your hand on your doorknob you hear a very angry Logan.

"Where the fuck have you been?!"

"Nowhere." You snap as you open your door and try to close it in his face. He slams his hand on the door to stop you. He follows you inside and slams the door shut.

"Nowhere? I looked everywhere for you. No one knew were you went. Do you know how worried I was?" He growls, the veins on his neck are bulging. You roll your eyes and it ticks Logan off even more.

"What the fuck has gotten into you?"

"Sorry is your little pet misbehaving?" You snap, your fist balling in anger as you finally face him. Logan's eyes widen when he sees the tears in your eyes.

"What?"

"I heard you and Jean in the kitchen Logan." You wipe your eyes as you slowly step closer to him. "She's just a pet, be serious Logan." You mock in anger.

"Trust me that's not the first time I've heard that before, but you." You shove his chest but he doesn't move, he's watching you. Stunned by the outburst.

"You just sat there and didn't say anything. Nothing Logan!" You shout, not caring who heard you. He grabs your wrists and pulls you close to him. He's never looked so serious before.

"Jean is full of shit and you know it sweetheart."

"Do I?" You rest your head against his chest. The anger slowly draining as defeat takes its place.

"Logan when was the last time you called me anything other than cute?" You ask. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

"Do you understand what hearing cute and only cute feels like? Is that really the only compliment you can think to give me? Do you not love me?" He lets go of your hands and you push him away.

You fall onto your bed and cry. Logan feels sick to his stomach. He didn't know its all bothered you so much, he thought he was doing alright protecting you. But he's failed you. He drops to his knees and tries to pull your hands away from your face.

"Sweetheart, of course I love you." He mumbles.

"I just feel so small sometimes. Standing next to you, being with you. Logan we were never meant to be together."

"What are you talking about?" You finally lift your head up and Logan wastes no time in wiping away your tears. You are everything Logan wants. Meant to be together? He wants to be with you and that's good enough for him.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" "Yes, prettier than anyone else in the world." He says without missing a beat.

"So why have you never said anything?" Logan sighs as he rubs his thumb gently across your cheek.

You're everything to him. You were never a rebound or a pet, god he hates that word now. Logan...he's not the kind of man you'd ever look at and think cute or soft. He is definitely not the kind of man to be loved by you. You're so gentle and kind and so cute it makes his heart hurt. He's never experienced that before. He's not the guy who gets the pretty sweet girl. But then he was and shit, it feels good. So fuck the rumors and the gossip.

"Someone like you shouldn't be with someone like me, I'm not the hero people think I am. So when someone like you loves me, it's a little hard to believe sometimes." He tilts your head up to press a kiss to your lips.

"You're cute," He kisses your cheek softly.

"and pretty," Another kiss.

"and beautiful and gorgeous and so much more." You let out a small giggle as his bread scratches your face.

He nuzzles into you until you open yourself up. He wraps his arms around your waist and hoists you up off the bed. Spinning around until he's got you in his lap.

"Cute isn't an insult. Just seeing you smile makes me feel like a fucking teenager." Logan bumps his nose against yours.

"I didn't answer Jean because I didn't want to. It's no one else's damn business how I feel about you."

"You really think all that?" You say shyly, biting your lip as the doubt still creeps into your head. But Logan pushes it away with another searing kiss.

"Fuck yeah I do. You're everything I could ever want." He frowns as he notices the worry on your face. He would give anything to make it better.

"And more." He adds on. He sees the smile grow and he feels the weight lift off his chest.

"Come on, don't hide that pretty smile from me." He grabs your chin so he can get a better look at you.

He makes a silent promise to never let you feel like this again. Anger stirs inside but he keeps himself as calm as he can. If he had his way he'd rip into anyone who feels like spreading their stupid gossip. But for your sake he won't. But he makes no promises the next time he hears some punk kid open their damn mouth about HIS girl.

"I love you Logan." You hum as you duck your head to rest under his chin, wanting to be held by your boyfriend. His arms wrap around you, holding you close for as long as you need.

"I love you too sweetheart, my gorgeous girl."

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett angst

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ssahotchnerr · 3 months ago

Note

heyy, i just want to say that i really love your writing and i was wondering if you could do one with hotch were its like really cozy and there like cuddling on the couch and maybe something with jack?

dozing off

🥹 the dream cw; fem!reader, established relationship, descriptions of food, fluff <3

"Do you just wanna go to bed?"

Your voice caused Aaron to lift his head, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "Hm?"

"You're falling asleep," you laughed, using your index finger to lightly trace shapes along his chest, the fabric of his t-shirt soft under your fingertips. "So do you want to move to bed?"

"No I'm not." He insisted drowsily, his hand running up and down your back, shifting just enough to settle further into you. Based on his relaxed posture, it was clear he had no plans to move.

"Oh yeah? What's happened so far?" You asked in amusement, referring to the movie playing in front of the two of you. It's been on for about forty-five minutes now, and Aaron had been asleep for the past twenty at least.

He squinted slightly as he looked at the screen, studying the current scene for a moment as if that alone would relay the entire plot of the movie. "They're... going on a date." He stated, which sounded more like a question than anything else - at the moment, two characters were getting in a car.

"Aaron, honey, they're siblings."

He frowned, "Maybe I was asleep."

"Maybe," you confirmed with a small giggle, laying your head back against his chest. "Try absolutely."

"I'm comfy." He closed his eyes, his arms around you tightening as if doing so would bring you any closer. "Can you blame me?"

The BAU's caseload had kicked up a notch, so that meant they'd been working overtime, resulting in more days and nights with Aaron states away. The second he walked through the door this very afternoon, there were deep bags present under his eyes. You were partially surprised he was standing upright.

So no, you couldn't blame him. Especially when you knew he needed the sleep, convinced he never got enough to begin with, a case occupying him or not.

"I enjoy Friday nights so much more when you're home." You sighed softly in content, resting your chin atop his chest.

Likewise, he released a breath. "Me too sweetheart. Me too."

He opened his eyes, an inviting smile on his face as you moved slightly upwards, bringing your lips to his.

He kissed you softly, long and slow in his sleepy wake. The way he approached it with such ease and leisure caused infatuation to buzz right through you. It was relaxed and unhurried, as if you had all the time in the world, leaving you warm and happy. You felt loved.

The two of you broke apart at the pitter patter of feet coming from down the hallway, quickly joining you in the living room.

"What are you doing up?" Aaron asked Jack playfully, his eyebrows raised. "Didn't we already say good night to you?"

"I couldn't sleep." Jack said, his head turning towards the TV, suddenly engrossed as if it would somehow better his chances. "Can I stay up late too?"

"Well... it is Friday," you reached forward, picking up Jack and adding him to your cuddle pile. "It's okay with me if it's okay with Dad."

He looked up at his father, pleading. "Dad?"

Aaron looked between the two of you, his two favorite people. A smile tugged onto his lips - how could he say no? He caved, "sure, why not."

You smiled, tickling Jack's side gently amidst his small celebration. "How about some popcorn too?"

His eyes widened in excitement, "even though I already brushed my teeth?"

"I think we can bend some rules tonight."

"And m&m's?"

"Don't push your luck," Aaron warned gently, his voice slightly stern in that Dad-voice manner. But the glint in his eyes said otherwise - just happiness. As if things couldn’t get any better than this.

"I'll tell you what, you can even pick the movie too." You lowered your voice, but spoke loudly enough so Aaron could still hear you. "Your Dad keeps falling asleep, even though he keeps telling me he's wide awake."

"He always falls asleep." Jack grinned, "Can we watch Star Wars?"

As you switched movies, Aaron prepared the popcorn, adding a small quantity of m&m's mixed within. Slight adjustments were made too, due to the limited space available on the couch. Now, you sat in the middle, the two of them nestled comfortably at your sides with a blanket draped over the three of you.

And within the hour, prolonged only by the snacks, the scene soon played out just as it had started. Only this time, you had two Hotchners dozing beside you. Jack was mushed up against your arm, while Aaron's head rested atop your shoulder, small snores exiting his mouth.

There really couldn't be anything better.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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reilemon · 4 months ago

Text

Beneath The Abyss - pt. 2

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠ ♡︎ part 1

♡︎ synopsis: Though it's only been a few days, you miss Rafayel too much. So you decide to go visit him, the full moon illuminating your path.

♡︎ pairing: merman!Rafayel x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: almost no plot, fluff, smut, just a tiny bit of merman heat i guess, multiple orgasms

♡︎ word count: 5.9k

♡︎ a/n: well, here's the sequel. maybe this summer i'll write some more for merman!Rafayel.

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/anitalenia

The air is warm and heavy, still carrying a trace of the rain from the past few days. Streetlamps cast their golden glow, their light turning streets of cobblestones into scattered amber. A soft hum of cicadas fills the quiet, mingling with the voices of people who are passing by, and still sitting in cafes.

You walk side by side with Thomas, carrying a small paper bag with dessert, a token of the dinner you’ve just shared—a simple meal in a quiet restaurant, filled with laughter and memories of childhood.

“I’m glad you could make time tonight,” Thomas says, his voice warm and genuine. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a night like this.”

“You’re the one who always says he’s too busy to visit.” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

He chuckles. “True. And I’m here more for work than leisure.” he admits, glancing down the street. “On top of the exhibition preparation, I somehow need to find time to visit the beach house.”

“Oh right.” You glance at him. “Your grandmother…”

He nods. “It’s a beautiful place, but I haven’t had the time to do much with it.”

“Do you need help?” you offer instinctively. “I could—”

He gives you a faint smile. “I’ll let you know when I make some room in my schedule.” His gaze shifts back to the street ahead, his fingers brushing thoughtfully over his chin. “Maybe one day I’ll turn it into a proper getaway spot.”

His idea stirs something in you—a thought, half-formed and fleeting. You tuck it away for now. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Thomas hums in agreement. “I think so. I don’t know why my grandmother held on to it all these years, even after she stopped going. There must be something special about it, you know?”

You nod, wondering the same thing.

Slowly you reach a familiar turn, and you glance up instinctively. Above, the night sky is adorned with glittering stars and a bright full moon. For a moment, its beauty takes your breath away—but then a memory seeps in.

Rafayel had mentioned this week would bring a full moon, his tone serious. “Don’t come,” he had said, his hand brushing your arm tenderly. “I - ... Full moon… strong.” But that night had felt so far away then, the days stretching endlessly. Now, you’ve endured three nights of relentless thunderstorms since that intimate night by the cove. Three long nights without seeing him. The ache of missing him pricks in your chest, and you make your decision.

“Thomas,” you say, glancing at him. “I’ll be fine from here.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas’s brow furrows slightly with concern. “It’s late.”

You nod with a reassuring smile.

He lets out a sigh of resignation. “Alright. But promise to text me when you get home.”

“I promise.” you say.

Thomas watches you for a moment longer. “Goodnight, then.” he says finally, stepping closer, his arms pulling you into a familiar, warm hug.

“Goodnight.” you reply, stepping back and watching as he continues down the street. When he disappears around the corner, you take a deep breath and, with a determined turn, you leave the main road behind. The air grows cooler as your feet take you down the hidden path toward the sea, each step quickening your heart.

₊‧.°.⋆🫧•˚₊‧⋆.

The cove is illuminated under the full moon’s silver glow. The air smells fresh, tinged with salt and the faint remnants of rain, and as you step onto the sand, you brace yourself for chaos. You expect the aftermath of the storms to greet you—branches tangled with seaweed, leaves and litter scattered haphazardly. But instead, the sight makes you pause. The debris has been moved, branches and leaves piled to the side, leaving the shore surprisingly pristine.

Your heart stirs as you glance around. Was it him?

You take a few more steps, scanning the water, the shadows, and the rocks along the shore. Your purse slips from your shoulder, and you place it carefully on the sand along with the bag of dessert, but your eyes are fixed elsewhere. You squint at the surface of the sea, searching for a hint of movement, for the unmistakable glimmer of dusky purple hair catching the moonlight. Minutes pass, and your excitement begins to fade into disappointment. Maybe he isn’t here after all. You sigh, reaching for your belongings with reluctance. You glance one last time toward the horizon, feeling the ache of the past few nights without him.

But then—movement. A subtle shimmer far in the distance, not the moon’s light on the water but something else - two glowing specks, faint but unmistakable. Your breath catches, and your heart leaps. Those aren’t reflections—they’re eyes. His eyes.

A smile pulls at your lips, and you straighten instinctively, the heaviness in your chest fading away. You take a step closer to the edge of the water, unable to keep from whispering his name softly into the night, the sweet sound of your voice carried by the gentle breeze. Those glowing specks blink once, twice, and then, they begin to move closer.

He closes the distance so quickly, it steals your breath. Though you know Rafayel is a faster swimmer than any human, you’re still taken aback by the sheer speed with which he moves. In mere seconds, the water ripples against your legs, and before you can fully process it, he’s sitting by the shore. You sink to your knees in front of him - no words are exchanged. His arms are around you almost before you’ve settled, pulling you into a tight embrace. You bury your face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of the sea that clings to him.

You’re the first to pull back, but only just enough to lift your face to his. Without hesitation, you lean in, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that’s gentle at first but deepens as his eagerness matches yours. His hands linger on your back, firm yet tender, drawing you closer even as your lips meet again and again.

When you finally pull back, your breath mingles with his, and you truly meet his gaze. The sight makes you pause. His eyes are sparkling blue and pink sapphires — brighter than you’ve seen them before. For a moment, you think it must be the reflection of the moon tricking your eyes, shining his already unique features with an otherworldly light. His hands linger at your waist, his touch soothing you even as his mesmerizing gaze makes your heart race.

Then his hand trails up and brushes your cheek, leaving wet trail on your skin. “I tell – I told you, to not come.” His voice is soft, but there’s a note of discontent in it.

You hesitate for a moment. The truth—that you missed him so much it ached, even after just a few days—sits on the tip of your tongue, but saying it feels almost too vulnerable. So you put on a teasing smile. “Well… you came too.”

He searches your eyes for a moment, before he exhales and a chuckle leaves his lips. “I know… you will come.” he says, his voice laced with that familiar teasing warmth.

Your cheeks flush, and you drop your gaze for a second before lifting it again. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Look at the moon.” You nod towards the sky. “Wouldn’t it be a pity not to gaze at it together?”

Though you pointed at the moon, your eyes catch the moonlight reflected on the iridescent scales of his tail, on the ethereal features of his face. Tonight he seems to be glowing brighter. His skin feels warmer beneath your touch, a subtle heat radiating through the arm still wrapped around you. Your curiosity stirs, but before you can ask, he leans in. His breath tickles the side of your neck, and then you feel him take a deep inhale as he takes in your scent.

He pauses, his head tilting slightly. “Smell… different.” he murmurs.

His closeness sends a shiver down your spine. “Different?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. His nose brushes lightly against your shoulder, then slides along the curve of your neck, before nuzzling his neck against yours, scales and gills grazing your skin.

“Better now.” he murmurs, his voice low. His cheek presses against your neck for a moment longer before he finally pulls back, his eyes meeting yours.

You laugh softly, his nuzzling leaving a warm, lingering sensation on your neck, and a little confusion on the reason behind the gesture. Then your eyes land on the bag you brought, and an idea strikes you.

“I brought something for myself,” you say, reaching for the bag beside you. “But maybe you’d like to try it?”

Rafayel tilts his head, his gaze following your movements. “Try?” he echoes.

You pull out the takeout box, opening it to reveal the neatly arranged fruit dessert. The scent of ripe grapes, sweet peaches and sugar fills the air. “It’s mostly fruit,” you explain. “I know you probably don’t eat human food, but this is light. Maybe just one bite?”

He studies the dessert with an unreadable expression, his gaze flickering between it and your face. “Safe?” he asks.

You nod. “No harm in trying, right?” Your tone is gentle, almost coaxing, as you scoop a small portion with the wooden fork, holding it out toward him.

For a moment, he hesitates, his eyes narrowing slightly, but then, slowly, he leans forward and takes the bite.

You watch him closely, waiting for his reaction, as he processes the unfamiliar texture and taste. His brows lift slightly, and you can’t help but laugh at the faint look of surprise on his face.

“Sweet.” He pauses, considering, before he nods towards the dessert, “More… please?” he asks with a hint of eagerness that makes you smile.

You scoop another small bite, holding it toward him again. “Only if you say it’s good this time,” you say with a teasing smile.

He blinks, considering, before a giving you a playful smile. “Good.” he says simply, leaning forward for another taste. You chuckle softly, watching him savor the unfamiliar flavor.

“This is the first time we’ve eaten together.” you realize out loud, the thought slipping out as you lower the fork. The two of you exist in such different worlds—what seems small and every day for you, feels significant here, under the moon’s glow, with him. But the thought doesn’t linger, not with the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this moment, to this world.

As you feed him the last bite of the fruit dessert, grateful that he can stomach it, you start talking about your past few days. You tell him how the storms rattled your windows at night, about the way the streets smelled fresh after the rain finally stopped. Then, with an absentminded smile, you mention how Thomas had been in town, how he invited you to dinner, how you spent the evening catching up over warm food and old stories.

Rafayel doesn’t say anything – but his jaw tightens, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words come. You don’t notice. Or, rather, you assume his silence is just his usual way of listening. You continue talking, oblivious to the way his tail flicks against the water just a little harder than before, or how he glances toward the sea for a fleeting second, his expression unreadable.

The gentle rhythm of the waves lulls you into the moment, their sound blending with Rafayel’s soft breaths as he watches you. But suddenly, a wave rolls in further than expected, sweeping over the shore and drenching the bottom half of your dress. You gasp, startled at the chill.

“Oh no…” you mutter, standing up and bunching up the soaked fabric. Normally, you’d shrug it off—every night you’d have come prepared, a swimsuit beneath your dress ready for the sea. But tonight, you hadn’t planned to come here. The realization that your underwear is wet as well makes your cheeks flush.

Rafayel tilts his head, watching your movements with that familiar curiosity, “Cold?” he asks, his brows furrowing slightly as his gaze flickers to your dress. His concern is genuine, but his observation only makes your cheeks burn hotter.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I just wasn’t… prepared for this tonight.”

You tug at the hem of your dress again, the wet fabric sticking stubbornly to your thighs. Rafayel watches you closely, his bright eyes tracking every movement.

“Wet dress bad?” he asks.

You glance at him, scrambling your brain on how to explain the sensation he has probably never felt before. “Not bad,” you say, still fidgeting with the clinging fabric. “Just uncomfortable.”

Rafayel moves closer to you, his eyes taking in the wet dress clinging to your figure, the fabric outlining the curves of your body. His brows furrows slightly, and then, with a simplicity that catches you completely off guard, he says, “Take it off.”

You blink at him, torn between laughter and disbelief. Then the realization washes over you - you’ve never been completely bare in front of Rafayel. Even the night you were most vulnerable, you still had your dress on.

Rafayel shifts closer, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches out, his fingers grazing the hem of your dress. He doesn’t speak, but the silent encouragement is clear in his gentle yet insistent tug. You exhale a shaky breath, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for the zipper at your side. The fabric slides down your body, pooling briefly at your feet before you place it onto the dry sand.

Rafayel’s eyes soak in the sight of you in just your underwear, taking in every dip and curve of your figure. “Beautiful.” he murmurs. His hands reach out, slowly sliding over your calves, stopping just below your knees, the touch sending goosebumps up your legs. Then his lips meet your skin, placing feather-light kisses along your knees and up toward your thighs. His fingers glide over your hips, until they reach the lace edge of your damp underwear. He pauses, his eyes meeting yours again, as if searching for permission.

You nod, heart racing in your chest under his unwavering attention. He hooks his fingers under the lace and slides them down slowly, the fabric clinging slightly to your damp skin before pooling at your ankles. You step out of them, the cool night air brushing against your newly bare skin.

When you glance down at him, the sight catches you off guard. His face is flushed, a bright pink brushing across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again, and in some ways, he is. The sight between your thighs is one he discovered only a few nights ago, yet it feels like a lifetime to him, one he’s missed painfully in the days apart.

His gaze lifts to meet yours again, and the pure longing in his expression makes you tremble. Slowly, he takes your hand and guides you down, leading you to straddle him, his tail curling slightly beneath you to support you both.

“Beautiful.” he murmurs again, the word barely audible. His hands settle on your hips, holding you there.

A gasp catches in your throat as your bare skin presses against his scales. The sensation is entirely new—cool, smooth, almost impossibly slick against the heat pooling between your thighs. You feel the distinct ridge of his sheath beneath you, the faint bulge growing against your most sensitive parts. Before you can process the new sensations, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His hands trail upward, gliding over your sides, while your fingers clutch his shoulders at first, steadying yourself against the strength of his grip. But soon, they drift upward, tangling in the damp, wavy strands of his hair, and you find yourself pulling him closer, needing more of him.

Your hips begin to move instinctively, rolling against him slowly. The slick scales rub against your sensitive folds, the ridge of his sheath pressing in a way that sends jolts of pleasure up your spine. A soft moan escapes you, muffled against his mouth, and the sound seems to spur him on. Rafayel’s hands move again, sliding up to your shoulders and then to the thin straps of your bra. He tugs them down until they slip off your shoulder. His lips part briefly as he pulls back, his glowing eyes fixed on the fabric still covering your chest. His fingers toy with it, and then he tries to pull it up, but the clasp holds firm.

You realize what’s happening immediately, a soft smile curling on your lips. He doesn’t understand how it works. It’s endearing, the way he fumbles slightly, his expression focused yet confused.

“Here.” you murmur softly, reaching behind you. With ease you unhook your bra, and slip it off, tossing it beside your dress on the sand.

Rafayel freezes for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of your bare chest. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak but has forgotten the words. His fingers skim along the line of your collarbone before trailing downward. Rafayel’s glowing eyes lock onto yours, his pupils dilated with arousal, watching you as his hand moves to cup your breast. His thumb brushes over your nipple, the touch light and hesitant at first.

A soft moan escapes your lips, and you arch into his touch. “Like this.” you whisper. You take his hand, pressing it slightly firmer against your skin, showing him the right pressure. His lips part, and he nods faintly, his hand following your lead. Then, his head dips, his lips brushing against the soft skin around your nipple. The kisses are almost cautions at first, but they grow bolder as he gains confidence. His tongue flicks out, wet and warm, tracing delicate circles before his lips wrap around the sensitive bud.

You gasp softly as you feel it—the firm, heated length of him slipping free from its sheath. It presses against your folds, gliding against your sensitive skin. Your hips roll against him, earning a muffled groan from Rafayel. It’s warm and firm, sliding with ease against your slickness as you grind against him, each movement drawing quiet, breathy sounds from your lips.

Rafayel’s lips remain relentless, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, sucking, licking, and nipping at the sensitive peaks while his hands knead and tease. Each movement of his lips and fingers draws soft gasps from you, your body trembling as the pleasure builds rapidly.

The sensation of the tip catching your clit with each grind of your hips sends jolts of ecstasy through you, your moans mixing with his, his tail flicking restlessly behind you as his own need grows.

“I—I’m -” You can barely form the words, your breath hitching as your orgasm rips through you. His hands steady your hips, guiding your movements to prolong the bliss coursing through you, his eyes watching you fall apart. The sensation of your climax against his cock pushes him to the edge. A moan escapes his lips as he latches onto your mouth in a hungry kiss, drinking in your whines, his chest heaving against yours. His body tenses beneath you, his tail curling slightly as his release spills between your bellies. For a moment, both of you are caught in a haze of your shared release, your breaths mingling as the sound of soothing waves fills the silence.

As your breathing slows, you begin to stir. You expect him to soften and your mind shifts to cleaning up, checking on your dress, and resuming the lighthearted conversation you had earlier. But he is still hard, still insistent between your folds. A faint shiver runs through you as Rafayel’s grip on your hips tightens.

“More.” he murmurs against your lips.

Before you can process his request, his hands move your hips, lifting you slightly, aligning the tip with your slick entrance. He moves slowly, his glowing eyes watching your face, and with a nod you encourage him to continue. As he begins to lower you, his body trembles beneath yours, a low groan slipping from his lips as your warmth begins to envelop him. The stretch is slow at first, as he wants to give you time to adjust to his size, but then his control falters—his hips buck involuntarily, thrusting his length deeper into you.

A gasp escapes your lips, and his hand cups your cheek as he whispers a small sorry with a shaky breath. You can feel the restraint in his voice, the tremor of his hand and in his heavy-lidded eyes, which only makes you crave more of him. You lower yourself fully, your clit pressing against his pelvis as he fills you completely. Rafayel’s eyes flutter closed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing the smooth line of his throat. The sound he makes is guttural, raw, the kind of noise that sends heat coursing through your veins.

You press your palms against his chest for balance as you start to move. Rafayel’s hypnotizing gaze locks onto yours again, his hands griping your hips as he guides you, his hips moving to meet yours. The rhythm between you builds quickly, the slick friction of his member against your walls drawing breathy moans from your lips.

Then, just as you feel another wave of pleasure approaching, Rafayel stills.

The sudden stop catches you off guard, your hips pausing as you look down at him. He tilts his head slightly, frowning as if he’s straining to hear something just beyond your perception.

“Rafayel?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his focus locked on something in the distance, while his arms move to wrap around your waist, holding you firmly in place.

“People.” he murmurs finally.

You glance over his shoulder, your heart racing, though you can’t hear anything beyond the soft crash of the waves. “Are you sure?” you ask, your voice barely above whisper.

He nods, his expression more alert. His tail shifts again, and in one fluid motion, he flips you on top of your dress, his body covering yours completely. His arms and tail curl protectively around you, shielding you from sight even though it’s him who is truly at risk. His body remains still, tense above yours, yet the sensation of him buried so deeply inside you is impossible to ignore.

Your heart races beneath him, a strange mix of confusion and arousal coursing through you. You part your lips to whisper his name, to ask what’s happening, but before you can do so, his hand gently covers your mouth. “Sorry.” he whispers. His gaze doesn’t leave the horizon, his head tilting slightly as if straining to catch a sound only he can hear.

Then, slowly, his hips move. It’s subtle at first, but then his length slips out and sinks in further with every roll which has you gasping against his hand. His breath catches, a soft groan rumbling in his throat as his hips find a steady rhythm. Even as his attention remains on the distant sound, his body betrays him. Your muffled moans spill against his palm, your back arching to meet his thrusts.

After a few more strokes, Rafayel exhales sharply, his hand slipping away from your mouth, and you only have a second to breathe in before his lips crash against yours. His hand grabs your cheeks as his teeth graze and nip your lips, before his tongue slips between them, tangling with yours. His smooth pelvis smacks against your clit as he picks up the pace, sending electric jolts of pleasure through you.

Just as you begin to lose yourself in the rhythm of Rafayel’s body moving against yours, he stills again. His eyes narrow slightly, focusing somewhere above you.

“What is it?” you whisper, wondering if he heard people in the distance again.

Before he can answer, your phone starts ringing, the sound jarring against the intimacy of the moment. You glance toward the bag where the screen is faintly lighting the inside. “It’s probably Thomas,” you mutter, brushing it off. “I’ll call him back later.” You shift slightly, but Rafayel’s hand tightens on your waist, holding you in place.

“Thomas.” he repeats, his gaze now on you. Then, after a moment, he nods toward the bag. “Answer.” he murmurs, his voice low and firm, though his gaze is far from neutral.

You blink, your body still buzzing. “Really? It’s not important—”

“Go,” he says softly now. “Answer.”

He slips out of you as he speaks, the sudden emptiness almost making you whine. His hands leave your waist just long enough for you to roll onto your front, reaching toward the bag and fishing out the phone. The screen flashes Thomas’ name, and with a resigned sigh, you accept the call.

“Hey, Thomas.” you say, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

Rafayel doesn’t wait though. The moment you’re distracted his hands begin their gentle exploration of your hips and thighs, his fingers tracing over your skin with maddening leisure. You press your face against your arm, trying to steady your breathing.

“Just wanted to check,” Thomas says, his voice warm and friendly, completely unaware of the situation you’re in. “You didn’t message me like you promised. Are you home safe?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice wavering as Rafayel shifts slightly behind you. His hands slide towards the curve of your buttocks, kneading and cupping the soft flesh, his touch lingering as though committing the sensation to memory. “I’m fine. Just… uh, got distracted.”

Thomas chuckles softly, his tone light. “Glad to hear it. Actually, I was wondering—my schedule just changed, and I’ve got some free time tomorrow morning. I thought it might be a good chance to visit the beach house. Do you still want to come with me?”

Rafayel leans forward, his lips brushing over the base of your spine, the light kiss sending shivers through you. Then he settles between your legs, aligning himself with your entrance, the tip pressing teasingly against you before he pushes back inside in one fluid motion. You squeeze your eyes shut, struggling to focus on Thomas’ words as Rafayel begins to move.

“I - I’m not sure,” you manage, your voice catching as Rafayel’s thrusts grow more greedy. “I’ll have to check.”

“That’s fine,” Thomas replies. “The place is pretty secluded, though, and I’m not too familiar with the area. But I’m sure you’ll know how to get us there.”

Rafayel’s hips snap forward suddenly, his cock grazing all the right spots inside of you. Your lips part in a soft gasp, but you quickly bite it back, hoping the sound doesn’t carry through the phone. His hands grip your waist firmly, guiding you to meet his rhythm. The wet slap of his hips against your butt grows louder, and you can only pray Thomas can’t hear it over the call.

“I—uh—probably.” you stammer. Your fingers clutch at the phone desperately, while you bite the back of your free hand. Rafayel leans forward, his breath warm against your back.

“Is everything okay?” Thomas asks, concern clear in his voice. “You sound distracted.”

“I’m fine!” you blurt out, your voice higher than intended. Rafayel chuckles softly against your ear, the sound low and teasing, before his hips roll forward again, the force of his movements pulling another muffled moan from your lips.

“I’ll text you later!” you hang up before he can respond, the phone slipping from your hand as a soft moan escapes your lips.

“Everything okay?” Rafayel repeats Thomas’ question, his voice laced with amusement. The faint smirk on his lips doesn’t escape you as you look over your shoulder, his eyes glinting with self-satisfaction as he watches your flushed face.

“You’re sneaky.” you say, your voice half-accusing. You know it’s impossible for you to be annoyed at him.

Rafayel tilts his head, his expression feigning innocence. “Sneaky?” he echoes. “Don’t understand.”

You roll your eyes, but the small laugh that escapes you betrays your exasperation. “Oh, I think you do,” you reply, your voice softening.

Rafayel’s hands trail upward, brushing over your waist as his body leans closer, his weight pressing against your back. His lips hover near your ear, his breath warm as he murmurs, “You feel… good?”

There’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his tone, as though he’s searching for reassurance.

You nod quickly, the words tumbling from your lips without hesitation. “Yes. So good, Rafayel.”

The smile that spreads across his lips is subtle but genuine. He leans further over you, his chest pressing against your back as his hand slips lower, his fingers seeking out the bundle of nerves he’s learned to coax so well. Your breath hitches as he begins to circle your clit, your hips instinctively pushing back against him. He presses more insistently, finding a rhythm that draws sweet moans from your lips.

“Good?” he asks again, his movements unwavering as his fingers draw you closer to the edge.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hand gripping his arm that rests next to you. “You feel so good inside me, Rafayel. Don't stop.” you manage between shaky breaths, the praise slipping out without thought. The words seem to spur him on, his fingers quickening just slightly, enough to push you over the edge.

The orgasm hits you in a rush, your body shaking beneath his as you cry out, muffling the sound against his bicep. Rafayel murmurs something soothing in your ear, his hand slowing but not stopping as he guides you through the aftershocks, letting you feel every last pulse of pleasure.

He waits for you to catch your breath before he moves, his hands slipping under you to lift your body with ease and turn you onto your back. Rafayel hovers above you, his elbows supporting his weight on either side of you, his chest pressed lightly against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his gaze locks onto yours.

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you—the glow of his eyes, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his body. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin as his lips part.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. His hips shift slightly, his length filling you again. “Always… want to be close. Always.”

His words send a shiver through you, the vulnerability in them tugging at your heart. You reach up, your hands sliding into his curls, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

Rafayel’s lips find yours again. The kiss is slow, tender, relishing in the quiet moment you have together. His hips move in rhythm with the kiss, each thrust slow and deep, as though he’s savoring every second, every inch of you.

As your lips part, the intensity of his gaze never wavers, his eyes searching yours as his movements grow more urgent, what little restraint he had quickly vanishing . His cock throbs inside you, the sensation intensifying as his hips drive deeper, the wet slide of his thrusts accompanied by the soft, breathy sounds spilling from his lips.

“Rafayel.” you whisper against his lips.

At the sound of his name, his body shudders, his rhythm faltering for a moment before his hips snap forward again, harder this time. “Close,” he rasps, his voice breaking. “So… close.”

You hold onto him tighter, your arms wrapping around his back, while your legs lock around his waist, pulling him flush against you.

And then, with a low, strangled moan, he buries himself deep inside you, his release spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves. His entire body tenses, his arms trembling as he holds himself above you, his forehead resting against yours.

Rafayel’s lips brush against your temple as the tremors in his body begin to subside. His arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly close until you feel every flex of his muscles, every erratic beat of his heart. You close your eyes, letting yourself melt into his touch, his warmth, his presence—completely enveloped.

The moment his breathing evens, he lowers himself beside you. His arm rests on your waist, pulling you close, his body curving slightly to shield yours as though the world outside your bubble still holds threats. You rest your head against his shoulder, your fingers trailing lazily over the smooth scales of his tail. After a while, you glance up at him. His eyes have softened, the primal need subsided, but the faint blush on his cheeks remains.

“Are you okay?” you murmur, your voice soft.

He nods slowly. “Good… now,” he says. His fingers trail lightly down your arm, as though reassuring himself that you’re still there, still with him.

You smile, your fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest. But the memory of his earlier warning lingers. “You know,” you say, your tone turning playful, “I think I’ve figured out why you told me to stay away tonight.”

His eyes widen slightly, and the faint blush on his cheeks deepens. “Why?” he asks cautiously.

“Well,” you begin, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You’ve been so… sensitive tonight. Fidgety. Like you couldn’t sit still. And, I mean…” Your lips curl into a teasing smile. “I think you’ve been very affected by the moon.”

Rafayel’s cheeks flush a deeper shade, and he averts his gaze, his lips pressing into a pout. “Not… fidgety.” he mutters, his voice defensive but lacking conviction.

You laugh softly, leaning in to nuzzle his neck. “Oh, you definitely were. You didn’t want me to see you like this, huh?”

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. “You… tease.” he grumbles.

“Maybe a little,” you admit, kissing his jaw. “But only because it’s so obvious now. You’re adorable when you blush, you know.”

He lets out an almost exasperated sigh. Then, his lips curve into a faint smirk, and he tilts his head to meet your gaze. “Tease… dangerous.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head to look at him. “Dangerous? How so?”

His eyes narrow playfully, “I can… do this all night.” He leans in closer, brushing his nose against your cheek as he adds, “Cutie.”

The word catches you off guard, heat blooming in your face. “C-cutie?” you stammer, meeting his gaze.

He tilts his head, savoring your reaction. “Yes,” he says simply, his smirk widening. “You… blush more. I like it.”

You bury your face in his chest, your laugh muffled against his skin. “You’re impossible.” you murmur, though the warmth spreading through your chest betrays your words.

“Cutie.” he repeats, teasing lilt fading into affection. His fingers trace lazy circles along your back as he presses a kiss to your temple.

The world beyond this moment doesn’t matter—not the sea stretching endlessly behind him, nor the land you call home. Your hearts are bound by something neither of you fully understands, something that defies logic and fate. Maybe the future is uncertain. Maybe there will always be questions without answers, problems without solutions. But here, in his arms, wrapped in his warmth, everything seems possible.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@sapphic-daze @effervescent-unicorn @damatically @m1gota @hanaluxx @girl-who-lives-in-delusion @totallytaurus4 @poisonf0rest @grabby-smitten

#love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel smut #lads smut #lads x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you

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winterarmyy · 1 year ago

Text

He Hates Me, Doesn't He?

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: You hurt Bucky's girl, and now he hates you.

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x female!reader

Words: 6.7k++

Warnings: angstyyyyyyyyy, but with happy ending because I cannot live in agony. miscommunication galore. 'I want to strangle bucky's girlfriend.' soft reader, cold/mean bucky. bucky should've grovel more. horrible attempt of writing verbal arguments. nothing much but pain.

Inspiration: I remember reading a bucky fic years ago and I like the pain that it caused me to feel. Idk why the pain suddenly came back to me lately. So, this is my take on the same idea. I haven't able to find it. But when I do, I'll reblog it in my another acc!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

y/n had always been a steady presence in the Avengers, known for her gentle demeanour and unwavering support. Her relationship with Bucky Barnes had blossomed from a quiet friendship into something deeper. When they first met, Bucky was reserved and hesitant, still grappling with his past as the Winter Soldier. y/n, with her gentle nature and patient understanding, slowly helped him come out of his shell.

She remembered the sleepless nights they spent together when they were on the run with Steve and Sam. They'd share stories, and sometimes just sit in silence, her quiet company offering solace to Bucky's restless mind. The unspoken bond growing stronger with each passing day. Bucky looked up to her, finding comfort in her presence, and in turn, he became fiercely protective of her. They'd watch each other's backs during missions, their synergy on the battlefield a testament to their deep connection.

And somewhere along the line, she fell for him. She had fallen for Bucky's resilience and vulnerability, though she never expected more, knowing that a relationship was not what he needed right now. At least, that's what she thought. Little did she know, Bucky had always loved her; ever since the day she offered him tea the first night they were on the run to Wakanda. Maybe she was just simply aloof, or maybe Bucky’s flirting skills weren’t translated the way he wanted, but they never crossed the line between friendship and ‘something more’.

Then when Jen came into the picture, it felt like things started to change. Jen was bold and confident, and it wasn't long before she caught Bucky's eye. Their relationship seemed to spring up overnight, and y/n, though hurt, tried to be happy for Bucky. Jen was supportive and caring, or so it seemed, and Bucky deserved happiness.

Now, as planned the team was instructed to moved into the Avenger compound for a few months to train new recruits. It had only been the first month but surely it was jam packed with endless of rigorous training sessions. The original team—y/n, Sam, Bucky, Jen, Clint, and his mentee Kate Bishop—were all assigned to train the new recruits, with additional of few agents from different branches coming in to help out.

y/n was heading to the training room; she knew it was way too early but she thought that if she didn’t get out of bed now, she might not even get up at all. To her surprise, she was not the first one. She saw a few new trainees were already on the way to the training room; some of them greeted her a good morning. She simply smiled at their enthusiasm.

The moment she entered the area, she overheard voices coming from the corner of the room. She paused, recognizing Jen's voice, which was raised and laced with contempt. Curiosity piqued, y/n stepped closer, staying just out of sight behind the white board. In hindsight, it might seem weird that she was sneaking around to eavesdrop on Jen, but she couldn't help it.

Initially, y/n liked Jen. She tried to welcome her into their tight-knit group and even supported her relationship with Bucky. However, as time went on, Jen began acting strange. The things she said about Bucky sometimes sounded condescending. She would make comments like, "It's amazing how well he's adjusted, considering his past," or, "It's great that he's trying so hard to be normal." The way she acted often differed from her words, with Jen giving Bucky disapproving glances or sighing heavily whenever he mentioned something from his troubled past.

She had noticed these discrepancies and started to feel uneasy around Jen. She couldn't shake the feeling that Jen’s support was just a facade. Now, standing behind the whiteboard, she strained to hear the conversation.

"…and honestly, I don’t understand how anyone can trust him," Jen was saying. "I mean, sure, he's got that whole 'reformed hero' thing going on now, but let’s be real. He was Hydra’s pet assassin for decades. The things he’s done? It’s unforgivable."

Her friend, another agent from a different branch, nodded hesitantly. "But you’re dating him, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you trust him?"

Jen laughed, a cold, humourless sound. "Dating him? Please. I’m in it for the fame and the perks. Have you seen the way people look at us? Besides, he’s hot, I’ll give him that. But trust him? Never. People like him don’t change. They’re broken. He's a monster, and he always will be. It’s only a matter of time before he snaps again."

y/n felt a surge of anger rise within her. How dare Jen talk about Bucky like that?

Memories flooded her mind, flashing back to Bucky’s nightmare-plagued nights. She remembered the prominent dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that never quite left his face. The silent pain he endured, adjusting to a modern world where he felt like an outsider, magnified when Steve left. She could still see the wary, suspicious glances people cast in his direction, the whispers behind his back when they first ventured out. Before the fame he acquired as he regained his reputation after the Flag-Smasher incident.

She had witnessed his hardships firsthand—the nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat, the moments of crippling doubt and self-loathing. But she had also seen his triumphs, the small victories that slowly built his confidence. The first time he laughed freely in her presence, the genuine smile that lit up his face when he finally allowed himself to relax. She cherished those moments, the sunshine that broke through the clouds of his tortured past.

All of this came rushing back, breaking the chains on the Pandora's box inside of her. The fury she felt wasn't just for the disrespect to Bucky; it was for every ounce of pain he had suffered, every moment of joy he had fought so hard to reclaim. Her eyes hardened with resolve as she stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. "Take that back," she demanded, her presence startling both Jen and her friend.

Jen turned slowly, a smirk spreading across her face as she saw y/n. She knew from the beginning about the cute little crush y/n had on Bucky. To be frank, everybody sort of knew about it, except for Bucky somehow.

"Or else what, y/n?" she replied with a mocking tone. "You’re quite pathetic aren’t you? You think that I can’t see how you’ve been eye-fucking my boyfriend all this time? Come on, now. Backing him up would not give you a leeway into his pants, y/n."

y/n’s face went through a range of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and then seething anger. Jen’s words were like poison, each one landing like a punch to the gut.

Jen continued, confidence oozing out of her cocky demeanor, "Besides, we all know that I can easily beat you in a fight, doll"

The use of doll—a nickname Bucky had given y/n from day one, when Steve had quite literally kidnapped Bucky from the government—made y/n blood boil. Hearing it from Jen felt like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to undermine everything she shared with Bucky.

And it was true that Jen had graduated top of her batch from the Avengers program and had countless successful missions under her belt, but y/n knew this wasn't about accolades or abilities. This was about something deeper, something more personal.

y/n clenched her fists, taking a step closer. "You think this is about who can fight better?" she said, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "This is about respect. You don’t get to talk about Bucky like that."

Jen scoffed, a cruel smile on her lips. "Respect? For that monster? You’re delusional. He’s a ticking time bomb, a liability to the team. And deep down, everyone knows it."

y/n’s patience snapped. In one swift motion, she slapped Jen hard across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Jen stumbled and fell to the ground, shock and anger flashing across her features.

She stalks forward like a predator cornering its prey, "I’m just done with your lies and your insults. Bucky deserves better than you." Jen instinctively crawled backwards towards the centre of the room. Seeing that she got the attention of the few new recruits she regained her composure, smirked again, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "You’re pathetic, y/n," she taunted. "Defending a lost cause." her voice was loud enough for y/n to hear but quiet enough that the others might not be able to decipher her words.

At that moment, Bucky and Sam burst into the room, followed closely behind by a new recruit who alerted them of the incident. Bucky’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—Jen on the ground, y/n standing over her, shaking with rage. "What’s going on here?" His demand was completely ignored as y/n’s mind was hyper-focused on the wrath bubbling within her.

"Get up," y/n demanded, her voice shaking with wrath. Bucky’s momentarily froze as he watched the confrontation escalate before him. y/n, usually so composed, was now a whirlwind of rage, her eyes blazing as she stood over a trembling Jen. Bucky had always known her to be fierce in battle, but this was different—this was raw, unbridled anger. "I'm going to make you regret every word you said. So get on your fucking feet before I rip it off you.."

Jen, still on the ground, looked up at y/n with wide, teary eyes, playing the role of the victim to perfection. "Please, I didn't– I don’t know what you're…," she whimpered, casting a fearful glance at Bucky and Sam, who had just arrived on the scene.

Bucky's mind raced. Why was she doing this? He stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "y/n, hey!" he shouted, his voice a mix of confusion and anger. "What are you doing?"

Completely ignoring him, "Get up," y/n snarled, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Get up and fight me. I’ll show you who the real monster is." Jen looked up, her hand on her cheek, disbelief mingling with her fury. "You’re crazy," she spat, scrambling to her feet.

Her response was only a furious shout. "I said, get up!"

"y/n, are you crazy?!" Bucky yelled, moving quickly to intervene. He grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and unforgiving.

She turned her fierce gaze towards Bucky; her expression momentarily faltering at the hurt in his eyes. "Bucky, you don’t understand, she--" she began, but the words caught in her throat as she saw Jen's smirk flicker for just a second.

"There's nothing to understand," Bucky snapped. "You’re acting insane."

y/n looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt and frustration. "Bucky, you have to listen—"

But he cut her off, his expression hard. "I don’t care! You hurt her, y/n. You think I don’t see that bruise on her cheek?!" Bucky shouted, his face contorted with anger. His eyes, usually filled with a gentle warmth when he looked at y/n, were now blazing with fury. "This isn’t like you, y/n. I’ve noticed that you’ve never liked Jen, and I don’t know why. But this? This is just immature and reckless." His metal grip on y/n's wrist was tighter than he intended. She winced, her eyes watering not just from the pain but from the sting of his words.

y/n had never seen Bucky like this. His anger was palpable, radiating off him in waves. It was like being hit with a physical force, and she felt her heart breaking under the weight of it. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her anger flaring even hotter. "Bucky, you don’t understand," she tried to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Bucky’s expression remained hard, the force on her wrist tightening painfully. "You need to grow up, y/n," he seethed, his disappointment evident in his tone. "You're always causing drama lately, and it needs to stop. Jen’s been there for me in ways you haven’t, and I won’t tolerate you attacking her like this."

The words cut through her like a knife. Her heart shattered at his harshness, at the realization that Bucky thought so little of her. She yanked her wrist free, feeling the sting of his grip lingering. "Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Believe what you want."

Without another word, she turned and stormed out, leaving Bucky standing there, torn between confusion and guilt.

A gnawing sense of remorse tugging at him, but he couldn't shake the confusion and anger clouding his mind. "Jen, are you okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

Jen, tucking herself to his side, managed to summon a few tears, looking up at Bucky with a feigned innocence. "I don’t know why she hates me so much," she murmured, playing her part perfectly.

Bucky fingers softly traces on her wounded cheek before his gaze switched to y/n’s retreating form, a knot tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why those mean words had spouted out of his lips. Was it because he saw Jen injured on the ground and his protective instincts kicked in? Or was it because Jen had been whispering doubts in his ear about y/n’s loyalty, making him question his longtime friend?

The truth was, Bucky had always relied on y/n’s unwavering support. She had been his rock through the toughest times, and seeing her so furious, so hurt, shook him to his core. Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had lashed out, unable to reconcile the image of Jen crying with the fierce anger that radiated from y/n.

As Bucky comforted Jen, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He couldn't shake the image of hurt on her face, nor could he ignore the nagging feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

On the side, Sam was only able to watch the scene play out silently, a frown creasing his brow. He had a feeling there was more to this story, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

As weeks passed, the rift between Bucky and y/n deepened, fueled by Jen's cunning manipulation. In a private conversation, Jen planted seeds of doubt in Bucky's mind, suggesting that y/n harboured hidden resentments and intentions.

"I hate to say it, Bucky, but maybe she's not who we thought she was," Jen insinuated, her voice dripping with false concern. "Maybe she's been hiding her true feelings all along, waiting for the right moment to strike."

Bucky, already vulnerable and confused after the incident in the training room, absorbed Jen's words like poison, allowing them to fester and take root in his mind. He began to view y/n through a new lens, one tainted by suspicion and distrust. This single conversation, filled with subtle manipulations and insidious suggestions, was all it took to fracture the bond between Bucky and y/n, leaving Bucky cold and distant towards the one person who had always stood by his side.

Most days he would avoid eye contact with her during team meetings, barely acknowledging her presence when they were forced to interact. In training sessions, his instructions to her were curt and clipped, lacking the warmth and camaraderie they once shared. y/n felt each of these interactions like a stab to the heart.

She couldn't understand how quickly Bucky had turned against her, how easily he had accepted Jen's version of events without even giving her a chance to explain. The hurt festered inside her, eating away at her sense of self-worth.

Then one night, as y/n sat alone on the rooftop, staring out into the darkness, Sam found her there. He knew this was where she retreated when she needed space to think, to process her emotions. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her without a word.

"Why aren't you at dinner, y/n?" Sam finally asked, breaking the silence. He could see the emptiness in her eyes, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her.

She shook her head, her voice hollow. "Lost my appetite," she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

Sam gently prodded, knowing there was more to her withdrawal than just a lack of hunger. "Is it because of what happened the other day at the training room?" he asked softly.

Instantly, her demeanor shifted. Anger flared in her eyes, directed not just at Jen and Bucky, but at the entire situation. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam," she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. But Sam wasn't one to give up easily, especially when he knew how much y/n was hurting. "Come on, y/n," he urged, his voice gentle but insistent. "You can't keep bottling this up. Talk to me."

Her expression softened slightly at Sam's persistence, but the pain still lingered in her eyes. "Seriously, Sam, please just drop it," she pleaded, her voice wavering with emotion.

Sam could see the cracks forming in her facade, the vulnerability seeping through the tough exterior she usually projected. Without a word, he pulled her into a comforting embrace, letting her bury her face against his shoulder.

As she clung to him, her facade finally crumbled. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "He hates me, doesn't he?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbreak. "Bucky hates me."

Sam held her tighter, offering silent comfort as she grappled with the weight of her sorrow. He knew there were no easy answers, no quick fixes to mend the shattered pieces of y/n's heart. But in that moment, all he could do was be there for her, a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The dim glow of the kitchen's overhead light provided a faint sense of solace in the otherwise silent darkness of the compound. Bucky sat at the wooden table, his tired eyes staring blankly at the cup of untouched tea before him. It was a nightly ritual lately, this dance with sleeplessness and the haunting memories that lurked in the shadows of his mind yet again.

Footsteps broke the stillness, and Bucky's gaze shifted to the entrance of the kitchen. y/n stood hesitantly in the doorway, her presence casting a tentative aura over the room. There was a palpable tension between them, an unspoken weight that hung heavy in the air.

She cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Mind if I join you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She was expecting Bucky to ignore her completely but he didn’t; Bucky simply shrugged nonchalantly, his guard seemed to flatter. "Suit yourself," he muttered.

As she quietly took a seat opposite him, a heavy silence settled between them. Bucky's thoughts churned with a whirlwind of emotions, each one vying for dominance over the others. His guard seemed to falter in the presence of her tentative yet comforting aura. The weight of his own vulnerability loomed large in his mind, drowning out the anger he had harboured towards her.

As the silence stretched between them, she felt a surge of compassion wash over her. She knew why he was awake at this time. She knew that the tea he brewed was to help him sleep. She was the one who planted that habit to him after all.

And despite everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bear to see Bucky suffer alone. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she decided to reach out to him, to offer what little comfort she could.

Without a word, y/n rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Bucky's chair. He stiffened at her touch, his muscles tense with apprehension. But as her gentle hands began to massage the tension from his neck, a wave of unexpected relief washed over him.

Her touch was soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness he had grown accustomed to due to Jen’s unwillingness to acknowledge this side of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing him to relax, to let go of the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. For a brief moment, Bucky allowed himself to forget the walls he had built around his heart. In her presence, her voice, and her touch; he felt a glimmer of hope, a flicker of warmth that he had long since forgotten.

But then, like a sudden gust of wind extinguishing a fragile flame, the weight of Jen's words came crashing back down upon him. Anger flared within him, hot and fierce, directed not only at y/n but at himself for allowing his heart to yearn for her.

He pushed himself away from the table, his movements sharp and abrupt. "I don't need your pity, y/n," he spat, his words laced with bitterness. "Just leave me alone."

With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, leaving y/n alone in the suffocating silence.The disbelief that clouded her thoughts gave way to a searing agony that twisted in her chest. How could he say such things? How could he push her away so callously, after everything they had shared?

y/n buried her face in her hands, her body trembling with the force of her sobs. The weight of her shattered dreams pressed down on her, crushing her spirit beneath its merciless grip. She had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned by the one person she had trusted above all others.

The pain of losing Bucky, of losing the love that had sustained her through the darkest of times, threatened to consume her whole. Each breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of the emptiness that now filled her soul.

In that moment of crushing despair, she couldn't help but believe that Bucky truly hated her. The thought tore through her like a knife, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that no amount of time or distance could ever hope to heal.

As she sat alone in the suffocating silence of the kitchen, y/n felt the full weight of her heartbreak descend upon her like a tidal wave. She was lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, drowning in the agony of losing someone she had loved so deeply, so completely. And in that moment, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever find her way back to the surface again.

Unbeknownst to her, Bucky lingered just out of sight, his heart heavy with guilt. He wanted to go back, to take back his harsh words and hold her close, to chase away the tears that stained her cheeks. But the poison in his mind was too strong, clouding his judgement and trapping him in a cycle of self-destructive despair. And so, with a heavy heart, he turned and walked away, leaving y/n to cry alone in the darkness.

The mission had already been tense enough, but as y/n found herself face to face with Jen in a location she wasn't supposed to be, the atmosphere crackled with an added layer of hostility. It was as if fate had conspired to place them in this confrontation, and her jaw clenched involuntarily as she braced herself for what was to come.

Jen's presence in that spot was no coincidence, and she knew it. Her suspicions were confirmed as Jen turned to face her, a smirk playing on her lips, a gleam of malice in her eyes. y/n's grip tightened on her weapon, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the verbal assault she knew was coming.

"How does it feel, knowing that Bucky hates you now?" Jen's words sliced through the air like a knife, each syllable carrying the weight of y/n’s deepest fears. It was a direct hit, striking at the core of her insecurities, and for a moment, she felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her feet.

But she refused to let Jen see her falter. With a steely resolve, she squared her shoulders and met Jen's gaze head-on, her expression a mask of defiance. She may have been shaken by Jen's words, but she refused to let them break her.

Ignoring the taunts, she focused on the mission at hand, determined to prove her worth despite Jen's attempts to undermine her. But with each passing moment, the weight of Jen's words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over y/n’s every move.

It was a battle on two fronts – against the enemy they faced together, and against the doubts that threatened to consume her from within. But she refused to back down, drawing strength from the knowledge that she fought not just for herself, but for the team she believed in with all her heart.

But Jen's relentless barrage of insults made it difficult to concentrate, her words like daggers slicing through y/n’s defenses.

"Aww come on y/n, bet you’re reeling in the loss right now, aren’t you." Jen continued, her voice ice cold. "The Asset’s little lapdog, clinging to him like a lost puppy."

y/n’s temper flared at the insult, her grip tightening on her weapon as she fought to keep her emotions in check. But Jen's mocking laughter only fueled the fire burning within her, pushing her to the brink of her patience. "Shut your mouth, Jen," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear to God, I'll make sure that the team finds your body disassembled in one of these rooms."

Jen simply rolled her eyes, unfazed by her threat. "You love him that much, huh?" y/n had no intention to deny that fact; she does love him, "More than you ever could." her voice was firm and true. Jen’s smirk fell as she scoffed. "Ain't that cute, the Winter Soldier and his little psycho sweetheart."

Before y/n could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife, freezing her in place. It was Bucky, his expression dark and stormy as he stepped into view. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took in the scene before him.

y/n’s heart sank as she realized that Bucky might have heard everything. She turned around to meet his eyes and his face confirmed her suspicion; he heard it. Bucky had heard everything – every taunt, every insult, every word exchanged between her and Jen; even the confession of her true feelings. She met his gaze; searching for some sign of understanding of his emotions and the little that she saw was: disappointment, betrayal and guilt, mirrored back at her in the depths of his stormy blue eyes.

In that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms, to pull him away from all the painful memories and hurtful words; so far away that he would forget he had ever been taunted, betrayed, or made to feel less than he was.

Before she could utter a word, let alone take a step towards him, Jen's voice broke through, but it lacked the usual confidence. "Bucky, it's not what you think," she stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Bucky and y/n. "I-I was just..."

y/n’s clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin as Jen stumbled over her words, unable to come up with a coherent explanation. She could see the confusion and hurt in Bucky's eyes, a reflection of the turmoil raging within her own heart.

"I-I mean," Jen continued, her voice faltering. "I was...um...just trying to...uh..."

But her feeble attempts to justify her actions only served to further incense Bucky. His brow furrowed in anger, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

"Enough," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

y/n’s heart ached as she watched Bucky's expression darken with anger and disappointment. She wanted to explain, to tell him the truth about Jen's betrayal and her own misguided attempt to defend him. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the weight of her guilt and regret.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky turned away, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Let's just finish the mission," he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "We'll deal with this later."

As he was about to walk away, y/n noticed a red dot on his chest, the unmistakable mark of a sniper's laser sight. Without thinking twice, she leaped towards him, her body acting as a human shield. Time seemed to slow down as she collided with Bucky, pushing him out of the way.

"y/n, no!" Bucky shouted, his voice filled with panic as her body slumped against his chest.

In the chaos, Jen was nowhere to be seen. She had slipped away, taking shelter and ultimately fleeing the area as she heard multiple footsteps approaching.

Bucky tried to pull up his gun, but it was too late. An array of bullets rained down on them. He felt the searing pain of a few shots piercing his own flesh, but it was nothing compared to the sight of y/n’s body being riddled with bullets. She was hit in the shoulder, wrist, thighs, and other places Bucky couldn't even register.

Rage surged through Bucky like an inferno, obliterating any semblance of restraint. He moved with a deadly precision, his eyes blazing with fury as he unleashed a storm of bullets on the enemy. His movements were swift and unforgiving, every shot finding its mark with brutal accuracy. The enemy fell one by one, their bodies collapsing in lifeless heaps. The air was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and the acrid smell of gunpowder, but Bucky's focus was unyielding.

Within moments, the room was cleared, the enemies wiped out in a flurry of rage-fueled vengeance.

The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving Bucky standing amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He turned, and his eyes fell on y/n's crumpled form. The sight of her lying in a pool of her own blood shattered his rage, replacing it with a crushing wave of worry and panic.

"Hang in there. Please," Bucky hastily spoke, his voice trembling. He activated his com line, desperation seeping into his tone. "Guys, we need help. y/n... she's... she's been shot. We need to get out of here right now!" Panic coursed through him as he turned his attention back to y/n, frantically trying to stop the bleeding on her stomach. "y/n, doll…please" he pleaded, watching her hazy gaze. "Don't you dare give up on me now. Come on."

"babydoll, stay with me!" Bucky cried, his voice breaking as he cradled her in his arms. Blood soaked through her clothes, staining his hands. "Please, hang on, you can’t leave yet. I haven't told you... I haven't—"

Her eyes fluttered open, her breathing shallow and ragged. "It's okay, Bucky," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "It's okay. Don't cry." Her shaking hands struggled to move, and with great effort, she managed to cup Bucky's cheek. The gesture was weak but filled with tenderness. "It's okay," she repeated, her fingers trembling against his skin.

"Don't talk like that," Bucky choked out, his own tears mingling with the blood on his face. "You can't.. I haven't told you...please doll..." His voice wavered with the weight of unspoken words and unconfessed feelings. He hadn't told her how much he truly cared for her, how every moment spent away from her felt like an eternity. He hadn't begged for forgiveness for his coldness, his mistakes, and for letting Jen's poison taint his actions. The guilt gnawed at him, each heartbeat a reminder of the words he hadn't said, the emotions he hadn't expressed.

He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, feeling the warmth of her touch anchoring him in the moment.Her hand weakly brushing against his cheek. "I know, sweetheart," she murmured. "I know."

Bucky's heart shattered as he clung to her, feeling her life slipping away. "No, no, no," he muttered desperately. "You can't leave me. Please, y/n. Please."

She smiled faintly, her eyes closing. "I'm here, Bucky. I'm right here."

With a final, shuddering breath, y/n’s consciousness slipped away. Bucky felt a surge of panic, but he knew he had to move. He lifted her limp body, cradling her against his chest as he ran towards the quinjet. Each step was agony, his own injuries slowing him down, but he didn't care. All that mattered was getting y/n to safety.

"Hang on, y/n," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Hang on. I won't let you go."

In the sterile environment of the medical bay, y/n lay unconscious, her body hooked up to various machines that monitored her vital signs. Bucky sat by her bedside, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Every beep of the monitor seemed to echo through the silence, a haunting reminder of her fragile state. He held her hand, his thumb gently caressing her bandaged wrist.

Memories of their time together flooded Bucky's mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of the connection they shared. He remembered the laughter they had shared, the late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. He remembered the gentle touch of her hand, the warmth of her smile that never failed to chase away the darkness.

But amidst the memories, there was also pain – the pain of their last conversation, the words left unsaid and the choices left unmade. Bucky's throat tightened as he recalled the day he had walked away from Jen, the air thick with tension and unspoken truths.

His voice was cold and final. "You almost got her killed, Jen," he had said, his eyes blazing with anger. "Stay away from us. Stay away from me."

Jen's eyes had flashed with anger, her words cutting like knives as she lashed out in frustration. "And what, you think you'll find someone better than me?" she had spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Good luck with that, Bucky. You'll never find anyone who would put up with your baggage."

But Bucky had remained resolute, his decision fueled by a sense of longing and regret that threatened to consume him whole. "Maybe not," he had admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'd rather be alone than with someone who doesn't truly care about me."

Now, as Bucky sat by y/n’s bedside, the weight of his decision bore down on him like a crushing weight. Tears welled in his eyes as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers trembling with emotion.

"I'm so sorry, babydoll," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I never meant for any of this to happen. So, please, wake up. I need you."

But y/n remained unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak as she lay before him. And as Bucky watched over her, his heart heavy with worry and regret, he vowed to do whatever it took to bring her back to him, to keep her safe from harm for all eternity.

For in that moment, Bucky realized that he couldn't bear to lose her – not now, not ever. She was his rock, his anchor in a world of uncertainty and pain. And as he held her hand tightly in his own, he prayed with all his heart that she would find her way back to him, to the love and light that had always guided them through the darkness.

The soft hum of machines filled the air as y/n stirred awake, her senses slowly coming back to her. She blinked, disoriented at first, until her gaze fell upon Bucky, who was sleeping soundly in the chair beside her bed. His hands were clasped tightly around hers, his face peaceful in slumber, but she couldn't help but notice the tear stains on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his forehead.

"How long has it been since?" she wondered to herself, her heart aching at the sight of Bucky's exhausted form. She carefully sat up, trying not to disturb him as she lovingly examined his sleeping face. She couldn't help but smile as she gently ran her fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through her fingertips.

Bucky groaned as his sleep was interrupted, muttering something about Sam needs to leave him be; before he abruptly sat up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Hi there," y/n greeted softly, her eyes sparkling with affection as she watched Bucky's reaction.

For a moment, Bucky seemed unable to comprehend that she was finally awake. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape. But then the realization hit him, and he threw himself at her, wrapping her in a tight embrace as if she were the most precious thing in the world .Despite the pain that shot through her body, she managed to let out a soft chuckle, returning his embrace with equal fervor. The warmth of his embrace chased away the lingering chill of unconsciousness, and for a moment, everything felt right.

"y/n..." Bucky breathed into her neck, his voice trembling with emotion. She hummed in response, her heart swelling for him. "Hmmm?"

Not wanting to let go of her, Bucky called her name once again, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "y/n-..." She paused, her lips curving into a tender smile as she whispered in his ear, "Yes, Bucky?"

Bucky tightened his grip, his breath hitching in his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder. y/n gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "I'm here, sweetheart." The scent of her hair, the feel of her warmth against him—it all felt overwhelming. Emotions churned inside him like a tempest. Relief, guilt, love, and fear battled for dominance, leaving him raw and exposed.

She gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "Bucky, I'm not going anywhere.

Bucky's mind raced, images of the past few weeks flashing before his eyes. He remembered the coldness with which he'd treated her, the cruel words that had slipped from his lips, fueled by Jen's poison. He thought of the sleepless nights, the nightmares that had gripped him, and the aching void he'd felt every time he saw y/n’s hurt expression.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "For everything. For not believing you. For pushing you away."

Reluctantly, she pulled away, but not before wiping the tears from Bucky's cheeks and fighting the urge to place a tender kiss on his forehead. As she looked into his eyes, she could see the depth of his love and the pain he had endured for her sake. And in that moment, she knew that she had found her home in his arms. Bucky took her hands in his own, his eyes closed as he pressed a kiss to her wounded wrists. "This will never happen again. Ever," he vowed, his voice filled with determination.

Moved by his words, y/n felt her heart flutter with emotion. She realized in that moment that she could never stay angry at him, no matter what had transpired between them. She understood now that they were both at fault, both victims of circumstance and misunderstanding.

With a surge of courage, she reached out and pulled Bucky into a kiss. Her lips met his in a slow, passionate embrace, pouring all of her love and forgiveness into the tender gesture. It was a moment of connection, of healing, of reaffirming their bond despite the trials they had faced.

The taste of Bucky's lips was like a soothing salve to her soul; it was intoxicating. It felt as if the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them entwined in each other's arms. When they finally broke apart, Bucky whispered those three words that y/n had longed to hear, "I love you."

Her heart soared with joy, and she couldn't help but tease him, "Took you long enough." her teasing words met with a cheeky grin from Bucky. "I love you too, Bucky" she blinked slowly. As he whispered softly under his breath, "Come here," he pulled her back into the kiss, their lips meeting in a tender embrace that spoke volumes of their unspoken love. And in that moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their world, they found solace in each other's arms, knowing that together, they could weather any storm.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: I just needed to let this out lmao. It's been stuck in my head for several weeks. Thank you for spending your time reading this crap... honestly. Love you so much 🤍

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #tfatws!bucky #bucky angst #bucky fluff

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