quillsandcauldroncakes

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

I don’t usually reblog, but this was a masterpiece too good to not reblog 🩷🩷🩷

sometime in the mornin’

abstract: after a long case and a sleepless night, two BAU agents find quiet in each other’s arms — in soft shirts, slow mornings, and the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined to be real.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff, is a little mature but not very explicit

note: i tend to overexplain scenes and maybe run them into the ground so forgive me if i did here lol. that's also why i removed the word count description since i lowk felt like it was making me restrict how much i write, which i don't want to do bc i don't get the chance to write in school, so I NEED THIS LOL. long story short, blah blah, this fic is long. it does get steamy but nothing is explicitly stated, mostly because i'm still trying to figure out how to write heated scenes bc when i think back to my wattpad days, the embarrassment is real. ANYWAYS, as always, enjoy!

The parking lot outside the precinct still shimmered with leftover rain — shallow puddles stretched like fragments of fallen sky, catching the bruised orange flicker of tired streetlamps above. The asphalt glistened like it had been brushed with varnish, each crack and curve outlined in silvered shadow. Water clung to the edges of curbs, pooling in small, forgotten places.

The air had that particular kind of cold — the kind that didn’t just sting, but bit, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second before softening into something you could almost forget. It smelled like wet concrete, worn leather, and the lingering smoke of someone’s earlier cigarette, now long extinguished but still haunting the wind.

Y/N’s boots clicked faintly against the damp pavement, a rhythm out of step with the hush around her — too slow, too tired to echo fully. Each step sent a ripple through the puddles, spreading concentric rings outward until they faded into stillness again.

She looked wrung out. Not just tired — but spent.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose, uneven tie, strands slipping free and curling at her temples in the damp. Her coat was wrapped tighter than usual around her ribs, fingers clutched into the fabric like she needed it to hold her up. The posture of someone who’d done too much, said too little, and had no room left for either. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit behind your eyes — it lived there, echoing. Bone-deep. Soul-heavy. The kind of weariness that had nothing to do with hours or sleep.

The night pressed in gentle around her. Not cruel, not cold — just quiet. Like it understood.

Like it was waiting for something soft to break the silence.

Spencer saw it in the way her shoulders curved inward, like the night had finally settled its weight atop them and she was just too polite to complain. She stood at the edge of her car door, fingers hovering near the handle but never closing around it — like even that small gesture required more energy than she had left.

The air turned her breath to fog, delicate and ghostlike, curling around her face before vanishing into the cold.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his voice soft, low — the kind of question that knew the answer already but offered itself anyway, just in case.

She turned toward him slowly, as though the sound of his voice had to travel through molasses to reach her. One hand still hovered over the handle, her fingers frozen mid-air. Her lashes were heavy, casting little shadows beneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, after a beat.

But the word came out too flat. Too automatic. The kind of yeah that didn’t mean yes at all. Just a placeholder. Something you say when you’re too tired to explain all the reasons you’re not.

“Just...” she added, a half-breath later, “not in the mood for a forty-minute drive.”

Spencer’s hand slipped into his coat pocket, thumb grazing the edge of his keys like they might offer direction. He hesitated, the words caught between concern and something softer. Quieter.

“My place is ten minutes from here,” he said finally. Light, but not unmeant. “You can crash. Couch’s not bad.”

She blinked, slow and long, like she was still catching up to the suggestion. Her brow furrowed gently — not out of confusion, but surprise. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was kind. And kindness always caught her off guard when she needed it most.

“I’m fine, Reid.”

The words came a little too quickly, too practiced. Like armor she didn’t realize she was still wearing — thin and fraying at the edges, but stubborn all the same.

“I know,” he said, and he meant it. Gently. Carefully. Like he was setting something delicate down between them. “Still.”

The silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full. She looked at him, not fully, just out of the corner of her eye, then down again.

Her hand fell away from the door handle like it had lost its reason for being there.

“You sure?” she asked, softer now. Her voice thinned by hesitation, not doubt. “I don’t want to... intrude.”

She didn’t mean to sound so small when she said it. But the word lingered in the air like fog, curling between them.

He shook his head — not just a no, but something firmer. Quieter. Something closer to don’t even think that.

“You wouldn’t be.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her breath rising into the cold like steam off cooling tea. Her eyes flicked upward — not quite at the sky, but at the clouds where the stars should have been, where the night held its breath like it was listening.

Then she gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Just for the night.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — brief, quiet, almost too small to see — but it softened his whole face. Lit him from somewhere inside. And then it was gone, like it had never asked to be noticed in the first place.

“I’ll drive though,” she said softly, already rounding to the driver’s side. “I want to do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied, immediate and gentle, like reflex. Then, with the faintest smile, “But fine.”

And that was it.

No argument. No protest. Just a quiet understanding passed between them like the keys themselves — weightless and warm from the press of her hand.

The drive unfolded in stillness.

No music. Just the low, steady hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of tires over damp pavement. Outside, the streetlights flickered past in slow succession — casting golden stripes across the windshield, across her hands on the wheel, across the soft curve of her cheekbone as she blinked too slowly at the road ahead.

She looked like something out of a memory in this light. The kind that faded at the edges. The kind you try to hold onto longer than you're supposed to.

Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting quietly in his lap, but his eyes barely left her.

He watched the way her fingers flexed on the steering wheel at every red light — not restless, just trying to stay awake. The way her eyes, rimmed in leftover eyeliner and the weight of too many hours, fluttered heavier and heavier with each block.

She was trying so hard. Still carrying the last fraying threads of the day like someone might need her again at any moment. Still holding herself upright when no one had asked her to.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to. That she could drop it — the composure, the endurance, the quiet strength she wore like second skin. That she didn’t always have to be the one who stayed steady.

But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Settled there. Safe, for now.

So instead, he said, “Turn left up here,” voice soft enough not to startle her.

And she nodded — not looking, just trusting.

His apartment welcomed them with the kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the heat — it came from history. From stillness, from the soft, steady presence of a life that had been lived carefully within its walls.

The light from the hallway drifted in behind them like fog, golden and thin, slipping across the hardwood and catching gently on the edges of furniture. The air inside smelled like old paper and something clean — not sharp, but soft, like the faint memory of soap in fabric, or a cotton shirt hung to dry near a window. Lived-in. Intimate.

Y/N stepped inside without a word, her shoulders folding slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet wrapped around her immediately, slow and deep, like a warm coat slipped onto her shoulders.

She toed off her boots near the wall — not rushed, just methodical, as if each movement had to travel through fog before reaching her limbs. Her coat slid from her shoulders a moment later, loose and limp with weariness, but she caught it one-handed before it could fall. Draped it neatly over the arm of the couch like she’d done it before. Like she’d been here. Like her presence had already been stitched into the space, quietly, without ever asking for permission.

Spencer moved past her without speaking, his footsteps nearly silent on the floor. He locked the door with a quiet snick, then dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl on the entry shelf — the sound of them landing barely louder than breath.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet light casting soft reflections onto the tile backsplash. The hush of drawers sliding open, the faint clink of ceramic and glass — it all sounded strangely soothing, like rain tapping on a roof. Familiar. Gentle.

Y/N stood still in the entryway, her body slowly catching up to the quiet. Her eyes blinked slowly as they adjusted to the dim light, and her hands hung limp at her sides. There was something about this kind of stillness — the kind that followed noise and chaos — that made everything feel heavier. Like she could finally feel her bones again.

She didn’t move yet.

Just let the warmth settle over her. Let herself be held by the quiet of it all.

“You want tea or anything?” he asked, voice low as he moved through the kitchen, back half-turned, the sound barely rising above the quiet hum of the apartment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, her voice softer still. “Too tired.”

Not just tired — spent. The kind of tired that settled behind her eyes and pressed gently at the back of her throat, where words usually lived.

He nodded like he’d already known — like he just wanted her to know he asked anyway. Still, he opened the cupboard without comment and took down a glass. Filled it with water from the tap, letting the stream run just long enough to cool.

When he turned and handed it to her, their fingers brushed — a fleeting touch. But it lingered. The soft part of his hand grazing the side of hers, a warmth that bloomed for just a second too long to be ignored. It sparked something small and quiet beneath her ribs. Something that flickered like light catching on the surface of still water.

She took the glass from him slowly, her fingers curling around the cool rim, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was barely a swallow. But it grounded her — the clean, clear taste of it, the way it caught the edges of her dry throat and soothed.

Her body leaned back gently against the arm of the couch, the glass still resting in her hands. She let her eyes drift around the room like she was revisiting a familiar dream — mapping the shape of it all as if it had changed while she was gone.

A few new books stacked by the window — titles turned outward, some already soft at the spine. A different lamp — softer, golden, the light barely kissing the floor. One of his cardigans hung over the back of a chair, like it had been shrugged off in thought and forgotten.

But otherwise, nothing had changed.

Still that quiet.

Still that warmth.

Still that feeling — the one she never let herself examine too closely, except maybe now, when her limbs were too heavy to lie, and the hush between them didn’t ask her to.

“You can take the bed,” he said, after a moment of silence that seemed to settle between them like dust in golden light. His voice was gentle — too gentle — the edges of it smoothed with something that sounded like care disguised as casual. “I’ll sleep out here.”

She blinked, the words catching her slightly off guard. Her brows pulled in, just a little. Not in irritation — in protest. In disbelief that he’d give something so quickly. So quietly.

“Spencer—no,” she said, already shaking her head. Her voice was soft but sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“You’re not kicking me out,” he replied, even softer this time, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I’m offering.”

It was the kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that came from someone who would never say you need it more, but knew anyway. Who would lie awake on the couch all night, thinking of her curled into his sheets, and still believe it was worth it.

She exhaled through her nose and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “And I’m declining.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue — gently, quietly — but she was already shaking her head again, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

“The couch is fine,” she said, lighter now. “I don’t need much.”

He didn’t push. He only nodded. But something shifted in his expression — subtle, but there. A tiny drop in the line of his shoulders, a quiet stillness in his eyes. Like something he hadn’t meant to show had slipped through anyway.

She saw it.

And maybe she felt it too — that same quiet ache, that wish to say I want to be close without sounding like she needed it.

Still, she only added, quieter now, almost sheepish, “I’ll be out cold in five minutes. I promise I won’t even notice.”

There was a pause. He didn’t look at her for a moment. Then he nodded once more, a little steadier this time, like the thought had been tucked away, folded carefully.

“I’ll grab you something to wear,” he said.

And then he turned toward the hallway, his steps quiet, measured — like even in that, he didn’t want to disturb the space between them.

When he returned, he held a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn-in plaid pajama pants — unmistakably his. The shirt had the faint scent of him still clinging to the cotton, clean and familiar, like soap and old books and warmth. He didn’t offer them with any ceremony, just held them out gently, like something delicate passed from one set of hands to another.

She took them without a word.

But her fingers lingered on the fabric — not accidentally. Not really. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent. Like she wasn’t just taking clothes. Like she felt, somewhere deep in her chest, that accepting them meant something more.

The weight of them made her throat tighten. It didn’t make sense, not entirely. But she didn’t fight it. She just swallowed around the feeling and looked up.

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said quietly, his voice carrying softer now, like he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled in the space between them. “First door on the left.”

She nodded once. “Thanks.”

And then she turned — socked feet brushing the wooden floor, his clothes pressed to her chest — and disappeared down the hallway with the kind of tired grace that didn’t ask to be watched but invited it anyway.

He stood there for a moment after she was gone, the hush folding in around him again like it had been waiting.

It wasn’t silence. It was presence. The kind that filled the room when someone had only just left — when their warmth still lingered in the air, in the folds of their coat on the couch, in the faint creak of the hallway floor.

Spencer exhaled through his nose, barely audible, and turned toward the couch. He unfolded the blankets one by one — carefully, quietly — smoothing the edges like it mattered.

Like it would somehow be enough.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the first thing she noticed was the light — a soft amber glow spilling from the cracked door at the end of the hallway. It pooled along the floor like syrup, rich and warm, brushing the edges of the baseboards and casting long, drowsy shadows across the wood. 

Spencer’s bedroom.

The rest of the apartment had dimmed with the hour — lights switched off, corners tucked into stillness — but that room glowed like something remembered. Like a place left gently open.

She padded down the hall slowly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. One hand tugged his too-long t-shirt a little lower over her thighs, the cotton worn soft with age, clinging here and there where her skin was still warm from the shower. The pajama pants he’d lent her sat low on her hips, cinched loosely at the waist — clearly made for someone taller, broader, his. She’d rolled the cuffs twice, but they still dragged the tiniest bit as she walked, trailing whispers behind her.

Her hair had come undone from the elastic, soft waves spilling free now, sleep-mussed and uneven in a way that somehow made her look more like herself. Like all the polish had fallen away and left only her, untouched and quiet and real.

She didn’t mean to stop at his door.

But the light was still on, golden and patient. And from within, she heard the muted sound of motion — the quiet hush of a drawer sliding shut, the gentle weight of something being placed on the nightstand.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just presence. Just him.

She stood there a moment longer, just outside the frame — bathed in the spill of light, listening to the small sounds of another person settling into night. Something about it felt so intimate it made her throat ache.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was muscle memory — like her body already knew how to belong there. One shoulder propped, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her weight resting easy against the wood as though this was always where the evening had meant to end.

The soft golden light from his room lit her from the side, warming the slope of her jaw, catching in her hair like firelight trapped in a dark bottle. The shirt hung long on her frame, brushing just past mid-thigh, and her silhouette looked almost delicate in the doorway — softened by sleep, by quiet, by him.

“You know,” she said, voice low and touched with amusement, “I’m starting to think you left the light on as bait.”

Spencer looked up, startled — clearly not expecting her, not like this. He froze where he stood, halfway to setting a book down on the nightstand, eyes wide and warm in the soft light, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken.

“I—what?” he blinked. “No. I mean—no, I didn’t.”

She grinned, slow and sly and sleep-heavy, and stepped just a little closer into the room. Not fully — not yet. Just enough to cross that line between observer and invitation.

“You say that,” she murmured, “like you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, the words tripping over themselves.

Then, after a pause, softer—truth sneaking out beneath the breath:

“...Maybe a little.”

Her laugh slipped out in a hush — not loud, but close, and so familiar it tugged something loose in his chest. It sounded like the kind of secret you only share late at night. The kind of sound that folded into the air and stayed there.

“Busted,” she said.

And the space between them shimmered — lit not by tension, but by the unmistakable warmth of two people who felt it, finally, fully, and weren’t pretending not to anymore.

He tried to look away.

Really, he did — let his eyes drop to the book in his hand, the corner of the nightstand, the pattern in the wood grain that suddenly seemed very, very interesting.

But it didn’t help.

Because she was standing there like that — framed in the amber glow of his bedroom lamp, her body soft and half-silhouetted in the doorway, draped in his clothes like the night had conspired to undo him entirely.

The shirt hung off her shoulders in a way that felt almost cruel — stretched just enough to slide, slightly, exposing the smooth slope of one collarbone. The sleeves were too long, swallowed her hands in folds of worn cotton, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide. 

The fabric skimmed her thighs, teasing the space just above her knees, brushing her skin like a whisper. The pajama pants had slipped low on her hips, cinched tight but still loose — and he could see the faint shape of her beneath them, the way her form curved gently under all that borrowed softness.

Familiar fabric — but completely transformed. Rewritten by the shape of her, the weight of her warmth inside it. It was like watching something private turned holy.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was how utterly unaware she was of what she was doing to him.

She stood there, sleepy and beautiful, hair loose and tousled like she’d just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, skin kissed by steam, lips still a little parted from the heat of her breath. She looked like something that didn’t belong in the real world — like a poem half-muttered into a pillow, or a photograph you only looked at in the quiet.

And Spencer —

Spencer ached.

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch her — not in any careless way, but just to confirm she was real. He wanted to step across the room and feel the press of his shirt against her back as he pulled her into him. He wanted to see how it would bunch under his palms, how the fabric would slip to the floor, how her skin would glow in this light, stretched out against the tangled mess of his sheets.

He wanted everything. All at once.

“You look...” His voice caught on the first word, breath snagging in his throat as he looked at her. He swallowed, lips parting slightly before he managed to push the words out. Quiet. Honest. “You look really good in that.”

Her brow lifted — one graceful arc, deliberate and knowing — and a smile bloomed slow across her lips. Not wide. Not sharp. But devastatingly effective. The kind of smile that knew its own power and wielded it gently, like a silk ribbon drawn tight around a secret.

“Yeah?” she murmured, voice laced with teasing sleepiness.

Then she stepped forward — barefoot on the hardwood, the faintest tap of her toes the only sound in the room. Her movements were unhurried, almost lazy in their confidence, but there was something unmistakable in the way she walked — like she knew exactly what he was seeing. Like she could feel the way his gaze curled over every line of her body beneath the soft cotton of his clothes.

“You like your fashion sense better when it’s on me?”

He exhaled through his nose — short, helpless.

“Significantly,” he said, because the truth was already out there and there was no pulling it back. His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough around the edges with something warmer. Wilder.

She laughed, quiet and pleased, and then she twirled jokingly.

Spun in a slow, lazy circle with her arms lifted just slightly, palms up, like she was offering herself for review. The hem of the shirt flared around her thighs, catching the light as it rose, then fell again in soft waves. The fabric clung for a moment before drifting back into place, brushing the tops of her knees like a secret only he got to see.

“I feel like I’m drowning in it,” she said, half-mocking, but her voice curled at the edges, sleep-warmed and sweet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he was looking. And maybe he didn’t mean to — not entirely — but his eyes trailed the movement of her body like they couldn’t help it. 

She looked like a dream dressed in his life.

“You’re not,” he said at last, the words soft but unshakably certain. “It suits you.”

And it did.

It suited her in the way morning light suited sleeping faces, the way his name might sound if she said it against his skin — familiar, perfect, and entirely hers.

She smirked — slow and playful, lips curling just enough to betray how much she was enjoying this shift between them — then turned her attention to the room with a new kind of gaze. Not sharp. Not nosy. Just curious in that gentle, thoughtful way she had — like she was reading a story she already suspected the ending to, but still wanted to savor every line along the way.

Her eyes moved softly from corner to corner, taking in everything.

Framed photographs sat nestled along the upper shelf — not many, and none of them posed. Just quiet little snapshots of time. People frozen mid-laugh or mid-blink, caught in crooked frames and warm light. Most were older. Slightly faded. The kind of photos you don’t frame for beauty, but for belonging. Anchors to somewhere softer.

There was one of Garcia, beaming in neon glasses, flanked by Morgan doing his best to look unimpressed. Another of JJ and Prentiss sharing a plate of fries at some roadside diner, eyes squinting from the sun. Rossi with his sleeves rolled up and a drink in hand, smirking at whoever was behind the camera.

And then there were the ones of them.

Spencer and Y/N, in quieter corners of their lives. Not the field. Not the briefing room.

Him squinting into the wind on a ferry they’d taken up the coast, her arm thrown over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. A blurry shot from a museum hallway, her laughing so hard she was doubled over and he was half-turned toward her, eyes crinkled in that way they always did when she was the one making him laugh. One at a book fair — she was holding up a ridiculous romance novel like it was a prize, and he looked at her like she was one.

None of the frames matched. Some tilted slightly. But they were arranged with a kind of care that didn’t need symmetry.

Just intention.

It was the kind of display that didn’t announce anything. But it felt like a love letter, if you knew how to read it. 

The books — of course — lined the shelves in tall, uneven stacks. Their spines were cracked and softened with love, pages filled with margin notes and crooked tabs, tiny flags of thought fluttering where his mind had once paused. She could picture him there, on quiet mornings, hunched over one with a hand in his hair and a furrow in his brow, the room humming with silence.

And there — tacked unevenly to the wall above his desk — a museum postcard, its edges slightly curled with time. The ink had softened from sun, the corners yellowed just enough to show it had lived there longer than it was meant to. Not pristine. Not decorative.

Kept.

The image was of a painting she couldn’t quite place — muted colors, a figure mid-motion, maybe something romantic in its brushwork. But that wasn’t what caught her breath.

It was the postcard.

From that museum.

The one they’d gone to together months ago, wedged between cases, on some rare free afternoon that hadn’t asked them to be anything but themselves. He’d bought it at the gift shop when she wasn’t looking, after she’d pointed out the piece in passing, said something about the color reminding her of old film and Sunday mornings.

And now it lived here — above his desk, above his thoughts.

Not framed. Not tucked into a drawer.

Just here.

As if he hadn’t wanted to forget it. As if he’d been anchoring her presence to this space ever since.

She didn’t say anything.

But her eyes lingered on it longer than she meant them to — and when she turned to look at him, she was smiling in that small, knowing way that said:

I see it. I remember, too.

She moved slowly, each barefoot step soundless on the floor, a whisper of motion. Her fingers drifted to the edge of his desk — knuckles brushing the surface, palm barely grazing the wood. There, in one neat stack, were papers. Carefully folded. Organized, but lived-in. The kind of order that came from someone who didn’t mind a little mess as long as he knew where it lived.

She let her hand rest there a moment, her thumb grazing the edge of a page, and said — lightly, but not without affection — “This where all the thinking happens?”

Spencer watched her from where he stood near the bed, his heart stuttering once in his chest. Not because she was touching his things, but because she wasn’t just touching them. She was seeing them. Seeing him.

He shrugged, a breath of a smile ghosting over his lips. “Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on the day.”

“And the bed?” she asked, turning to glance at him over her shoulder, her head tilted just slightly — playful, curious, that slow-blooming smile tugging at the corner of her lips like she already knew he wouldn’t survive the question. “Just for sleeping?”

He blinked, caught halfway through a thought, halfway through a breath. His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere safer — the spine of a book, the edge of the lamp — now locked helplessly onto her.

“Uh—yes?” he said, and it came out with the shaky precision of someone who wanted to sound sure and failed.

She grinned, soft and wicked and golden in the lamp light. A grin that unfolded slowly, deliberately, like silk unspooling across a hardwood floor.

“You say that like it’s negotiable.”

His breath hitched. His shoulders stiffened, just barely, like he was bracing for the impact of her voice — for the weight of her in his room, in his clothes, saying things like that with her bare feet on his floor.

“I—no, I just—” he tried again, floundering.

But whatever came next was swallowed by the sound of her walking.

She crossed the room in three slow, quiet steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Just herself — loose-limbed and sleep-soft and devastating. She moved like a daydream he’d been trying not to have.

And then — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — she sat.

Eased down onto the edge of his bed, one leg curling beneath her, the other swinging slightly where it dangled. The mattress gave beneath her, dipped gently with the weight of her, and for a moment he swore he felt the pull of gravity shift.

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the quiet sit between them like steam, let it gather.

Then, low and private and absolutely certain, she murmured:

“You’re fun when you’re flustered.”

His lips parted — then closed again, like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. A beat passed before he found his voice, and when he did, it was quiet and a little hoarse, laced with something too honest to be smooth.

“You make it extremely easy to be,” he muttered, eyes narrowed just enough to feign composure.

But they both knew better.

Because his heart was beating too hard.

Because his hands had curled slightly at his sides.

Because he hadn’t taken a full breath since she sat down.

And because even now, even then, he was looking at her like she was something breakable — not for fragility’s sake, but because he cared too much to touch her wrong.

The light from the lamp spilled across the room like honey — thick and golden, clinging to the edges of bookshelves and blanket folds, warming the corners where evening still lingered. It touched everything gently: her knees tucked beneath her, the faint sheen of the wood floor, the soft muss of his sheets where she sat like a secret the night didn’t want to share.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It breathed — slow and deep, like the space itself was expanding to hold them both without asking questions. The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled. The kind that trusted its own weight.

Her hand moved lazily, almost thoughtless, fingers drifting across the book he’d left near the pillow. She traced the spine once, then again — not reading it, not even really seeing it. Just feeling it. Like the smooth press of paper against skin might tell her something about him she hadn’t learned yet.

“Are you actually going to sleep on the couch?” she asked, eventually — her voice low, unhurried. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the words curl into the space between them and settle there like warmth steeping into tea.

“That was the plan,” he said softly.

His voice came from the far edge of the bed, where he still sat with perfect posture — like if he leaned too far in her direction he might fall right into her orbit and forget how to climb back out.

Her thumb moved along the book’s edge again. No reply. No protest. But she didn’t move either.

The book remained between them, forgotten now. A placeholder. A boundary. But not a real one.

Y/N shifted, the quiet motion of someone getting comfortable in a space she hadn’t intended to stay in. Her legs tucked tighter beneath her, one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other still grazing the cover. She leaned, just slightly, toward the center of the bed — not a decision, not quite. More like gravity had changed its mind about where it wanted her.

Spencer stayed still, but not comfortably. He was very aware of every inch of himself — the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his stomach, the way his hand moved absently over the same book her fingers had just left. A trace. A memory. A nearly-there.

His other hand hovered in his lap, half-curled — twitching once like it meant to reach for something but didn’t know what. Or who.

“You should be tired,” she said at last, her voice softer than before — so low it felt like it had been folded into the space between them rather than spoken aloud. The words stretched lazily between breaths, brushed with sleep. “Aren’t you always the first to crash after a case?”

He glanced at her, his profile lit in soft gold.

“Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I just… wait for the quiet.”

She hummed, a slow, contented sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. Just understanding.

Her fingers drifted toward the hem of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and caught absently on a loose thread. She didn’t tug. Just toyed with it, rolling the fabric between thumb and forefinger like it gave her something to do with the silence. Something to hold onto.

“It’s quiet now,” she murmured.

And it was. Not just in the room, but around them. The kind of hush that only came when the rest of the world had gone to sleep. The kind of hush that didn’t press, didn’t ask — just invited. The kind that made every glance feel louder. Every breath feel shared.

Spencer looked at her then. Fully.

No flicker. No half-turn.

Just looked.

Her face was different in this light. Softer. Not in the way light changes things — but in the way she had changed. Her shoulders had uncoiled, her hands were open, her whole presence less guarded. The edges of her had blurred, finally, like the end of a long-held breath.

She didn’t realize she was giving herself away. That her mouth was slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep. That she looked more like herself now than she did in the field, in the daylight, in all the places where sharpness was required.

And God, she was beautiful like this.

“It’s different with you here,” he said quietly. “The quiet.”

Her lips parted again, barely — not for a word, just for the breath she forgot to take. She didn’t look away. But something in her went still, like his words had touched a part of her she didn’t expect anyone else to notice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just curled her legs in closer, tucking her knees beneath the oversized fabric of the borrowed shirt, and reached without thinking for the blanket at the foot of the bed. The motion was slow, almost absentminded, like her body was simply following instinct — like the need for warmth, for stillness, was stronger than any social pretense that said this is temporary.

Neither of them said the thing hanging between them.

Not you don’t have to go. Not I’m already staying.

But it was there. Settled like breath in the walls, like the hush of a room that didn’t want to be loud again.

The blanket settled over her lap in a soft cascade, and her hand smoothed it without looking. The edge of it draped near his knee — close enough to touch. Close enough to ask something wordless.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said finally, her voice barely more than breath. Her gaze didn’t lift. She didn’t press. She just let it hang there, soft and honest. “There’s room.”

He froze.

“Y/N…”

Just her name. Said like a warning, but softer. Said like please don’t tempt me, but please don’t stop.

She smiled gently, still facing away from him, but he saw it — the way it softened her cheek, the way her fingers curled more loosely in the blanket like she wasn’t holding anything back now.

“I’m not trying anything, Reid,” she said. “I’m just warm. And comfortable. And if you go back out there, you’ll probably fall asleep on the floor halfway to the couch.”

He let out a quiet huff — not a laugh, exactly. More like an exhale pulled straight from the center of his chest. Because she was right. And because the idea of falling asleep anywhere but here, with her like this, felt suddenly impossible.

She looked like gravity had already claimed her. Like the shape of his bed had opened just for her and she’d fit into it without even trying. Her body was soft now — no tension, no weight. Just warmth and breath and skin beneath fabric that used to be his.

He stayed frozen for a moment longer. Thinking. Feeling too much.

Then, quietly, still barely moving, he said — almost more to himself than to her:

“I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Her head turned at that. Just slightly. Her eyes met his — warm and steady and unafraid.

Then—softly, surely:

“What if I don’t want you to?”

The words were barely above a whisper. But they landed like gravity.

And then she smiled.

Not teasing. Not coy.

Just soft.

Like she’d already known.

Like it didn’t scare her at all.

He let out another breath. Then, slowly, with a care that bordered on reverence, he reached for the lamp on the nightstand.

The click of the switch was soft, final.

And then the room dimmed to nothing but breath, and the quiet pulse of two hearts beating closer than either of them had meant for them to.

The mattress dipped softly as Spencer eased beneath the blanket, slow and cautious — like he was trying not to disturb something sacred. The hush in the room held him back a little, made each movement feel like it had weight. He didn’t want to shift the bed too much. Didn’t want to cross that invisible line unless she invited him to.

She was already nestled beneath the covers, turned toward him, her body curled like a comma — soft and tired and warm. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting between them, fingers barely curled. In the low glow spilling from the cracked hallway door, he could just make out the rise and fall of her breath, the shape of her mouth relaxed in sleep-heavy stillness.

In the dark, everything looked gentler.

No worry carved into her brow. No tension in her jaw. Just softness. Just quiet.

Just her, the version of her he only got glimpses of — when the world outside stopped asking her to be sharp.

“Cozy,” she murmured, voice low and near, like it belonged to the room and not just to her.

He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You stole the good side.”

“Snooze you lose, Doctor,” she whispered back, lazy and pleased with herself.

He turned his head toward her, barely able to make out the silhouette of her grin — the faint curve of her lips etched like moonlight across the pillow.

“You’re insufferable,” he said, not even trying to sound annoyed.

“And you love it.”

There was no hesitation this time.

No fumble. No nervous glance away.

Just the quiet truth, said like an exhale — like it had been sitting behind his ribs for longer than he knew how to name:

“I do.”

Her breath caught — not audibly, not sharply. Just a stillness. A pause between heartbeats.

She didn’t blink it away, didn’t deflect with a joke. She only looked at him, steady and quiet and close enough now to feel the warmth of his words where they’d landed.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t explain it. Didn’t rush to soften the edge of what he’d said.

He only looked back at her, eyes open and bare in the dim light, and let the words settle between them like something earned.

The quiet had deepened.

Not the kind that stretched thin and awkward, but the kind that settled — like dusk on a still lake, like the hush of snowfall outside a window. It wrapped around them beneath the blanket, warm and low and steady.

And then, slowly — like a thought forming — her fingers found his hand in the space between them.

She didn’t take it. Didn’t lace their fingers together or claim it as hers.

She just touched lightly.

The softest drift of fingertips along the back of his hand. Up and down. Slow circles. Wandering lines. Like she was memorizing him through skin, like she didn’t need anything more than this.

It wasn’t the kind of affection that asked for attention.

It was the kind that came after all the asking had already been done.

Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, maybe — not properly. Not with the way his chest tightened at how deliberate it felt. How careful. 

The sort of care you don’t show someone you plan on forgetting.

Her fingers kept moving, aimless and tender.

“Does this bother you?” she asked softly, her voice almost lost in the blanket-warmed air. Still tracing. Still gentle.

His reply came too fast — unguarded, low, full of something that trembled just under the surface.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

There was a pause, and then—

She smiled.

A real one. Small, tired, a little lopsided — but full. Lit from somewhere deep, like it had been waiting all night to make its way to the surface.

“Good,” she whispered, not letting go.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It shimmered.

“I meant it, you know,” he added after a while. “What I said earlier. You look good in my clothes.”

She tilted her head, just enough that her nose almost touched his. “You sure you’re not just delirious from lack of sleep?”

“I’m delirious,” he said, “but not about that.”

A breath of laughter slipped from her — faint and breathless — soft as the dark around them. It barely rose between them, just warmed the air where their mouths almost met, then vanished like mist.

And then, neither of them moved. Not really.

Just closer. A slow, inevitable drift. Like gravity had quietly rewritten its rules in the space between their bodies.

His hand shifted beneath hers, the faintest scrape of skin on fabric. Turned palm-up — an offering, a question. Her fingers slipped into the open space like they were meant to be there. Fit like memory.

Their knees brushed under the blanket. Breath mingled. The quiet stretched long and low, full of want, of wonder, of something sacred and unfinished.

It would’ve been easy to stay there. To fall asleep with that quiet pulse between them, not quite touching, not quite apart. To pretend this edge didn’t hum beneath the surface.

But something pulled.

Something quiet and burning and hungry.

Her hand moved slowly — not tentative, not shy, just reverent. From the curve of his wrist, along the inside of his forearm, to the slope of his shoulder and the warmth of his neck. Her thumb found his jaw, traced the rough stubble there like she needed the confirmation of realness. Like she needed to feel him to believe he hadn’t vanished in the dark.

He exhaled — shaky, low, uneven — like the air leaving him had caught on the weight of her touch.

And then she was leaning in. Or actually, he was — because he couldn’t bear it, not one second longer. Not the breath between them. Not the stretch of space where her mouth wasn’t on his. Not the ache of her skin so close and not yet touched.

Their lips met like an echo — like something remembered before it was ever known. A hush, a question, a breath, an answer. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her like she was breakable — slow, reverent, as if the moment might splinter if he pushed too hard. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, or maybe like he’d only ever been waiting to kiss her.

But then—

Then she made a sound.

Soft. Desperate.

The barest whimper against his mouth — and it undid something in him so completely, so deeply, that whatever careful structure he’d built to keep himself still collapsed without a sound.

His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading into the warmth of her hair, like anchoring himself to her could keep the rest of him from falling apart. But it didn’t work. Not when she gripped the front of his shirt like she needed him closer — like she didn’t care what it looked like anymore. Not when she pressed into him and her mouth opened with a sigh that felt like it had been trapped behind her ribs for years.

They kissed like breath didn’t matter. Like time had folded itself into this one moment and refused to go on without them. Like the world had gone silent just to let them listen to each other breathe.

And it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not with the way her body moved against his — slow, drawn by instinct, hips shifting just enough to make him feel it. Not with the way her hand curled into the space between his shoulder blades like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she needed to hold him there.

He breathed her name into her mouth again — not clearly, not fully, just the shape of it, half-broken, half-prayer. And she kissed him like she already knew what he meant.

His fingers trembled as they traced from her jaw down — a reverent path along the curve of her neck, to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse fluttered wild. His palm flattened there, over the column of her throat, gentle but unyielding, like he couldn’t help but feel the proof of her — alive, wanting, his.

A broken sound escaped her — not words, just breath — and he lost the last of his hesitation, if there was even any to lose.

He moved without thinking, without planning. One shift of weight and he was over her, slowly, carefully, but not gently anymore. The mattress dipped under his knees, hands braced on either side of her. Their eyes met only for a breath — hers wide, lips kiss-bitten and open, his gaze darker than she’d ever seen it — before he bent to her again.

He kissed her lips like they were the only answer he’d ever needed. Then her jaw — slow, open-mouthed, reverent — the stubble along his own chin brushing soft against her skin. Her head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, as his lips moved along the line of her neck, her pulse, the curve just below her ear.

Then back to her mouth.

Always back to her mouth.

She pulled him in like she was starving, and he let her — let himself.

Let himself feel her hands gripping his shoulders now, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she arched under him without meaning to, like her body was reaching for something she couldn’t name. His own body answered, helplessly — heart racing, blood humming, control slipping in slow spirals as he kissed her again, and again, and again.

The room was quiet except for their breath — hitched, shallow, wanting — and the faint rustle of sheets as they moved, as he pressed her down into the mattress like he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

The space between them had all but vanished — breath tangled with breath, warmth soaked into warmth. The blanket had slipped low over their hips, forgotten. And still, neither of them pulled away.

Spencer’s hand — the one resting beside her on the bed — moved without thinking. Just a shift at first. His fingertips brushed her waist, light as a whisper against the cotton of the shirt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Only stilled.

And when his hand slipped beneath the hem — slow, unsure, achingly careful — her breath hitched.

The skin there was warm. Silken. The kind of soft he didn’t have words for.

He moved in delicate strokes — tracing the shape of her side, the gentle curve of her ribcage, the dip beneath it. Like he was mapping her. Like he couldn’t believe she was letting him.

And she was.

Her eyes fluttered, a quiet sound catching in her throat — something between a sigh and a gasp, held just for him. Her hips shifted slightly, not away, but toward him. An answer. A request.

He moved higher, fingers dragging the fabric up with each inch. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just wanting. His thumb traced a slow line beneath the swell of her breasts, the shape of her breathing changing under his touch.

She opened her eyes again, lashes heavy, lips parted in a way that made his heart trip.

“Spencer,” she murmured — nothing more than his name, but said like it meant something. Like she could feel everything he was trying to say through the reverence in his hands.

“I—” He swallowed, jaw tense with restraint, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice hushed and certain. Her hand found his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “You couldn’t.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and unhurried, and kissed him again — deeper this time, more open. Her body curved into his, warm and pliant, and his hand pressed flatter against her chest, grounding himself in the realness of her.

She sighed into his mouth — soft and wrecked — and he felt it in every nerve ending. Like something opened in him at the sound. Like it shook something loose. His lips moved over hers again, slower now but deeper, fuller, until they weren’t kissing to find each other anymore — they were kissing because they already had.

And then he shifted.

His mouth found the edge of her jaw first — a ghost of a kiss, delicate and slow. Then lower. The slope of her neck. The spot just beneath her ear where her breath caught again, sharp and involuntary.

“Spencer—”

He hummed in response, the sound low against her throat.

And then he lingered.

Mouth brushing slowly, deliberately, across that warm stretch of skin. His lips parted — a kiss, then another, each one pressed with more intention, more need. Like he was learning her pulse with his mouth. Like he was writing something there she’d feel for hours after.

She shifted beneath him, her leg wrapping tighter around his hip, and the smallest sound — helpless, breathy — escaped her lips.

His teeth grazed her skin. Barely. Not a bite. Not quite.

Just enough to make her gasp.

Just enough to leave a mark.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to — hadn’t planned it — but when he pulled back slightly and saw the soft flush blooming across her throat, the shape of him there on her, he couldn’t look away.

And she was looking back at him now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, her expression somewhere between wonder and need.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like he couldn’t find the words.

But she already knew.

So she pulled him back down — her hand curling around the back of his neck, her body arching into his like it couldn’t help itself — and kissed him like the night would never end.

His hand slid lower, slow as breath, fingers tracing the bare curve of her waist beneath the hem of his shirt — not hurried, not greedy. Just wanting. Just awed.

She felt impossibly warm beneath his touch. All soft skin and stammered breath and the quiet, electric give of her body against his. He pulled her closer until they fit, all lines pressed flush and trembling, and when her head tipped back slightly — that unspoken invitation written in the shape of her throat — he swore he could feel his heart stagger in his chest.

And then he kissed her there.

Right at the center of her throat — slow, open-mouthed, full of something more fragile than lust. Something aching. A murmur of devotion passed through his lips as they pressed against her pulse, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of her from the inside out.

He didn’t stop there.

His mouth moved lower, finding the tender hollow at the base of her neck, then the curve of her collarbone — each kiss deeper now, less careful. More desperate. His hand still traced slow, reverent lines beneath the fabric of her shirt, but his mouth was leaving promises behind.

Soft marks bloomed where he lingered — not harsh, not bruised, but present. Little echoes of him pressed into her skin like he couldn’t stand the thought of morning washing her clean of him.

And she let him.

Her fingers wove into his hair, holding him there, like maybe she needed the same thing. A mark to carry through the quiet hours. A tether to keep the night from slipping away.

When he pulled back just slightly to look at her — lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where she’d held him — she met his gaze like it was the only light in the room.

“Spencer,” she breathed — not just a whisper, but a plea. Barely formed. Almost broken. His name in her mouth like something sacred.

“Please,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I need—”

She didn’t finish. Couldn’t. But the way she looked at him said everything.

And it undid him.

A soft, aching sound slipped from his lips — somewhere between a groan and a promise — as he leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was trying to give her everything she asked for without making her say it.

His hand found her waist, steady and warm, drawing her closer. She melted into him, sighing against his mouth like she’d been holding it in forever.

And in that hush — between her breath and his hands and the soft, trembled ache of being known — he whispered, “I’ve got you, angel.”

His hand trembled where it touched her, as if he was holding something too precious — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Still, he didn’t rush.

His hand roamed gently, sliding over the dip of her hip, mapping the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. And then—

His fingers brushed lower. Grazing just beneath the waistband of the borrowed pajama pants. The fabric gave, loose and yielding. And then—

Lower still.

They slipped beneath.

Just barely. Just enough.

A hush broke between them.

Her breath stuttered — caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and she leaned into him like it was instinct, her leg tightening around his hip, her fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder.

His touch paused there, just inside the edge of her underwear. Not moving further. Not pushing. Just there — skin to skin in a place that felt suddenly louder than words.

And still, his hand didn’t wander.

It rested. Gentle. Anchored. A confession more than a question.

His mouth moved slowly along the curve of her throat — not kissing, worshiping. Like she was something holy. Like her skin held scripture he’d waited his whole life to read.

“Spencer,” she whispered — not just a name, but a summons. A prayer drawn from the depths of her, aching and soft. And when he breathed it in, it wrecked him.

She arched into him, offering more. A tilt of her chin. A shift in her breath. An invitation.

And he answered.

Not with words. Not yet. But with lips that moved lower, reverent, tracing devotion in every press of his mouth against her skin. Her collarbone. The hollow where her pulse beat like a secret beneath his lips. She felt the shape of him tremble, the way his hands gripped her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold something this sacred.

She gasped — not from shock, but recognition. Like he’d found some quiet altar hidden beneath her ribs.

He whispered her name again like it belonged in a psalm. Like it was the psalm.

She was the litany.

And when he kissed her again — slower now, with more reverence than heat — she let her hand drift to the back of his neck and murmured something only the night would ever hear.

A benediction. A vow.

And she let him. Head tilted, throat bared, fingers curling in the fabric at his back as if to anchor herself. As if she knew — knew in her bones — that she was being seen, and touched, and kept.

And through it all — the weight of him above her, the heat in his hands, the way she whispered his name like it was something sacred — he was still holding on to the last thread of restraint like it might break at any second.

Because he wanted more. So much more.

But he still wanted to be good.

Even now. Especially now.

So he kissed her like that was the only way left to tell her. 

That he wanted her. That he’d always wanted her. 

That this — this ache, this desperation, this us — had been building in the quiet edges of every look, every joke, every missed chance.

And finally, finally, they were no longer pretending not to feel it.

There was no space left between them.

Still lost in it — the slow press of lips, the drag of hands over fabric, the heat of breath between parted mouths. Spencer’s weight settled heavier over her now, no longer braced or hovering, but with her. Their bodies fit like conversation — like they'd always known how to move together, even before they ever had.

Like she belonged there. Like she was meant to pull him closer, and he was meant to follow.

His hand cupped her face as he kissed her again — slower this time. Softer. Like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth with his own. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tender, reverent — like every blink she gave was something sacred.

Their mouths moved in rhythm now, gentler, languid — not from lack of want, but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones after something long-awaited finally gives way. Like the tide rolling in, slow and full, finally touching the shore it had been reaching for all night.

His thumb drifted downward, tracing the curve of her cheek, then the corner of her mouth.

And then — gently — he ran it over her lower lip, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught.

He watched her.

Watched the way her lips parted instinctively beneath the touch, pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fluttering half-closed. And when his thumb slipped just barely past them, brushing against the warm inside of her mouth, she didn't pull away. She held his gaze and let him.

Her tongue grazed his skin — a whisper-soft drag, like a sigh.

It undid him.

Not because it was bold. But because it was intimate. Quiet. Trusting.

His pulse stammered. He leaned in again, kissed her like she was the only real thing in the world, and pulled her closer, deeper, like he needed her breath in his lungs to stay alive.

And still, they didn’t rush.

Even as their bodies stayed tangled. Even as sleep pulled at the corners of the room.

Even as their fingers curled tighter into each other, wordless and warm.

She sighed his name like it belonged in her mouth, like she’d been saving it for this moment.

And he answered with a kiss — slow and open, tasting of want and wonder. One that deepened until they forgot where the air ended and they began. Until her body arched again, drawn to him like tide to moon, and he followed, helpless to resist.

His hand slipped beneath her shirt again, this time with more certainty — fingertips tracing up the line of her back, warm and slow, until she gasped quietly into his mouth. Her skin bowed into his palm, and when he pressed closer, she let him, legs loosening and curling to cradle his hips like they’d done this before, like they’d always been made for this shape.

The room felt too still, like it was holding its breath for them.

She moved again, barely — just enough — and his own breath caught hard against her throat. A soft, broken sound escaped him, and then another, quieter, when her hands skimmed beneath his shirt and found skin.

Her name left his mouth like a prayer. Ragged. Dazed.

And he whispered something else then — something low, just for her — but it was too soft to catch. It didn’t matter. She heard it in the way his hands shook where they held her. In the way he kissed her like he was barely holding himself together.

Her hips tilted again, and he followed instinctively, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he groaned, muffled and aching, into the crook of her neck. His hand gripped at the curve of her thigh beneath the covers, anchoring himself there — trying not to move, not to lose himself.

But it was already happening.

Whatever carefulness he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, were gone now — softened at the edges, smudged by the weight of her breath, the taste of her sighs, the warmth of her under his hands, in his arms, against his heart.

And still, they didn’t name it.

They just felt it. Moved in it.

Soft gasps. Gentle pressure. The desperate, shivering closeness of two people falling apart in each other’s arms, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay slow, trying not to fall too far.

But they were already there.

And when she whispered his name again — broken and beautiful — he kissed her like he was saying me too.

She sighed his name like it was a lullaby.

And he kissed it from her mouth like a promise.

Somewhere between his mouth on her neck and her fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, the layers between them began to fade. Not suddenly. Not all at once.

Just the quiet shift of cotton. The breathless drag of fabric against skin. The subtle give of a waistband easing lower, guided by hands that moved without hurry — only awe.

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him through the haze of moonlight and heat, her eyes dark and open, her breathing soft and shallow.

When her own hands found the hem of his shirt, he let her tug it upward, slow as a tide pulling away from the shore. He raised his arms for her without a word, without breaking her gaze, like offering.

And she took it.

The shirt joined the rest of the soft, crumpled fabric somewhere beneath them — forgotten. Not important.

What mattered was the way his skin felt beneath her palms. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

He leaned in again, kissed her once — and then again — slower this time, like he could feel the weight of the moment settling in the space between them. The gravity of being known like this. The hush of being seen.

Her legs shifted, curling around him like instinct, like memory — like she’d been waiting for this shape, this closeness, all along.

And when he pressed closer, skin to skin now, every inch of her answered without hesitation. Her breath hitched, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he clutched at her thighs — rough, enough for bruises to bloom like dusk, muted violets and honeyed indigo — tender, secret petals pressed into skin where memory met touch — like he needed her to anchor him. Like if he let go, he might come undone entirely.

His hands trembled where they gripped her, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her skin, holding her like she was his and had always been. Soft sounds escaped his mouth, whimpers so dreamy they sounded angels singing down into Earth. Sharp gasps buried into the crook of her neck, warm breath heating the soft skin.

A sigh slipped from her mouth — wonder and want braided together — and he swallowed it with a kiss. Deeper. Quieter. A promise, sealed in breath and trembling hands.

And still, they stayed soft.

No rush. No sharp edges.

Only hands that explored reverently, like she was something precious he’d been entrusted to hold.

Only breath that stuttered and caught as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Only the sound of hearts learning each other in the dark — steady and aching and close.

And then, later, the room had gone quiet again — not with absence, but with everything that remained. The hush of something sacred settling into skin.

Not empty. Not hollow. But full — with breath, with warmth, with the invisible weight of what had just passed between them.

They hadn’t spoken in minutes. There was nothing left to say. Not when everything was already written into the shape of their bodies — the curve of her leg around his, the slow sweep of his fingers along her spine, the ghost of his mouth at her shoulder.

Spencer’s hand never left her.

Even now, as their breathing slowed. Even now, as the rise and fall of her chest settled into something steadier — not from distance, but from peace.

His thumb traced idle, reverent shapes against the slope of her back. Little half-circles. Loops. A language only she would understand.

And she didn’t move.

Just stayed wrapped around him like gravity had claimed her. One arm tucked between their chests, the other tangled in his curls where her fingers had never let go.

She was warm. Too warm, probably. But she didn’t shift. Didn’t pull away. Only turned her face into his throat and exhaled slow, like she was letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

He felt it, too — the unraveling of tension he didn’t know had lived in his ribs. The soft collapse of every line he’d drawn to keep from needing this too much.

His lips brushed her hairline. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely there.

Then a pause. A breath. Their movements slowed. His weight sank into hers, warm and heavy. Her hands ran up his back once more, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, and then stilled.

Her eyes blinked open, just barely. “We’re gonna fall asleep like this,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth, words curling like smoke.

Spencer didn’t move. His lips were still pressed against her temple. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She huffed a lazy laugh. “We’ll wake up sore and sideways and probably on the floor.”

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Another smile bloomed slow and sleepy across her lips. She leaned up, brushed her nose against his throat, kissed him once more — a kiss that barely lasted, barely touched, but said everything.

His arms curled around her tighter.

They didn’t pull apart.

Not even as their bodies slackened. Not even as sleep began to pull at the edges of them, soft and thick and sweet.

Somewhere between breath and dream, she whispered, “Didn’t know you could be that gentle and still ruin me.”

And he smiled into her hair, voice almost gone with sleep. “I’ll try to keep ruining you, then.”

She was still smiling when she drifted off.

And so was he.

Morning didn’t come all at once.

It crept in slowly — a pale gold light easing through the slats of the blinds, feathering across the walls, the sheets, the curve of two bodies still wrapped in sleep. The air was quiet, still softened by the hush of early hours, like the whole world had paused to give them this.

Y/N woke first.

Not fully — not in the way you do when something jolts you up — but gently, like surfacing from the warmth of a deep, sweet dream. She blinked once, then again, lashes fluttering as the shape of the room came into focus. And then she felt him.

Spencer.

Still pressed to her, still wrapped around her like a second blanket. His arm lay heavy across her middle, skin to skin now — no cotton between them, just the warmth of his palm resting low against the curve of her waist, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to let go, even in sleep.

Their legs were tangled like roots beneath the sheets, her knee still hooked over his thigh, the arch of her foot tucked behind his calf. Every part of her seemed to fit there — inside the soft press of his body, the hollow of his chest, the shape of his hold.

She could feel his breath at the back of her neck — slow, even, steady. The kind of rhythm you only fall into when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

She just lay there for a long moment, breathing him in. The scent of him. The warmth of skin against skin. The quiet, lingering ache of what they’d given each other in the dark.

Last night hadn’t vanished with sleep. It hadn’t dulled at the edges like a dream. It was still here — alive in the heat of his body pressed to hers, in the way his hand rested low on her waist like it remembered every place it had touched.

She could still feel it. The weight of his mouth on her skin — not just a memory, but something deeper, something etched. The way he’d said her name like a vow. Like a prayer meant only for her.

It lingered. In the hollow of her throat. At the curve of her lips. In the gentle ache that whispered down her spine — not pain, but existence. A hum in her muscles, in the space between breath and bone.

Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing the side of her neck with a kind of reverence. As if she could press the moment back into her skin. As if her own touch might still catch the echo of his. She lay quiet for a beat, wrapped in the hush of morning.

And then, slowly, she turned — just enough to face him.

His face was peaceful in sleep. His brow — so often tense with thought — was smooth now. Lips slightly parted. Hair soft and mussed from where she’d run her hands through it too many times to count. The sight of him like that — so open, so unguarded — did something to her chest she didn’t quite have words for.

She reached up, slow and careful, and brushed her fingers through a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake.

Not until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It was feather-light, more breath than contact, but it was enough.

He stirred again — this time a little more. Eyes fluttering open. Not all the way. Just enough to see her.

A faint, sleep-wrecked smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hi.”

Her heart twisted.

“Hi,” she whispered back, barely audible, like the morning itself might startle if she spoke too loud. “You snore.”

“I do not,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“You do.” Her fingers drifted along his jaw with the back of her knuckles — a lazy, reverent gesture, warm as the space between them. “It’s a soft snore. Almost endearing.”

His lips curved again, slow and lopsided, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before opening again — slower this time, as if the light behind her was something worth savoring.

“If I do,” he said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “it’s because you wore me out.”

She grinned, lips twitching, and leaned in just enough for her forehead to rest against his. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His fingers brushed the edge of her hip beneath the blanket — not with intent, just to anchor himself in the shape of her — and he let out a breath that felt more like a sigh of contentment than anything else.

She laughed quietly, and it curled between them like a ribbon. “You’re lucky you’re cute in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I’m still coherent,” he murmured, voice low and rough and ruined by sleep.

They didn’t move to get up. Neither of them even pretended to.

Instead, Spencer shifted just enough to press a kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then one to her collarbone, just beneath the edge of the fabric of the blanket.

Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, and she leaned into him like she could climb inside the quiet.

They stayed like that for a long while — pressed close, barely speaking, barely moving — sharing warmth and breath and the weightless, glowing hush of something undeniable. Something real.

No questions. No what now?

Just this.

Just them.

Still tangled. Still warm. Still smiling.

Eventually, they got up.

Not because they wanted to. Not because they were ready to leave the warmth of each other. But because Spencer’s stomach had let out a low, unmistakable growl and Y/N had laughed against his shoulder, murmuring something about him being lucky she found it adorable.

So now, they were in his kitchen.

Barefoot, still dressed in yesterday’s sleep and each other’s affection.

She wore only his shirt.

The one he’d handed her the night before — half-folded, worn soft with time — now draped over her like it belonged there. The hem skimmed just past the tops of her thighs, riding up ever so slightly as she moved, revealing the gentle curve of skin where the night still lived on her.

Her legs were bare, marked faintly where sheets had once twisted around them. The sleeves bunched at her elbows, too long and not rolled, like she’d pulled it on in a haze and hadn’t thought to fuss with it. And her hair — God, her hair — was a tumble of sleepy waves, half-tucked behind one ear, half falling into her face in that effortless way she never intended but he would never forget.

She moved around his kitchen like she’d done it before. Barefoot. Unhurried. One hand reaching for two mugs from the cabinet, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with the kind of grace that didn’t know it was being watched.

He watched her from the other side of the counter, utterly ruined by the sight of her.

Because there was something devastatingly intimate about it — not loud, not demanding, but real. Like a future had already unfolded and left this moment behind as proof. Like this was what it might feel like, to be loved by her on an ordinary morning.

Just her. In his shirt. In his kitchen. Like it had always been meant to be.

“Coffee’s probably stronger than you remember,” he said, leaning on his elbows, voice still thick with sleep. “I may have used the wrong scoop.”

She gave him a lazy side-eye as she poured. “So what you’re saying is… this is revenge.”

He smiled. “Mild retribution. You mocked my snoring.”

“You did snore.”

“Allegedly.”

She handed him a mug and kissed his cheek as she passed — casual, easy, like the thousandth time instead of the first.

He turned slightly toward her, eyes drifting down to her mouth before lifting again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She looked at him — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Just a breath. Just enough for softness to rise like sunlight warming the edges of sleep.

His curls were a mess, more unruly than usual — flattened on one side where her fingers had rested all night, wild and fluffed on the other like sleep had tangled itself into the strands. A piece stuck up near his temple, catching the light from the kitchen window in a way that made him look impossibly younger. Unbrushed. Unbothered. Barefoot in his own quiet world.

There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His shirt clung lopsided to one shoulder. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were heavy-lidded with warmth — tired, maybe, but only in the way people are after something worth losing sleep over.

And her heart stuttered.

She smiled — soft, instinctive — and reached like she might tuck that one rogue curl back into place.

“I’m good,” she said. “Tired. A little sore.”

A smirk pulled at his mouth — slow, crooked, impossible to hide. The kind that curled more on one side, like his face couldn’t quite decide between mischief and awe. It started in his lips but reached his eyes a heartbeat later, lighting them with something softer — like laughter not yet spoken, like affection he wasn’t ready to name out loud.

It was a look that said I’m thinking something I’ll never say, and you make it really hard to be cool about this.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it.

“Not like that,” she warned, pointing her mug at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin was wide and unguarded and a little boyish in the way that made her want to kiss it off his face.

“I’m good too,” he said, after a moment — too casually, like he was trying to play it cool but already failing.

A beat passed.

“Y’know… in case you were wondering.” 

The edge of his voice caught at the end — not nervous, exactly, just wry. Like he knew exactly how transparent he was and had decided to lean into it.

She blinked at him once, then laughed — that soft, surprised kind of laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, I was wondering,” she grinned, taking a slow sip from her mug just to hide how wide her smile had gotten. “Believe me.”

His smirk returned — helpless now, brighter. Almost bashful.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, gaze dropping like he couldn’t quite hold hers without giving himself away completely.

They stood like that for a while. Quiet, holding hands over chipped ceramic and the scent of dark roast.

His fingers curled loosely around hers, thumb brushing slow arcs against her knuckle like he didn’t want to stop touching her even for this. The mug in her other hand had started to cool, but neither of them moved. The moment felt suspended — hung in that soft hush where night ends and morning hasn’t quite decided what to become yet.

The window behind him let in streaks of sun, lighting the dust in the air like gold. It caught the curve of her smile, the tousled edge of his curls, and made everything look touched by something holy.

Y/N swayed slightly on her feet. Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. “You think we’ll regret this?”

Spencer looked at her. Really looked — as if the question had carved a path straight through his chest.

Then he shook his head, slow. Certain. 

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll wonder why we waited.”

A beat.

Then her grin broke free — unfiltered, full of teeth and fond disbelief. “God, that was smooth.”

His brows lifted. “It was honest!”

“And smooth,” she said, sipping again, voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. “Which is new for you.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said, pretending offense. “You’re a very motivating subject.”

“Oh, I motivate you?”

“Endlessly.”

She giggled — actual, unguarded giggling — and leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, like she needed to hide from the way he made her feel.

He turned his face toward her hair, smiling against it — lazy, content, still a little dazed by the way she fit against him like she’d always been there.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to hers — slow and steady, one kiss, then two, then a third for good measure. “I’m making up for lost time,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey in sunlight.

She kissed him back without hesitation — lips curling into a grin between kisses. “You’re behind, then,” she said. “Better get to work.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless against her mouth. “Is that a challenge?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “More of an invitation.”

Coffee long forgotten. Sunlight rising behind them in soft, golden streaks. And for the first time in a long time — they weren’t rushing anywhere. Just standing there in a borrowed morning, trading kisses and banter like it was the only language they knew.

The ringtone was muffled somewhere between the counter and Spencer’s coat pocket, but they both heard it. A distant buzz that cut through the stillness like a ripple across still water.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile lingered, but it was laced with reluctant understanding.

Spencer sighed, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for his phone on the counter. He glanced at the screen and winced.

“Hotch,” he muttered. “We’re being called in.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Spencer answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and to the point. “Case just came in. Briefing at the office. Wheels up in an hour.”

Spencer nodded, even though Hotch couldn’t see it. “I can be there in thirty.”

There was a pause. A small one.

Then Hotch added, dry as ever: “Is Y/N with you?”

Spencer blinked. “She is.”

Another pause. Barely a breath.

Then: “I’ll let you tell her.”

Click.

Spencer lowered the phone, trying not to smile. “He knows.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Spencer shrugged, helpless. “He said he’ll let me tell you.”

She buried her face in her hands. “He definitely knows.”

“He didn’t sound mad.”

“He never sounds mad. That’s the problem. He just sounds like... Hotch.”

Spencer grinned, stepping close again. “I think we’ll survive.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Maybe. If Morgan doesn’t beat us to it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. “We’ve been through worse.”

She groaned again. “Yeah, but not while wearing your shirt and drinking your coffee.”

Spencer laughed, warm and unbothered. “You’re not making me regret it.”

He then turned toward her with that sheepish, crooked smile. “Guess our little bubble just popped.”

Y/N stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up over her thighs with no shame at all. “I’m blaming you when I show up looking like I’ve just rolled out of—” she paused, grinned, “—well. You.”

He flushed. “You could, uh... borrow something else?”

She was already walking toward the bathroom, barefoot and smug.

“You saying I can’t wear your shirt to work?”

Spencer blinked. “I’m saying I won’t survive it.”

Her laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Then consider it a challenge.” 

She paused just before turning the corner, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I keep an extra go-bag in my car. Otherwise, you’d really be in trouble.”

And as Spencer stood barefoot in the middle of his kitchen, still in pajama pants and a sleep-soft tee, hair a tousled mess from her hands and her dreams, surrounded by cold coffee and warm streaks of light spilling through the blinds, he rested one hand on the counter — the other still holding her empty mug — and smiled like the day had already given him more than enough.

There was a stupid grin on his face. One he didn’t even try to hide.

Even with the case.

Even with the chaos.

Today already felt like a good day.

Because she was still here. Still wearing his shirt. Still laughing under her breath like she belonged to the morning.

And for once, the world didn’t feel quite so fast.

From down the hall came her voice — bright, teasing, soaked in laughter.

“Reid! Are you getting in the shower with me or what?”

Spencer blinked, glanced once at the mugs on the counter like they might matter — then bolted.

She shrieked when she heard his footsteps, the sound chasing him through the hallway like music.

He reached her just as the bathroom door swung open, and before she could quip again, he wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed along the column of her neck, slow and breathless, lips pressed to damp skin and heat and joy.

She threw her head back into his shoulder, laughing, breath caught between surprise and delight.

“Spencer—”

“Just trying to conserve water,” he murmured against her skin, grinning.

And in the middle of case-day chaos, mismatched pajamas, and the hum of the shower behind them — they were already both laughing too hard to say anything else.

And the morning, somehow, kept getting better.

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

i wish you guys could read the amazing fic i haven't written and probably will never write, it's fire

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Forever Together (Rolan x Tiefling!Tav)

Rating: M (for implied smut) Minors Do Not Interact

Warnings: Nudity, Implied Sexual Content (Nothing explicit/fade to black), Blood, Death mentioned. Let me know if I forgot anything

Word Count: 3.4k

Themes/Tags: Romance, Fluff, Tooth-rotting fluff, Intimacy, Love confessions, Fade to Black Spice, Nudity, Bathing together, Sharing Bed, Petite Tav, Tav is smol but mighty

Characters/Pairings: Rolan x Tav, Tiefling!Tav, Rolan, Cal, Shadowheart (mentioned), Karlach (mentioned)

A/N: Ngl, the ADHD hyperfixation on my Sebastian Sallow fic has faded, but I'll finish it eventually, if anyone is actually interested lol But Rolan from Baldur's Gate 3 is my new fixation, so here's a mildly spicy (as spicy as it will get with me) love confession fic. Takes place after the fight with Lorroakan. Also, if you find any mistakes or grammatical errors, no you didn't

As usual, dividers are by @cafekitsune

Tav sighed contentedly as Rolan’s hand settled on her hip. His Master was dead, and he was safe now. Bloody and banged up, but safe. For now. But the female tiefling pushed the thought away.

Right now, all she wanted to focus on was him. Rolan. Her Rolan. His hands held her so gently against him as his nose brushed over hers delicately. The base of his horns nestled perfectly between her curled ram-like horns.

His warm breath fanned across her face, inhaling each of her exhales. His yellow eyes were closed as he took in everything. Leaving Elturel, running from goblins, and nearly losing his siblings to a cult, then coming to Baldur’s Gate only to find himself thrust into another nightmare.

Those events were behind him now. Lorroakan was dead, and Cal and Lia were safe. Thanks to this beautiful creature in his arms. Another thing he could not quite believe. After how abhorrently he treated her, she still rushed to his side after the battle and pulled him into her arms.

“I love you, Tav,” he murmured, his lips just a breath away from hers. He continued before she could respond, “I think I loved you from the moment you saved me from the shadows. You were a brilliant light in the darkness I never thought I would see again, not since – not since Elturel fell into Avernus. My life had been nothing but hardship but you came in your infinite kindness and saved me and my family. I was ashamed of the kind of man I was – still am. So undeserving of you, but I find myself thinking of you every moment of every day, needing you, craving you. You have become oxygen to me, and without you, the flame of my life would be snuffed out. I cannot bear to go another day without you. Please, my darling, end my agony and tell me you feel the same. Or tell me now that I am a fool for thinking you may, and I can go drown myself in the Chionthar.”

“No drowning will be necessary, you silly wizard.” Her soft voice reached his ears through the rushing of blood. His heart leaped in his chest and he pulled away to search her eyes properly. Her usual sharp-toothed grin was soft; her purple eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“I love you, Rolan,” she reached up to caress his bruised cheek, her deep purple-gray skin feather-light on his. “Under all the thorns and hurt, I saw a man who cared so deeply for his family, one who would do anything for them. You are brave, and you are strong, Rolan. Strength comes in so many different forms. Your strength and devotion made me love you.”

His salty tears stung the wounds on his face but her words were a soothing balm on the ones on his heart. Aside from Cal and Lia, no one had ever been so kind to him. Had loved him as he was. Had seen his flaws as strengths. Rolan had never met someone like her. And she was his.

“I- I would very much like to kiss you, now.” He mumbled, unable to think of any flowery words to express what he was feeling. He figured it best to show her instead. “Please.”

At his cracked voice and puppy eyes, Tav wasted no time in nodding her head and sliding her arms around his neck. Her lips paused just a fraction away to allow him to make the first move.

His claw-tipped hand cupped the side of her neck, while his thumb hooked under her jaw to tilt her face up towards him. He had not realized before how small Tav was, her strength and audacity making her seem much taller. Her delicate frame in his hold enticed the wizard even more.

Softly, his lips ghosted over hers as if testing the reality of her willingness. But when she made no move to pull away, only gripping his shoulder tighter, Rolan finally gave in.

The sensations and images his mind had conjured late in the night when he could not sleep - when he could only think of her - paled in comparison to this burning reality. While she let him lead the kiss, her touch was branded into his skin. Each swipe of her tongue against his, every small tug on his hair, sent fire blazing through his body.

She moved in tandem with him, pulling with his push, rising with his fall. Her body was the missing puzzle piece to his, her curves filling his edges.

Rolan moaned into her mouth and his hands gripped her hips tighter as her tail curled around his. The red appendage tightened around hers in return, the tip flicking over the barbed end of her gray tail.

The scrape of her claws against his scalp sent delicious heat downwards, only amplified by the soft whimper she let out at his tail’s ministrations. But as his mouth left hers, trailing kisses across her cheek, down to her jaw, and finally to her neck, she let out a pained gasp.

Immediately, Rolan’s mouth and hands were off of her, but he left their tails twined together.

“I’m sorry, I- did I hurt you?”  Rolan scanned her face and neck, but other than a few bruises, she appeared fine.

“No, you didn’t, don’t be sorry.” She pulled further away so she could roll her neck and shoulder, whimpering again at the painful twinge in her shoulder. “I think I got hit in the back, on my shoulder, during the fight, and tilting my head to the side hurt.”

Guilt filled him. She was hurt on his behalf. Of course, Dame Aylin also had a bone to pick with Lorroakan, but Rolan had seen the stormy look in Tav's eyes when she first came to Sorcerous Sundries, and the absolutely murderous look moments before the fight began. She was fighting for him, just as she always had. And now he had made it worse because he was caught up in his lust for her.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I should have gotten you to a healer first. Come, I believe we could still catch up with your cleric friend.” He grabbed her hand without giving her a chance to rebut him and gently tugged her along.

Trailing slightly behind him, Tav smiled widely. It would seem she was included now in his list of people he was stubbornly protective over. She skipped up to his side, wriggling her hand in his grasp to change their position. Long red fingers laced with dainty purple-gray ones.

Tav looked up at him through dark lashes but Rolan kept his face determinedly pointed ahead. She giggled at the darkened skin of his face, from his neck to the pointed tips of his ears.

She did not know what tomorrow would bring, or even the next few hours. But as she and her wizard entered the main floor of Sorcerous Sundries, and Karlach squealed at the sight of their tails coiled around each other, she found that the anxiety that plagued her had faded into the back of her mind.

Such worries are for another time, she thought to herself. Currently, she could think of little else other than the feeling of Rolan’s tail wrapped around hers, or his thumb stroking along the back of her hand as Shadowheart healed her.

With the others returned to the Elfsong, Rolan refused to let her leave, keeping a firm grip on her hand and tail. Her face burned as her companions all left with sly grins and raunchy quips.

“You really did not need to encourage them,” Tav sighed as he led her up to the tower. He chuckled but only shrugged. Truthfully, he felt that he had to. Quite a few of her companions looked at her in the same light he did.

Before, when he had no hope of her returning his feelings, he tried to convince himself she would have been better off with one of them. They knew her better, and longer. But now that he has her, a possessive beast rose in him that he didn’t know existed.

“I simply cannot bear the idea of you sharing a room with a man that isn’t me. Even if it is in separate beds.” He paused and pulled her in close. They had arrived at one of the floors of the Tower with bedrooms. None of them belonged to him, however. He does not think he could handle the shame if she were to find out the closet he had been permitted to sleep in.

At least he knew from his chores that these rooms were clean. And had very, very large beds. But first - his eyes caught the blood and dirt caked to her skin and light armor – a bath.

Her stomach flipped at the tone in his voice. It was the same one he used when dragging her to see Shadowheart. Firm, commanding – but low and gentle. She bit her lip to stop the schoolgirl giggle rising in her chest.

“But we could only afford the one room, it’s not as though there’s somewhere we could all stay and have multiple rooms. It’d be far too expensive,” Tav said facetiously, reaching up to curl one of his loose locks of hair around her fingers. He, too, needed a bath.

He narrowed his yellow eyes at her, a playful smirk stretching across his face. “Is that so?” He wrapped his arms around her waist backing them up until his tail could grab the handle of the bathroom door they stood in front of.

She nodded and hummed sweetly in confirmation. The grandeur of the bathroom hardly captured her eye, especially since someone far more radiant was right before her.

“That is too bad, then,” he sighed heavily, gently picking at the knots of her armor to free her of the blood-stained leather. “If only there was a dashingly handsome,” the first bit of armor fell. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she gazed at his lips. “Generous.” She smiled wistfully, more armor falling. “Talented wizard, with a large tower with plenty of rooms, who would let you all stay. Free of charge, of course.”

She was left in only her linen top and thick black trousers. But now she was free of her armor - a vision he had never seen before - he could fully take in the curves of her body. Hells, she was beautiful. His breathing grew heavy as he fiddled with the hem of her shirt, eyes locked on her lips.

The black-painted lips holding his attention stretched wide, revealing sharp canines. “Sounds like a dream,” she breathed. “If you find such a wizard, let me know.” Her teasing smile set molten fire through his veins.

“Oh, hush, you.” He growled before pulling her into a searing kiss. Behind them, a mage hand filled the tub and bubbles filled the air. His hands moved slowly - reverently – removing the last of her clothing.

Her hands, less interested in being the only one bare, also shifted his robes from his body.

With death still looming over her head, or in it, she did not want to squander this opportunity. This opportunity to show him how much she loved him. How much she desired him.

Within the warm waters of the massive tub, Tav and Rolan showed each other the love each of them wished they had in the past. The pain of their upbringing, recent tragedies, the fear of the future, it was all washed away with the blood and dirt under the loving touch of their partner.

The morning sun filtered in through a crack in the heavy green curtains. But its light did not quite reach the slumbering couple on the bed, buried under pillows and blankets. She had created a nest of sorts before they fell asleep, akin to the one she said she had in her tent.

Rolan had sunk blissfully into her arms under the cover of her nest, laying heavily on top of her. She hummed a small tune and ran her fingers through his still-damp hair. And he would deny it to the Hells and back, but she definitely heard him purr when her claws traced the ridges along his bare back.

As the two lovers stirred, stretching blissfully sore muscles, they shared a soft kiss. Sometime in the night, Rolan had shifted from on top of her to lay beside her, cradling her soft, nude body to his. Utter bliss. He wondered if her tadpole had worked its way into his brain and ate a hole in it. This feeling of bliss and happiness could not be normal.

“Morning,” her voice was hushed, barely loud enough for him to hear. She had been rather – loud, last night. He would need to get her some tea for that.

“Good morning, my sweet love,” he greeted in an equally gravelly voice. She hummed and nuzzled deeper into his chest, tightening her arms around him.

“I do not wish to leave this bed,” she mourned. Her dark mulberry lips pressed light kisses to his chest. He chuckled at the positively bratty tone. She usually carried herself with poise and authority, traits beaten into her as a Ranger. Seeing this side of her filled him with pride. He doubted her own pride allowed her to show this side to many others.

Especially the way she acted last night. Gone was the hardened but sarcastic leader he had grown accustomed to. In her place was a yielding, gentle, and languid creature. She basked under him, letting him do as he pleased. He had no issues with the change in attitude.

She’s perfect, he mused as he brushed his fingers through her midnight locks. How had the gods created such a perfect creature and then cursed her to live such a life? He pressed his lips to her forehead.

“As much as I would love to tie you to this bed, my love, I’m afraid we both have responsibilities to address.” She huffed and hooked her leg around him, clinging to him like a leech.

“I don’t wanna,” came her muffled reply. “Stop being so responsible. We're always responsible.”

It was true. Of their separate groups, they were the responsible ones. She was the leader of her troupe and he was the older brother. But unfortunately, these are two duties that do not disappear overnight. How tragic that would be.

“I know, trust me, darling,” he slowly sat them up, keeping the blanket wrapped around them. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but duty calls. And honestly, if we’re not down there soon, I’m sure either my siblings or one of your companions will come looking.”

She groaned and nipped at his collarbone. “I hate that you are right.”

“Hm, not often that I am when you’re around, it would seem.” He grinned smugly. She was always right, so he would take this win. She smacked her hand over his chest and pushed him away with a huff.

“Don’t let it get to your head, love,” she snarked back. The morning air was cool against her skin as she left the warm confines of her nest and lover’s arms. She paused. Is that what they were? Lovers?

They had confessed their love and spent the night together but what came next? She still had an illithid tadpole swimming in her skull, and the Absolute’s cult was preparing to attack any day now. Was a relationship really a smart idea in times such as these?

She turned to Rolan who had also left the nest and was reaching for his robes. His red skin, lined with ridges and toned muscles, had a soft glow in the morning light. His hair, usually tied back, was unbound and fell around his shoulders in gentle waves.

Affection swelled in her heart as she watched him silently. He had his lower lip caught in one fanged tooth; brows furrowed as he looked now for the armor he wore across his shoulders.

“I love you,” she said, her tone factual and clear. Whether it was a good idea or not, now that she had him, she was not going to let him go. For as long as she lived, no matter how short that time may be.

Rolan’s head perked up from picking up her underclothes. She smiled and padded over to him. His lips formed a soft smile and he helped her into her clothes with just as much reverence he had when undressing her the night before.

Kneeled before her, his hand trailed up her legs as he pulled her undergarments up, being extra careful of her tail. Rolan’s lips pressed against her stomach before he rose to his feet.

Her chest bindings came next and he could not help but trail his claws down her ribs. Tav jerked and a small laugh escaped her. He had discovered this rather adorable trait of hers when they had been bathing. And he loved it.

He took his time, caressing every bit of her as he adorned her with freshly cleaned clothes and armor.

“I love you more than you could ever know, my darling.” He held her close once the last bit of her armor was in place. She was glad that her skin was such a deep tone and the curtains were still partially drawn, otherwise, he would have seen the deep flush that bloomed from the moment he began dressing her.

“I think I might have an idea,” she whispered, breath fanning over his lips. “No one has treated me with such love and devotion as you have, Rolan. I know we started off rocky, but if I was given the chance to do it again – knowing that we would be here in each other’s arms – I would do it all over again. Tadpoles, goblins, and all.”

A shaky breath escaped him as he pressed his forehead against hers, the base of their horns rubbing pleasantly. “I am sorry for the way I treated you before. You are right, I was scared and protective of my family. But you proved to me there is still goodness in this world. I am happy we met, and I would do anything to keep what we have.”

Their tears mingled when she shifted to embrace his, cheeks pressed together. Soon, they would need to leave this room, this small slice of Heaven, of safety and love.

“I will return to you, I promise.” She sniffled, leaning herself into his arms. Rolan hid his face in her neck, arms caged around her. If only he had actually learned something from that bastard - then maybe he'd be of more use to her.

“Tell me what I can do. What can I do to ensure you do?” His voice was small and raspy, so close to sobbing. “I do not wish to even imagine a world without you in it. This tower, my magic, and studies, means nothing if I can’t have you beside me.”

“Stay here, for me. Not only because I wish for you to remain safe, but this tower is filled with mountains of undiscovered knowledge. We may be able to use it against the Absolute. I know no one better for this task than the Master of the Tower, himself.” She pulled away with an adoring smile.

Rolan kissed her then. Only she could make him hiding away from the battlefront seem necessary, crucial even.

“As you wish, my love. Whatever you need, I will be sure to have it ready.” He knew of some cannons the Tower was equipped with, but were not operational – another of Lorroakan’s neglected duties.

A knock sounded from the door of the bedroom.

“Rolan? Tav? Everyone is gathered downstairs, Gale prepared breakfast for everyone.” Cal's voice was muffled by the heavy wood. “Better hurry down before it’s gone.”

“We should go, that food won’t last long and I’m starved.” Tav pulled away and laced her fingers with his, tugging him to the door. “Gale’s cooking is honestly to die for so we might even already be too late.”

Rolan followed, tethered to her not only by their hands but by the invisible string he could feel tied around his heart, leading to hers.

They would make it out of this, safe and sound. They both swore on it silently. Then, they would begin their forever, together.

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

I Found You (Bucky Barnes X Rogers!Reader)

Words: 4.1k

Warnings/Themes: Angst! Character death, abduction, torture, human experimentation, allusions to PTSD, depression, thoughts of wanting to be unalived

Characters/Pairings: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Rogers!Reader, Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter (Mentioned), Howling Commandos (Mentioned)

misspygmypie asked:

Hello 🥰 I saw your request post and figured I'd send something in. I've had this idea for years, and it would be fun to read it!

You know when Steve finds and rescues Bucky at Hydra in the first movie? What if it's reader who they're rescuing and Hydra did some experiments on. Maybe she's Steves sister and they wanted to get to him through her and obviously Bucky has a thing for her lol 🥰

A/N: Sincerest apologies for taking so long to get this up. I've been taking on extra duties at work since my partner got fired and things have been super crazy since it's end of quarter. it also hasn't been the best for my mental health, so writing had been a struggle. probably why this ended up being so dang angsty. Sorry. Adulting seriously sucks. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Rain pattered gently on the canvas walls of the medical tent, while boots splashed noisily in the mud it created. Outside of the tent, she could hear the daily drills going on, soldiers training, and officers shouting commands. Her own fellow nurses milled about the tent, tending to wounded soldiers or doing other daily chores. It was a quiet day for the 107th Infantry Regiment.

“Alright, Private Richards, try not to go sticking your hand into random holes again. I doubt the next rabbit will be so kind.” Nimble fingers began tidying up the bloodied cotton balls and gauze used to clean and wrap the boy’s hand. 18 years old, you would think he’d know better than to stick his hand in holes in the ground.

“Yes, First Lieutenant, ma’am…” The boy grabbed his jacket and sulked out of the med tent. She laughed to herself as she watched him go. Knowing him, he’d be back soon enough. Not unlike his Sergeant, who wandered in a few moments later, a lazy smirk on his lips.

James Buchanan Barnes. Or as she’s known for most of her life, Bucky. The charming Sergeant was her older brother’s best friend, having been around since she was small. They were all thick as thieves, hardly seen without one of the others.

It may or may not have been a blessing to constantly have Bucky around. He was kind, funny, and took good care of her and her brother. However, other boys and men didn’t seem too eager to get to know her with him hanging at her shoulder. It’s even worse now with Steve being triple the size he was a year ago.

Occasionally, a brave soul will strike up the nerve to enter the medical tent and ask her out to the nearest town for a drink and a dance. But Bucky had uncanny timing. He always popped up just as she was about to answer.

“Now, a pretty face like that shouldn’t look so angry.” A voice sounded in her ear. A startled gasp escaped her and her hands fumbled the tools she had been organizing. Bucky caught a pair of forceps before they could hit the floor.

“James! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” She admonished him with a firm smack on the shoulder. He chuckled and rubbed the sore spot.

“Ow, careful there, doll. Gonna take my arm off with that strength.”

“Oh please, it’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of you.” She spun out of his reach when he tried to grab her arm. A small smile graced her lips as she made a final spin to face him. “Did you need something, Bucky?”

“What, I can’t come see my best girl just because I want to?

 “I know your troop is supposed to be running the course right now, so no you can’t just come see me because you want to,” she said while gesturing for him to sit on the cot in the corner or her station. “Now, what mess did you get yourself into to be sent here?”

“You know me so well, Darlin’,” he whispered wistfully, smiling up at her with those big blues. He wore a dopey smile as he presented his cut left hand. She pursed her lips and tried to fight the blush rising to her cheeks. Damn him.

Stepping closer, she took his calloused hand into her softer one and observed the cut. It wasn’t too deep but still needed to be cleaned and dressed.

“What happened?” She remained in between his legs as she prepped some alcohol and gauze. His right hand toyed with the fabric of her skirt. With a narrowed look, she smacked the back of it.

“Just a climbing exercise; a nail was sticking out of the wall and caught my hand.” His voice was hushed as she worked. She hummed and began cleaning the wound. He hissed and jerked his hand back. With eyes rolling, the nurse grabbed his hand more firmly.

“You big baby.”

“Your big baby.” She smacked his arm again.

<><>

Gunshots fired all around her, men shouting and screaming. Some in pain, some as a battle cry. But all she could think about was how gentle Bucky’s hands had been in hers. And how much she wished it was his hands on her right now.

But larger, rougher hands now tore at her. Pushing and pulling. She screamed from behind her gag and her hands strained against the restraints. Black boots kicked out at her captors as she fought like a feral cat. She twisted this way and that, anything to loosen their grip on her. But against four burly men, she didn’t stand a chance.

She guessed they had gotten tired of her struggling because a blunt weapon struck the back of her head and she fell limp to the ground.

It was cold. Colder than she had ever been. The air was damp, making the ache in her lungs worse. Blurry eyes peeled open. The room she sat in was dark, only a green-tinted light on the other side of the room illuminated the space. Its murky light cast deep shadows around the room that seemed to move. Her head lolled to the side as one shadow moved closer.

Ah, not shadows. Men. Hydra.

“Good evening, Miss Rogers.” His voice was heavily accented and polite. Nothing like what you’d imagine a torturer or murderer to sound like. “I am honored to have Captain America’s sister as my guest.”

She groaned. The gag was no longer wrapped around her mouth, but her tongue felt like lead. Thoughts struggled to focus and grasp what this man was saying.

“Such a shame, a First Lieutenant, Chief Nurse, so much promise in your future. But because of your brother, you’ll never get to meet that future. We have another one much better suited for you.”

His words floated through her mind but didn’t stick. She was a nurse… She helps people. Why was she here? There were soldiers at camp that needed her. Bucky needed her…

“..ucky…” She slurred, drool dribbling from the corner of her mouth. Her bones felt heavier than lead and her muscles were like the slop served at breakfast. The shadows at the edge of her vision danced ever closer.

“Don’t worry, my dear, you’ll forget the pain soon.”

<><> 

Bucky tore through the camp, Steve hot on his heels. His blue eyes roved over the multitude of bodies and injured, searching for that familiar head of hair. Always done up so prettily. Like last week when she was bandaging up his hand. Her nails were painted red, and her hair was twisted up into a flawless bun. Her red-painted lips smiled warmly at him. Fear gripped his heart at the idea that he would never see that smile again.

“Bucky, stop!” Steve clamped a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, forcing the Sergeant to a stop. It wouldn’t do his sister any good if they lost their heads. As much as he wanted to tear the whole world apart until his sister was safe, he knew that reckless actions could get her killed. If she wasn’t dead already…

“She’s – she’s gone, Steve. Where is she!?” Bucky spun to face Steve, his eyes wide and slightly crazed. He can’t lose her. He never got to take her on a date. Never got to hold her close and confess how deeply and fervently he love her. Bucky bit down on his lip to stop its wobble. He can’t cry, not yet. Not while there’s still a possibility she’s out there.

“I know. I know, Buck. We’ll get her back. No matter what.”

Footsteps rushed up to the pair. A soldier stopped in front of them, slightly out of breath. “A-a letter for you, sir. It-it has the hydra insignia.”

Upon reading the contents, Steve and Bucky took off to Colonel Phillips' tent. The older man sat at a desk, signing letters to the families of the deceased and missing. Steve hardly gave the man time to put his pen down before requesting a team to rescue the captured. He decided to leave out the fact that he was only doing this to get his sister back.

“I understand the heroic need to save the day, but those who have been taken prisoner are far behind enemy lines and we don’t have the manpower or resources to conduct a rescue mission.” Phillips’ response was expected, but it didn’t stop Bucky’s jaw from clenching or his hands from balling into fists.

The Colonel looked at the two young men standing in front of him. He knew exactly why they wanted to go. Only a fool would think that Captain America wouldn’t move heaven and earth for the younger Rogers. An even bigger fool wouldn’t see the lovesick look every time James Barnes was near her, or the way his gaze follows her as she walks across the base.

Phillips sighed heavily, digging through a stack of letters yet to be signed. First Lieutenant Y/N Rogers. MIA.

Steve took the letter with shaking hands. Bucky felt a tear roll down his cheek.

They were dismissed and the two trudged away. A silent look was exchanged and they agreed. They would go after her with or without permission.

<><> 

“…name… Rogers…” Chapped lips mumbled her name over and over again. A tired mind determined to hold on to herself. Don’t forget. Don’t forget. “…Y/N… Rogers…”

“Y/N?” A voice hissed.

“Y/N/N?” A different voice, closer this time.

“Steve! She’s here!” The buckles around her wrists and ankles fell off one by one. Warm, calloused hands that she dreamed about cupped her face. She groaned and willed the fog from her brain. These hands. Bucky’s hands.

“Buck…” She croaked, red lipstick smudged, and once pristine hair hanging limply around her face. His smile brightened the shadows in her vision. Steve had joined them and helped her sit up.

“Hey, doll. What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” Giving her a watery smile, he pushed the hair from her face. The cheap line earned him a weak chuckle.

“Oh, what any girl does in a place like this,” she responded. Together, the two men helped her to her feet. The room pitched suddenly, her legs giving out under her. Whatever they had given her made her legs weak.

“Guess you make me a little weak in the knees,” she joked as Bucky swept her into his arms. She tucked her head into his neck, leaning heavily into him. Steve carefully led the way out, checking around corners and taking out any enemy soldiers that they crossed paths with.

Eventually, the trio made it out of the now-burning building. A mass of freed soldiers met them and together the company fought their way back to their camp. Bucky cradled her close to his chest the entire time. He stuck close to Steve, letting him take the punches. Steve didn’t mind.

For almost two weeks she was laid up in a cot in the medical tent. It was strange, in the years that she had been an army nurse, she had been the one giving care. She had never been the patient. And the patient of her subordinates, no less.

Her closer friends teased her that she was a horrible patient. Their teasing helped ease the residual anxiety and adrenaline from her ordeal. But what had really helped, was Bucky’s constant presence. During meal time and recreation time, he would come to visit her in the medical tent. Steve would drop by as well, but it was mostly Bucky.

As the days passed, Bucky seemed more and more nervous, however. Like he had something to say, just on the tip of his tongue. Sometimes, when he maybe thought she wasn’t looking, she caught him looking guilty. She hoped beyond hope that he didn’t blame himself for what had happened.

“You’re cleared to return to light duty, First Lieutenant,” Second Lieutenant Fredricks said with a smile.

The first few days of light duty were spent organizing and assisting. Then after a week, she was cleared to begin training again. Nurses didn’t necessarily need to do the drills the men did, but it didn’t mean they couldn’t. She also preferred to stay in shape and to keep her skills from going rusty.

Growing up with her brother being bullied, Y/N learned how to defend not only herself but Steve, as well. The elder Rogers sibling didn’t care for her fighting but he did appreciate that in a pinch, she could defend herself.

In the early morning, dressed in a pair of trousers and a simple shirt, Y/N makes her way to the track. A run should be light enough.

She could make out the tall frames of Steve and Bucky amongst the other men getting ready for their morning run. Bucky smiled as she approached.

“Hey, how’s it going? You sure you’re okay to be running?” Bucky brushed his hand over hers when she stopped in front of him. The touch made her stomach flutter but she smiled confidently at him.

“Actually, I’ve never felt better. I’m tired of being cooped up in the med tent for so long.” She bent to tighten her boots’ laces. Bucky shrugged and patted her shoulder, teasingly telling her to not fall behind. She scoffed and took off after the troops in a light jog.

Steve and Bucky kept pace with her, both worrying she might become too tired and collapse. Their hovering and not-so-subtle glances did not go unnoticed by her. Irritation settled quickly in her bones. She wasn’t some fragile flower. Just because something bad happened to her doesn’t mean she going to break at any moment.

Spurred by anger, her legs moved faster on their own accord. Steve glanced at his best friend as they sped up to match. Soon, the three of them were overtaking the other troops. Bucky was breathing heavily as they passed the frontman, now in a full sprint.

“W-wait!” He panted as the two Rogers siblings were now racing down the path. How was she running that fast!? How wasn’t she tired? Her smaller frame broke past Steve, who was now struggling to keep up.

The younger Rogers didn’t even notice the concerned and shocked looks she was receiving. The wind rushing in her ears and the trees blurring in her vision was all she could focus on. She felt like she was flying; her feet barely touching the ground. She felt free.

She burst into the clearing at the end of their running trail, the morning sun warming her wind-chilled skin. The grass kicked up as she skidded to a halt. A laugh erupted from her, her head light with adrenaline and awe. Then reality sunk in.

Bucky and Steve broke through the tree line a few minutes later.

“Y/N!”

She turned to look at them, her brows scrunched together and lips forming a thin line.

“They did this to me…” She murmured, gazing turning down at her clenched fists. She had thought she was feeling so good because she survived Hydra’s torment. How quickly this revelation brought her down. They poked and prodded, injected, and dissected. They had changed her.

“Doll?” Bucky approached her slowly, hands out in front of him. Seeing her lip wobble had his heart shattering in him. Throwing caution to the wind, he wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest, drowning her sobs in the rough fabric of his shirt. Her brother stood beside them, rubbing his hand over her shoulders.

“I’ve got ya, sweets. I got ya,” Bucky muttered into her hair. “We’re gonna figure this out. It’ll be okay.”

Lord, he hoped he was telling the truth.

<><> 

Months went by as she adjusted to her new abilities. After she discovered her inhuman speed, she quickly learned she was inhumanly strong. Not as strong as her brother, but definitely stronger than any other man in the camp.

She began training with the men, easily laying anyone flat during sparring. Even Steve struggled against her. While he surpassed her in strength, she made it up in speed and agility. She had been given the moniker of Lady Liberty once the higher-ups found out.

But despite the usefulness of these abilities. She couldn’t help but feel violated. Every night she woke up in a cold sweat, dreaming of their cold instruments and icy laughter. More than once she ended up in the clearing from months before.

Each time she made it out there, Bucky wasn’t far behind. He held her as he had back then, whispering comforting words and stroking her hair. This night began no differently than the others. They sat in the middle of the clearing, the half-moon illuminated above their heads.

“I’m sorry, Bucky… You don’t have to come out here with me every night.” She sniffled, wiping her tears from her cheeks. She was settled in between his stretched-out legs, her own draped over one of his thighs. He shook his head and sighed.

“I don’t mind, Doll. Really.” Soft lips pressed against her temple. “Unless you tell me to go, I won’t leave your side. I can’t.”

Shining eyes looked up into his baby blues. She had never felt so safe and protected as she did in Bucky’s arms. Even though she could easily kick his butt in a fight, she knew he would fight tooth and nail for her. And she would burn down the world for him.

There was no doubt in her mind as she pressed her lips to his. He sighed against her as he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer by the waist. Everything clicked into place with this kiss. They had been dancing around this thing between them for years, neither willing to take the leap and possibly lose what they already had.

But the feeling of her lips on his, the taste of her on his tongue had him bitterly regretting not doing this sooner. How many kisses could they have had? How many dates and late nights have they missed? He sure had a lot of time to make up.

“I love you, Y/N.” His breath fanned across the skin of her neck as his kiss-swollen lips brushed along it.

“I love you, James.”

<><> 

Over the next two years, the Howling Commandos slowly but surely made their way through the Hydra bases. First Lieutenant Rogers led alongside her brother, Captain Rogers. Not only as extra muscle, but as a nurse, and occasionally, spy. Bucky didn’t like the idea of his girl being ogled by slimy nazi men, but she convinced him that no one would expect a woman to be a super soldier.

She would infiltrate their meetings as a piece of eye candy, acquiring information as needed and then arresting the men as she saw fit.

But this particular mission didn’t require revealing dresses or sultry makeup. Rather, she wore a winter coat and combat boot with reinforced soles. The speed that she ran quickly ate through nearly all of her shoes.

The Commandos were all situated on a cliff overlooking another with a set of train tracks. They were waiting on the train carrying Doctor Zola. Glove-covered hands clenched at her side. Doctor Zola. One of the men who had turned her into this. Turned her into a weapon.

Bucky’s heavy hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her to his side. His soft lips brushed against her temple.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he reassured. “We go in, kick some ass, and then get out. Easy.”

She chuckled and pressed a kiss to his waiting lips. The other men had the decency to look away from the couple.

“Alright, lovebirds, let’s get a move on.” Steve’s voice called out from the edge of the cliff.

She scoffed at her brother and kissed her sergeant once more. “See you on the other side, tiger.”

<><> 

Things were going south very quickly. Hydra had more gun power than she had thought. A huge man with bigger guns than himself stood in the doorway to their car. His guns glowed blue as they powered up.

Steve shoved both his sister and Bucky behind him, holding up his shield. The blast had her teeth rattling in her skull, her body flying back further than the boys. The impact of her head hitting the metal floor caused stars to dance in her vision.

She could barely comprehend the cold rush of air from the massive hole in the side of the train. And before she could gather herself, the man was priming another shot, pointed directly at her. Shaking legs tried to bare her weight as she scrambled for her gun.

Bucky had gathered himself faster than her or her brother, so she could only watch as he picked up Steve’s shield and fired a few shots at the enemy. A scream ripped from her throat when blue light shot out at her sergeant.

Bucky went flying, the shield in the other direction. Both the Rogers siblings jumped into action. Steve went for the shield, quickly taking out the other man. She leaped for the hole in the wall of the train that Bucky had flown out of.

Her eyes widened with horror as she gazed upon the man she loved, hanging on for dear life to the crumbling handrails.

“Bucky! Hold on!” She reached out to him, trying to find her footing to get to him and pull him to safety. The look in his eyes was one she had never seen on him before. Blue eyes wide with fear, his mouth poised in a silent scream. And as his fingers brushed against hers, tips barely able to curl around each other, he was gone.

His scream was joined by hers. The image of him falling to his death will forever be ingrained in her mind. It’ll be the last thing on her mind as she goes to sleep and the first one when she wakes up. It’ll be there when she fights her way through Hydra soldiers, and as she sends her fist straight into Johann Schmidt’s ugly, red face.

Steve worried about his sister’s mental health since that day. She had retreated into herself. Long gone was the witty and strong woman he knew. His sister, who had always been so bright, had been replaced by someone who only knew how to fight.

She only spoke to give orders or to communicate during battle. Her words were always clipped and to the point; no room for banter or sarcasm. The icy wall she had built around herself was all to conceal the torment her mind tortured her with.

If only she had been stronger, maybe she wouldn’t have been down for so long. If she had been faster, she could have reached him before he fell. If she had been better, maybe he wouldn’t have died. Every moment was filled with these thoughts. Awake or not. It was all she could think about.

Eventually, she became too tired. She fought with everything she had; Bucky at least deserved that. She wouldn’t give up simply because it would mean he died in vain. However, with each new opponent, she could help but wish that this one would be stronger than her.

No opponent was ever stronger than her. Until now.

It wasn’t a person that she now faced her death with. But a plane filled with explosives. Schmidt was gone, as was the Tesseract. Now, she and her brother faced the cracked windows of the plane. She tried to keep her lip from trembling as Steve spoke with Peggy.

Even if she hadn’t gotten her happy ending, she had wished her big brother would have gotten his. Tear-filled eyes opened when she felt a hand come to rest on hers. Steve’s face was solemn as he spoke.

“I’ve gotta put it in the water.” He was half telling Peggy and half asking for permission from his sister. It wasn’t just his life going down for millions of others, but his little sister’s, too. The siblings shared a weighty look before she nodded.

Lady Liberty listened quietly as Captain America spoke with Agent Carter. No.

Y/N listened brokenheartedly as her big brother said his goodbyes to the woman he loved and who loved him in return.

And as Steve redirected the plane to the icy terrain below, she closed her eyes and imagined the warm hands of her love. His blue fire eyes and easy grin. The feel of his lips against hers. The sound of her name on his tongue.

I’m coming, Bucky.

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Just wanted to let you know that Perfect for Me made me cry 🥲

I won't lie, I cried while writing it 😭 But even though you cried I hope you enjoyed it 😅

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Perfect For Me (Steven Grant x Reader)

Words: 2.2K

Warnings/Themes: Angst,Self-hatred, body insecurity, hurt/comfort, fluff, light nudity (non-sexual)

Characters/Pairings: Steven Grant x reader, Marc Spector

liavaleska asked:

Hellooo! How are you? I hope you are doing great. Can I request something where reader comforts Steven Grant when he is feeling insecure about his body? Ty❤️

A/N: Sorry it took me a while to get this up! But here it is and I hope you enjoy it. It came out a tab bit angstier than I intially wanted but I'm quite proud of this one! Let me know what you think :)

Tired eyes mindlessly watched the little goldfish bob around its tank. The only sound filling the apartment was that of the tank’s filter. Rain pattered against the windows. Each door that opened or closed in the building had her peeking at the door through the tank. It was a quiet evening. As it had been for the past few days, nearing two weeks.

Nearly two weeks of silence. All because the other occupant of the apartment was hardly around anymore. Something was up with one of the boys. She had hoped one of them would have confided in her. But they are alters of Marc Spector. Mr. Secret.

The notion of her husband keeping secrets saddened her. It wasn’t hard to suspect that something was wrong. Steven would be up before her and leaving for work earlier than usual. Before he would wrap himself tighter around her when her alarm would go off, begging her to stay in bed for a few more minutes.

He had also picked up the habit of jogging. At first, she had been happy for him; happy he had found a healthy hobby. But now she’s questioning how healthy it really is. The bags under his eyes darkened with the passing of each day. Getting up early, going on jogs, and working as Khonshu’s personal plaything, had to be tiring. Not to mention she didn’t really see him enough to confirm that he had eaten that day.

“At least you’re around, huh, Gus?” She murmured, chin resting on her palm. The fish swam into his pyramid. A groan left her as she hung her head. Great. Even the fish didn’t want to spend time with her. Pushing out of her seat, she decided it was time for bed. The clock on the wall read 1am.

A quick glance at her phone showed that her messages had been read. But there had been no response.

‘Hey, love. Just wondering when you’ll be home. Any ideas for dinner?’

Read at 7:30pm.

‘Hey, again, you’re probably busy so I wrapped up dinner for you. Chinese takeout, your favorite! Love you <3’

Read at 10:46pm

With a heavy heart, she typed out one last text.

‘Going to bed now. Love you, darling’

She didn’t wait for a reply and stuck her phone on the charger. Tears pricked at her eyes as she stared at the empty bed. This would be the sixth night in a row that she would be going to bed by herself. The cold, white duvet laughed up at her. Sniffling, she padded over to the closet and pulled out one of Steven’s hoodies, and tugged it on. His scent filled her nose but didn’t bring the comfort she craved. Rather, it broke the dam holding back her tears.

She wished she could help him. Wished he let her help him. Wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone in whatever he was going through. If only he would just let her in. Her teeth bit into the soft flesh of her lip as she tried to stifle the sobs. Curled up on the bed, she hugged Steven’s pillow to her chest.

Keys knocking against the door had her freezing. The door slowly creaked open and heavy, tired footsteps entered the apartment. The sound of a duffle hitting the floor broke her out of her trance and had her shooting up.

“Steven?” The figure outlined by the light of the fish tank shuffled over to the bed, standing at the foot.

“No, sorry…” Marc said, voice low and, dare she say, sad. She quickly flicked on the lamp on her nightstand, beckoning him towards her.

“What’s wrong, Marc? Are- are you guys okay?”

Marc was silent for a few heartbeats, his silence giving her time to think of every possible thing that could be wrong. Steven doesn’t love her anymore, Khonshu’s asking too much, they have some terminal disease… Her lip wobbled more with each new possibility.

“No… No, we’re not okay.” Marc whispered, “Steven doesn’t want me to tell you… but I don’t think he’s okay.”

He sounded so tired, and his eyes didn’t even come up to meet hers as he spoke. Whatever was wrong, it had been going on for a while and it’s become too much for Marc to handle. With a frown, she grabbed his hand to tug him onto the bed.

While she wasn’t in a romantic relationship with him, Marc was still important to her. He was like a brother to her. Without him, she wouldn’t even have Steven.

“Tell me, Marc… Tell me what’s wrong,” she begged softly. If he closed the door now after letting her get a toe in, she might completely break down. He sagged forward with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“I just wish I could have protected him better… All of this is my fault. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I know this has been hurting you too, but I don’t know how to help him. He won’t eat; he runs until we have blisters… Hell, he’s been fronting during almost every fight and I can’t make him give me the body…”

It was as if once the words started pouring out of his mouth, they wouldn’t stop.

“The only reason I’m fronting now is that I think he was just too exhausted to…” The sigh that left him was far beyond his age. It was the sigh of someone too tired to continue. “You gotta help us, Y/N… You gotta help Steven.”

With a tear-streaked face, she nodded.

<><> 

Marc had showered and changed into Steven’s favorite pajamas before climbing into bed. Y/N lay on her side of the bed, wishing that it was her husband she was falling asleep next to. She wanted to hold him close, to protect him from the dangers of his own mind. She could only hope that when she woke up, it would be Steven kissing her awake as he used to.

Her sleep was a light and fitful one. An odd form of sleep paralysis. She could hear the sounds of their apartment, and Marc’s heavy snores next to her. But she couldn’t move. Worry and fear gripped her body like a vice.

Time seemed to still be flowing as one moment she was hearing Marc’s snores, then the next Steven’s much softer breaths. Unconsciously, her hand drifted toward her husband. Her love. Her partner who needed her help.

She couldn’t be sure if her hand ever touched him. Because it was his strained whispers that had her fully conscious. The lamp in the living area was lit and he stood in front of a full-length mirror.

“You overstepped, mate. I told you not to tell her.”

She blinked heavily, unsure if this was a dream or not. A quick hand over his side of the bed told her that it was not and that he hadn’t been gone for long.

“I don’t care! If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be here with a big bloody scar on our chest from that fight! Or the other dozen scars everywhere else!” His voice started to rise.

She couldn’t help but stare at his back as he whispered furiously into the mirror on the other side of the apartment.

“She’s not gonna… she wouldn’t want a human scratching post. Y/N deserves more than… this. I mean, look at us…” He inhaled a shuttering breath. His strong hands gripped the edge of the standup mirror. “A million scars, rubbish bags under our eyes… gross stretch marks, unflattering dad bod.”

His final whispered confession had her finally jumping out of bed.

“I just wish I could be the man she deserves.”

She gave him no time to react before she slammed into his back, wrapping her arms around his middle and bunching the fabric of his shirt in her hands.

His breath caught in his throat, shame filling him. He could feel her sobs more than hear them. Gods, he made her upset. That had been the last thing he wanted to do, but Marc’s words from earlier rang through his head.

“You’re hurting her. Leaving early, coming home late, not making love with her, and keeping the lights off when you do. It’s hurting her. She told me so.”

A sob forced its way from his throat, and hot tears fell down his cheeks. His teeth bit harshly into his lip as he bowed his head, unwilling to look at the reflection of Marc’s pitying look.

“I’m so sorry…So, so sorry.” His hands grasped hers over his chest, right over the scar that had started this whole thing. She shook her head, whimpering into his shirt.

“No, please, Steven.” She took a shuddering breath, “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m not mad; or upset with you… I’m upset for you.”

His eyes screwed closed, his lips pressed into a line to suppress his cries.

“I wish I could take this pain away from you. I wish I could love these thoughts out of your mind. You do such an amazing job of protecting me; I wish I did a better job at protecting you.” She pulled her hands from his to drift to his sides and gently turned him to face her.

He kept his head bowed. The shame, the self-hatred, the ugly expression on his face, it wasn’t something she needed to see. The flinch he gave when her gentle hand cupped his cheek was uncontrollable. Her hand dropped back down to her side.

“Steven, let me help you. Whatever you’re trying to keep from me, whatever it is you are trying to hide, I will still love you. Nothing will ever make me not love you; nothing will ever make me think you are undeserving. You are the only man in this entire universe that I will ever love.”

He didn’t flinch when her hand touched him this time. Instead, he pressed his tear-stained cheek into her palm. They both let out heavy breaths. A hand littered with scars he hated so much, gripped her waist. The other, just as scarred as the right, cupped the back of her neck and he brought their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry that I’ve upset you, love. I just... I don’t know how to… how to let someone help. But I know I need it.” Steven swallowed the lump still stuck in his throat. “I am truly fortunate to have you be the one to help me, though.”

“I’m even luckier to have you,” She whispered before leaning forward to press her lips to his. His grip tightened and he pulled her flush to his chest. Flames followed in the wake of her fingers tracing up his stomach to rest on his chest, lovingly stroking the raised skin of the scar. His heart was thundering and he was sure she could feel it under her fingertips.

Salty tears blended on their skin, hiccupping sobs breaking from his sweet lips. As if touching glass, she wiped his tears away, cooing and shushing him. Chocolate eyes locked with hers. Walking backward and not breaking eye contact, she tugged him by the hand towards the bed. Steven followed obediently while wiping his tears with his sleeve.

The bed was cool against her skin as she leaned against the pillows, opening her arms for him. The air was thick with tension as he stood still, watching her. The stifling air was broken when he pulled his shirt over his head with shaking hands. His body is on full display in the dim lighting. While the suit heals wounds, it doesn’t erase scars.

It didn’t seem possible, the amount of love and acceptance in her gaze. It made his breath catch in his throat and warm goosebumps break out over his skin. Wishing for him to be in her arms, she made grabby hands for him. The action made his lips quirk up.

Slowly, he crawled in between her legs and she sat up to wrap her arms around his middle. Soft lips ghosted over the scar as her hands smoothed over his sides. His head was nuzzled into her hair and his arms wrapped around her back.

After breathing each other in, she leaned back and guided him to rest his head on her chest. His strong arms constricted around her middle. Her socked foot caressed his calf while her lips kissed the top of his head.

“If I get too heavy, I can move.” He couldn’t help but mumble. Gentle fingers carded through his hair and trailed down his back. Painted nails lightly scraped over his skin, leaving a trail of more goosebumps.

“If you dare move, I’m going to handcuff you to myself and swallow the key,” she threatened.

Steven let out a breathy chuckle and relaxed more into her. The patterns she was tracing into his skin were hypnotic and slowly, his eyes began to drift closed. A low sweet hum filled his ears.

As he focused on her fingers, he realized she wasn’t just doodling random patterns. It was letters. Words.

‘I love you’

‘Perfect’

‘Strong’

Tears pricked his eyes once more. He tilted his head to press a lingering kiss to her collarbone.

“I’ve got you, Steven. I’m not going anywhere. Not when I’ve got the perfect man for me in my arms.”

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Hello 🥰 I saw your request post and figured I'd send something in. I've had this idea for years, and it would be fun to read it!

You know when Steve finds and rescues Bucky at Hydra in the first movie? What if it's reader who they're rescuing and Hydra did some experiments on. Maybe she's Steves sister and they wanted to get to him through her and obviously Bucky has a thing for her lol 🥰

Only if you're up to it!! Thank you so much :(

Thank you for sending in! I'll definitely add this to my list! I love writing for Bucky ❤️

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Hellooo! How are you? I hope you are doing great. Can I request something where reader comforts Steven Grant when he is feeling insecure about his body? Ty❤️

Hi, darling! Thank you for requesting ❤️ this is such a cute one and I already have some ideas for this! I'll get it out as soon as I can! I hope you're doing great, too 😊

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Send in some requests! I feel like writing this week 😌

Please look at my request guidelines first to see my rules and who I write for!

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Hopelessly Devoted (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Words: 3.7K

Warnings/Themes: Domestic Life, Domestic Fluff, Talk of marriage, Talk of having kids, Marriage Proposal

Characters/Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Dr. Raynor

“How are things going with Y/N?”

He stared at the wall behind the woman. Can’t really say ‘older woman,’ seeing as how he is practically twice her age. But she does look older, he thought to himself. And she likes to nag like his grandmother did.

“Fine. Things are fine.” He’d do anything to be out of this room and with Y/N instead. He’d rather be with her than do anything else, in fact. That’s how ‘fine’ things are going.

“And you two are still doing your own exercises at home?” She questioned him again, her passive-aggressive notebook still sitting on the table next to her. If he were being honest, the exercises he and Y/N did at home helped him far better than sitting in this room with this old crone.

“Yeah.”

“And how are those going?” Question after question. Y/N didn’t need to ask so many questions. She just knew. Granted, her ability to slip into others’ minds helped. Bucky hesitated before giving an answer. If he answered at all the Doc would see that as cooperation and he didn’t feel like doing that. If he lied, she would see through it. But if he told the truth… She would probably see it as progress, and he might be able to quit these court-mandated sessions soon. Truth it is.

“I didn’t have a nightmare last night,” he offered, not quite meeting her eyes, looking at the middle of her forehead. Her eyebrows rose.

“Good. That’s very good.” She paused to observe him; her gaze was cold and calculating compared to the one at home. The one that holds his gaze with so much love and understanding that it makes his chest feel like it was splintering.

“What did you dream about?” She asked.

“That’s kinda personal, Doc.” He hoped the lilt he forced into his voice would satisfy her, trying to imply it was some intimate dream about him and his girlfriend. In a way, it had been.

“This is therapy; it’s supposed to be personal.” She gave him a flat look. Darn. Bucky rubbed his palms on his jeans and looked out the window. He should have just lied.

“James, what did you dream about?” She asked again, her tone slightly softer. “Did you hurt her? In your dream?” She read his anxiousness wrong. Y/N wouldn’t have; even without her powers.

“I said I didn’t have a nightmare.” It would have been the worst nightmare he could possibly have. He couldn’t even bare to think of hurting her. Luckily, he has not had a dream of hurting her. Not after she had laid his ass flat multiple times with just a brush of her powers over his mind. Not after she shoved the soldier back into the basement of his mind when they first met in Berlin.

“So, it was a good one?”

“I didn’t say that.” No, but it had been. It was everything he had dreamed of. He and Y/N, married. A nice house with a white picket fence. The laughter of their kids in the backyard with their dog. And the two of them slow dancing in the kitchen, flour in her hair from baking. The sunlight was soft as it filtered through the lace curtains.

It was everything he had thought he’d have when he had come home from the War. But he never did.

And now that he was getting a taste of it… He didn’t feel like he deserved it.

A tone filled the room, some musical piece to indicate their session was over. It pulled him from reliving his dream. Saved by the bell.

“Well, we’ll pick up here next week, then.” She uncrossed her legs and grabbed her notebook, writing a few notes. He wasted no time to shoot off the couch and make his way to the door, barely mumbling a farewell to the Doc.

“But James,” she called as his metal hand wrapped around the door handle. He paused but didn’t look back at her. She sighed. “You do deserve whatever you dreamt about.” How she knew what kind of dream it had been was beyond him, but her words had his chest constricting.

“Bye, Doc.” He left the room.

Bucky returned to the Compound around lunchtime; he knew she would be in their shared apartment with food waiting. She always ordered the best comfort food on the days he had to see Dr. Raynor. Sushi.

Her singing reached his ears before he opened the door; the sweet sound sent his heart soaring. He smiled as he silently walked to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. She had yet to notice him, with her headphones in and her focus on the dough in front of her.

She was an absolute vision. Her hair was up in a messy bun, secured by a floral pattern scrunchie. She wore one of his white t-shirts that hugged her in all the right places, paired with floral pajama shorts. Simple white socks covered her usually frigid toes.

And she was singing like an angel. A song he hadn’t heard yet, though that was not a surprise. But man, did he sure love hearing her sing.

“My head is saying, ‘Fool, forget him.’ My heart is saying, ‘Don’t let go, hold on to the end,' that’s what I intend to do. I’m hopelessly devoted to you.” She swayed as she rolled up her dough, completely lost in her song.

He let her finish her song before coming up behind her, just as she was placing her unbaked cinnamon rolls in the pan to proof. She smiled as he wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“I was wondering when you’d come and give me a hug. You were standing over there staring at me like a creeper.” She chuckled, twisting in his hold after placing a tea towel over her pan. She removed her headphones and placed them and her phone on the counter.

“Sorry, I was enjoying the view too much.” He returned her smile before pressing a kiss to her lips. She grinned into the kiss, threading her floury hands into the short hair at the base of his neck. When they parted, their eyes locked, and he rested his forehead against hers. Their eyes glazed as he allowed her into his head.

It was something they both agreed on. After every session with Dr. Raynor, Bucky would report everything that had happened during the session, including the things he thought about but didn’t say out loud. They both knew it would be easier for him to open up about certain things with her over his shrink, so the issue was never pushed on him to be more open with the Doc.

“Hm… I have to say I agree with her parting statement,” Y/N remarked as she pulled away. “But first, let’s eat. I could feel how hungry you are.”

Bucky forced a smile and helped her set out the sushi she had kept in the fridge until he got home. She had ordered a lot more than she normally did. Probably because of his dream last night. He didn’t show her his dream. Rather, his emotions were so high during the dream that she somehow got sucked into his mind and was living it with him. They had a small talk about it that morning before his appointment.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the food and each other’s company. This is why he preferred his exercises with Y/N over his sessions with Dr. Raynor. Y/N never pushed him to talk. Never used a notebook as a weapon to get him to talk. She was patient and warm and kind. She understood that adjusting to this new life of his was hard; especially after everything he has done.

Forced to do. He reminded himself. It was one exercise Y/N had him practicing. Just rewording his thoughts. He didn’t have to believe it, not yet, but he just had to say it to himself. Eventually, he’d find himself believing it, she had said. She said it with such conviction that he couldn’t help but believe her. Because that’s how she got herself out of her dark place.

“What was that song you were singing?” He asked after they had eaten their fill and were cleaning up. She nearly dropped the dish in her hand as she whipped her head around to look at him. You would have thought he had slapped her with the look of pure shock and offense on her face.

“Excuse me? What song-? What?” She sputtered and shook her head in disbelief. He gave an incredulous laugh at her behavior.

“Is it really that much of a surprise that I don’t know it?”

“Yes!” She answered quickly. “It absolutely is, seeing as how we’ve known and been together for literal years, now. I can’t believe we’ve never watched Grease!”

She didn’t give him time to question anymore as she snatched the plate from his hands and carelessly tossed it into the sink and began pushing him to the bedroom.

“Dishes can wait! You get your old ass into some comfy clothes while I set up the classroom, because you’re gonna learn just how great of a movie Grease is, and you are going to like it.” Her tone left no room for arguments as she gave him one last push into the bedroom before disappearing into the living room.

He chuckled but did as he was told and slipped into some gray sweatpants that Y/N had once told him were obscene, and a cozy black hoodie. He took an extra moment to grab the large, fluffy blanket from their bed so they could cuddle under it.

When he entered the living room the movie was already pulled up on Prime Video and she was nowhere to be seen. The smell and sound of popcorn cooking gave away her position in the kitchen, along with her singing.

He grinned and tossed the blanket onto the couch before sneaking into the kitchen. She had just pulled the bag out of the microwave and was putting it in the large bowl, two sodas already on the counter. Defenses down. Shot clear. She set the bowl down and reached for the candy in the cabinet. Taking the shot.

Swooping low, Bucky knocked her legs out with his arm under her knees, the other wrapping around her back and lifting her into the air. A shriek of surprise turned into laughter, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers. She gave him a loud, sloppy kiss.

“Should we get this show on the road?” He asked when they parted. She nodded and grabbed the bowl and candy and sodas, holding them in her lap as it seemed he wasn’t putting her down until they got to the living room.

He deposited her on the couch and sat next to her, pulling her legs onto his lap, and tossing the large blanket over them. She pressed play and nuzzled into his side. Bucky wrapped his arms tighter around her, kissing her temple.

As they watched, Bucky would ask questions or make comments on the characters. Y/N was happy to see him so engaged and genuinely enjoying the movie. Over the years, she would watch movies with him, trying to catch him up on pop culture. His favorites so far had been the original trilogy of Star Wars.

“Danny is a bit of a tool,” Bucky said out of nowhere. They had been sitting in silence during the prom scene and had finally reached the drive-in scene. Y/N left out a barking laugh at the sudden declaration.

“You know, he definitely is!”

><

By the time the movie ended, it was mid-afternoon, and Y/N was yawning. It was her usual nap time. Her work for Tony Stark and the Avengers usually had her sleeping at random times, just as inconsistent as Bucky’s sleeping schedule, mostly because part of her job was to help Bucky.

“How’d you like the movie?” She asked, stretching out her legs before standing from the couch.

“Definitely in the top ten.” Bucky’s eyes raked up her stretching form, the shorts, the way his shirt hugged her curves, and her messy bun at the top of her head. It all had him feeling like the luckiest man in the universe.

“Only the top ten? Why? And in what place?” She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and a slight pout on her lips. This was definitely in the top five for her.

“Don’t get me wrong, the movie was great, and I loved it. But I’d probably place it at number six.” Okay, sixth place wasn’t that bad, just one movie away from being top five.

“Okay, so the top three I know is the Star Wars trilogy, and fourth place is the first Hobbit… But what is fifth place? What’s better than Grease?” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. Bucky laughed awkwardly and looked away, a blush on his cheeks.

“Nothing…” He had seen this movie a couple of times and he loved it. The characters, the music, and the plot, it was all great. But it seemed… a little embarrassing for him to like it. He was still very old-fashioned and the style of dancing and clothing in this movie had him a little flustered.

“Oh, come on! What movie?” Y/N stepped forward until she stood between his legs and then bent over him, caging his head with her arms resting on the couch behind him. He turned his face to the side, not wanting to look into those inviting eyes.

She could just look into his mind with her abilities, but that would be an invasion of privacy and when she gained these powers, she vowed to never look into someone else’s mind without consent. Because consent is sexy.

“You can’t laugh.” He mumbled, still not making eye contact with his girlfriend. She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.

“I’d never laugh at you, dear.” A blatant lie, they both knew.

“Liar.” Bucky reached up to pinch her side. She squealed and her knees buckled, allowing him to pull her onto his lap. “Just this morning you laughed at me because I asked where that kid’s parents were.”

Y/N let out another laugh as she recalled Bucky’s reaction this morning to a TikTok she had been watching. Some pre-teen girl was cursing about something wrong in her life and Bucky happened to catch the colorful language as he passed by.

Y/N definitely agreed with him, but coming from the 106-year-old soldier, it just sounded like the most grandpa response he could have come up with.

“Oh, but it was the cutest thing!” She snuggled into him, pressing her face into his bearded cheek. He let out a hmph and tried to turn his face away again. But her hands came up to hold him in place and she littered kisses all over his face. “Please, Buck? I won’t laugh.”

Bucky knew if he looked at her, he’d see those big puppy eyes and he would immediately crack. But her hands running over his chest and neck were having the same effect anyway. He tossed his head back against the back of the couch with a groan. She grinned, knowing she got him.

“Fine.” He hesitated for a moment, chewing on the inside of his lip. “It’s… di…cing..”

She tilted her head in confusion, “Come again?”

“Dirty Dancing! Okay? I like Dirty Dancing.”

Y/N had to press her lips into a tight line to stop the laugh that was bubbling up due to his outburst. She wasn’t laughing at his choice of movie, but just the way he said it. His face was bright red, and he was glaring up at the ceiling.

“Awww, Buck! That’s so cute!” She squealed and smothered him in kisses. He groaned and stood up, dropping her to the couch as she laughed.

“You lair! You said you wouldn’t laugh!” He made to stomp away but she rolled off the couch to the floor and grabbed his ankle.

“I’m not laughing at your choice of movie, I promise! I love that movie, too, Buck!”

“Nope, too late. Release me, you leech.” He began shuffling his way to their bedroom. She wrapped her arms around his ankle and forced him to drag her.

“Never!” She cried in defiance and reached up with one hand to tickle the back of his knee. He buckled and hit the ground. She could feel his panic as he began to army crawl away. She cackled evilly as she grabbed the back of his hoodie and dragged herself forward to straddle his back.

“No! Please! Lemme go- HA!” She had begun her assault on his sides. His scream-laughing had her chest filling with light and joy. It wasn’t so long ago that he never even smiled. So, to hear him let loose in such a way made her feel like the luckiest woman in the universe. To be able to have him like this. To love him like this. She wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Her fingers slowed until they rested along his scapulas. He turned his head to stare at her from the corner of one blue eye. His brows were drawn suspiciously. However, the soft smile on her face had his face relaxing into an easy smile. She leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to his stubbled cheek.

“I love you, Bucky,” She whispered in his ear before standing up. He was quick to his feet and even quicker to pull her into his arms. His lips sealed over hers in a chaste kiss.

“I love you more, Dollface.” He said in between peppering kisses over her face. She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning into his affections.

They both lived for days like this. It was a battle getting here, but it was well worth it. The calm that enveloped their cozy apartment, the warmth that filled everyone who entered. The quiet as they lay in bed, and the ruckus of them teasing each other. This was Bucky’s entire world. Right here. In her arms.

They had calmed down and were simply holding each other, both lost in thought of their love for the other. She gently stroked her fingers down the back of his head, letting her nails scrape against his scalp. She could feel the goosebumps rising under her other hand.

He was giving her the same treatment with his arms wrapped around her waist, his right hand tracing up and down her spine. He was so warm against her. She sighed contently against his skin, dropping a kiss to the space his shoulder met his neck. He hummed in happiness.

Oh yeah, he was going to make the dream he had last night come true. The second she fell asleep for her nap he was going to look up rings. And maybe a house. And at the shelter for a dog, or maybe a cat. Hell, he should look at baby cribs while he’s at it.

“What are you thinking about so hard, Bucky? I can smell smoke,” she teased. He grumbled and nipped her neck.

“Rude. And here I was thinking about how good you would look in a wedding dress.” He released her and tried to pull away. “But nevermind.”

“Wait! What?” She tightened her arms around him, preventing him from going anywhere, not like he truly planned to anyway. He was far too happy in her embrace to be out of it for long anyway. “You were thinking of me in a wedding dress? Is it because of your dream last night?”

Bucky stepped closer to her again, his hands on her hips stroking circles with his thumbs. “Well, yeah. Last night was the first time I dreamed of us being married… But it’s not the first time I thought about it.”

Hope and unadulterated joy filled her chest. Not a day went by since she confessed to him last year that she didn’t think of what it would be like to be called, Mrs. Barnes.

“Come here!” She pulled away from him and grabbed his hand, dragging him into their room. He had whiplash. One second he was saying he wanted to marry her and the next she was dragging him through their home.

In the bedroom, she went to the desk and pulled a notebook from the drawer. It was the one she kept with her during briefings and other meetings.

“Do you remember a few months ago when we were in a meeting and you asked what I was doodling?” She held the book to her chest nervously. Her feet were pressed together, fidgeting. He nodded slowly. He wasn’t entirely sure where she was going with this.

“Okay, well, I wasn’t really doodling… I was writing this.” She opened the notebook to a page in the middle and handed it over to him. He took it with shaking hands as hope and anticipation flooded his senses.

Mrs. Barnes <3

It was written over and over again on the page. Some with her first name. Some with her first and middle. She even looked to be practicing different signatures with Barnes as her last name.

“I’m sorry… it’s kinda weird, I’m just now realizing… We can forget it-”

He silenced her with a soul-searing kiss. He was never forgetting this. She wanted to marry him just as much as he wanted to marry her. Her hands dropped the notebook to instead grip his hoodie and pull him in closer.

When they pulled away their faces had matching love-drunk grins.

“I don’t have a ring and I don’t want to let you go to kneel, but will you, Y/N L/N, do me the very high honor of marrying me?” Bucky’s blue eyes peered into her own, bright and hopeful. She giggled and pulled him into a tight hug, her arms now around his neck and her lips against his ear.

“Of course, I will.”

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Welcome to my page!

Here are some things to know about me and my blog!

Do not repost or steal my work! It takes me time and effort to write a story that I enjoy enough to post, I do not use AI or any other shortcuts so please be a decent human and respect my work.

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Be patient. I work a full time job and do this as a hobby so I may may be slow to uploading, but i am trying my best!

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Please be aware that I only write fem!reader. I try to keep physical descriptions to a minimum, or zero, but all pronouns used will be she/her. I just find it easier for me to connect to the story, sorry!

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These guidelines are subject to change!

Below the cut is a list of characters that I am willing to write for, if you do not see a character you like, please feel free to ask if I will.

Banner credits to @cafekitsune

BBC Sherlock-

Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

John Watson

Enola Holmes- 

Sherlock Holmes

Star Wars-

Poe Dameron

Finn

Ben Solo/Kylo Ren

Din Djarin

Paz Vizla

Harry Potter-

George Weasley

Fred Weasley

Bill Weasley

Charlie Weasley

Oliver Wood

Harry Potter

Draco Malfoy

Hogwarts Legacy-

Sebastian Sallow

Ominis Gaunt

Garreth Weasley

Aesop Sharp

Marvel-

Bucky Barnes

Marc Spector

Steven Grant

Loki Odinson

Thor Odinson

Tony Stark

Steve Rogers

Shang-Chi

Assassin’s Creed-

Ezio Auditore

The Hobbit-

Kili Durin

Fili Durin

Bofur

Thorin Oakenshield

Bilbo Baggins

Bard

Thranduil

Legolas

One Piece- 

Roronoa Zoro

Vinsmoke Sanji

Trafalgar Law

Eustass Kidd

Red-Haired Shanks

Dracule Mihawk

Portgas D. Ace

Robb Lucci

Bleach-

Ichigo Kurosaki

Shunsui Kyoraku

Byakuya Kuchiki

Jushiro Ukitake

Kisuke Urahara

Kenpachi Zaraki

Toshiro Hitsugaya (Adult)

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez

Gin Ichimaru

Ulquiorra Cifer

More to be added in the future!

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Pieces Welded in Gold (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Words: 2.6k

Warnings/Themes: Self-hate, sad!bucky, angst, fluff, comfort

Characters/Pairing: Bucky x reader, Steve, Nat and Wanda (Mentioned), Tony (Mentioned)

She was too good for him.

This is something he had in his head from the moment he had met her. She was a light in everyone’s lives, whereas he was just a pathetic excuse for an Avenger. It took her and Steve months to get him pardoned and then even more months for him to be accepted as an Avenger. Not that he blamed the people they had worked against. He has done so much damage in his unnecessarily long life.

So watching her now, laughing and smiling brightly with Natasha and Wanda, Bucky felt like some ghostly shadow that drifted solemnly down hallways, wondering if he was ever going to feel worthy of love.

The glass of champagne in his hand was set down on a passing waiter’s tray as Bucky excused himself from the group of men he stood with. They had all been talking of some heroic thing Steve had done on their latest mission. And while Bucky was extremely proud of the man Steve has become, he couldn’t help the jealously that rose in his throat. Like ichor that threatened to drown him in resentment. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Everything alright, Buck?” Steve, of course, was the first to stop the conversation and give his best friend his undivided attention.

“Yeah, pal. Just feeling a little empty, gonna go fuel up.” To others, it might sound like Bucky was just hungry, but between the two, it was a code they came up for when Bucky’s social bar was low. It was weird… it used to be Steve having to step away and Bucky making sure he was okay.

The ichor rose to the back of his mouth. Without giving Steve a chance to say anything else, Bucky paced off to the hallway where the elevators were. The grief of his old life and who he used to be hanging over him like the grim reaper.

He made it after skirting along the walls, avoiding prying eyes. Not that anyone would really look at him right now. They were all too busy celebrating something going on with Stark Industries that he had not bothered to remember.

Bucky was barely through the door of the apartment he shared in the Compound with Steve, when he began stripping out of the suffocating suit he had been required to wear. The jacket was haphazardly hung on the hook, mostly thrown at the wall it was on. The polished loafers were kicked off and left to trip anyone who walked through the door.

He entered his room with his button-up undone and his pants barely hanging on his hips. He finally discarded the rest of the clothes in a wrinkled pile in the corner. With a huff and a heavy plop, Bucky collapsed onto his bed in only his briefs. Getting up to shower and put proper clothing on felt like a mountain he didn’t want to climb right now. So he just laid there on his stomach, staring out the window and the fireworks that Tony had arranged.

He wondered if she was out there enjoying them. He knew she liked things like that. She had once told him in the dead of night in a Wakandan hut of all the things that felt otherworldly to her. Like fireworks. Or libraries. Bowling Allies after hours. Abandoned malls. Or her living room at 3am.

She promised him they’d go to places like that when he said he wished he wasn’t here. Just to disconnect for a while, to forget his problems and just feel like he was someone else. Someone that wasn’t the Soldier, or a younger version of him. Not even him right now.

It was at that moment that he knew he loved her. She was here to help him through the problems he was facing, but she also understood that sometimes he didn’t want to try. He just wanted to float away. And she helped him do that, safely.

He truly felt like he was floating when he was with her. Tied by a string to her wrist so he wouldn’t drift away. And she didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, whenever he was near her, she would always subconsciously grab his hand. Or when he sat next to her on the couch, she would always move closer until their thighs were pressed together.

In a small part of his mind that still held optimism, he hoped that she did this because she also felt that if they were apart then she would combust. Since he met her, she had always been a comfort to him, she was there when Steve had found his apartment in Bucharest. She stopped him when Zemo had activated the Soldier by using her abilities. And she was there in Wakanda.

The one thing he doesn’t know, however, is why. Why is she doing all of this for him? Why does she seem to care so much about him? Steve, he gets because they’ve been friends since diapers. But she didn’t know him before Bucharest.

She had him feeling every emotion known to man, but he couldn’t find a way to tell her any of it. He could pour his heart out about his frustrations on his past, on how he misses the 40s, on how he felt like a burden to everyone. But when it came to owning up to his feelings about her… he froze. How could he not? She was everything.

Bucky rolled over onto his back and rubbed at his eyes, trying to dry the tears that didn’t seem to stop coming. The fireworks continued like bombs on the battlefield. His gaze was fixed on a random speck on his ceiling. His mind felt sluggish now and his eyelids struggled to stay open, even as tears still fell.

He must have dozed off at some point as now his eyes flickered open at the sound of shuffling outside his door. The fireworks had stopped, and the air was still and quiet. Steve must have just gotten in. The sound of the shuffling sounded like his gait and weight.

With a groan, Bucky lifted himself onto his elbows to look at the clock on his bedside. Two in the morning. A late one for an old man like Steve. Must have been having a good time then, seeing as how Bucky left the party around 11pm.

A shower was sounding more appealing now that he had released his emotions and slept some. He rose from the bed and hobbled over to the attached bathroom. He didn’t bother looking at his appearance in the mirror; he already knew he looked like shit.

Y/n wouldn’t think so, a tiny voice said in his head. She’d probably say he looked like someone who has lived a lot. Too much, would have been his reply.

He took a lukewarm shower and spent too much time under the spray, pretending that the water running down his face was only that. Not a mix of salty tears that apparently hadn’t run out. Once he was feeling a little more like a person, he exited the walk-in shower and entered the closet.

A simple black t-shirt and some gray sweatpants would suffice. He tried to practice some self-care Y/n had suggested and combed his wet hair and applied lotion to his skin. It gave him a small sense of accomplishment.

Bucky froze in the doorway between his room and bathroom, however. When did she get here? Was she waiting for long?

Y/n sat on his bed, one of the lamps on the nightstand was on. She looked fresh and clean with her damp hair in two braids and an oversized maroon sweater swamping her. She wore cozy-looking bottoms and Star Wars-themed socks. And she looked so beautiful cuddled up in his bed.

“Sorry, I knocked but you didn’t answer. Figured I’d wait for you here.” She spoke so sweetly to him while offering him her hand. He didn’t hesitate to take it and climb into bed next to her, pressing her hand to his chest. He wondered if she could feel his heart thumping.

“It’s fine… Sorry, I left so early.” Bucky rested his head on her shoulder and her hand found its way into his drying hair.

“I get why you did, Buck. It’s okay.” Her free hand came to grab his metal one and threaded their fingers together. “To be honest, I wanted to leave as soon as I saw you walking out. But Tony, of course, demanded I showed off some illusions.” She sighed and released his hair to rub tiredly at her temple.

“Does it hurt?” Bucky sat up straight and took her face in his flesh hand as if he could take away the pain with just his touch. She smiled and shrugged. His body hummed when she nuzzled her face into his palm. Maybe…She does feel the same way as him. Why would she be here at this moment if she didn’t?

“Sort of. I’m still not used to using my abilities on so many people, and in combination with people telling me what to show them next; I got a bit of a headache now.” Her head was fully relaxed into his hand now and he couldn’t help but run his thumb over her cheek.

The question was gnawing at him, but fear of rejection was a brick wall stopping it from leaving his mouth. Would you stay with me tonight? When he was younger, that might have been something cheeky he would have said to a dame. But now it was something he felt he needed to keep himself from having a nightmare. Just someone he loves beside him.

“Hey, Buck?” He barely heard her over the debate with himself in his head. Her hand covering his own drew him from his mind. He briefly thanked God that she never read anyone’s mind without consent.

“Yeah, doll?” She smiled with her eyes still closed and her fingers running gently over his. A small quirk in her smile, however, had him nervous. She looked like she was contemplating something.

“I need to tell you something.” She finally opened her eyes and held his gaze for a few moments before looking away. Perhaps it was the dim lighting, but her face took on a darker hue. There was no mistaking the nervous lip bite she did, though. The movement has his skin feeling like it was ignited.

He adjusted his metal grip on her hand to give her a hopefully reassuring squeeze. He didn’t say anything but just waited for her to be ready on her own. That’s what she did for him. She never pushed him to talk when he wasn’t ready, just let him know that she was there.

She was silent for a while, her eyes fixed on the wall above his bed. He could practically see the cogs turning in her head. Of course, this anticipation was killing him. Was she rejecting him without him getting a chance? Was she saying that she was done helping him? Is he too much?

Before his thoughts could go any further, she finally spoke up in a quiet voice filled with anxiety.

“Before I tell you, I want you to know that it’s totally alright if you’re not ready, or you don’t… feel the same. I never want you to feel pressured or rushed, and it’s up to you to respond…” Bucky was practically on fire now. She took a deep breath, held both of his hands in hers, and looked him in the eye.

“I love you, Bucky,” she said. Her voice held no quiver of nervousness now. Her eyes shone with love and confidence in that love. The sight of it sent Bucky into orbit. The tether keeping him on the ground snapped and he felt himself floating away in pure joy.

The smile that broke over his face was wider than any she had seen before. He bounced up to sit on his knees and towered over her. He took her face into his hands, taking in every detail he could. He must be dreaming. He must have fallen asleep after he returned from the party, and this was a dream.

“Doll, I – Are you serious?” If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up. She laughed and placed her hands over his. She nodded and he swore her smile was brighter than the sun. “Lord, doll... I – I love you so much.”

His eyes dropped down to her lips as her tongue darted out. “Really?”

“Of course! How could I not be?” He ran one hand over her hair, letting it fall to rest along her jaw. “You – you’re everything to me, doll. I’d do anything if it meant that I could be by your side, even if you didn’t love me.”

Her smile wobbled and tears filled her eyes. Her hand gripped his t-shirt and tugged him closer. “Kiss me.”

Bucky didn’t need any more prompting than that. He bent over her and captured her lips in a searing kiss. Everything he hadn’t been able to express through words, he tried to convey in his kiss. His hands held her face and neck like she was the finest porcelain.

Her hands spread over his chest and trailed up around his neck. Her fingers toyed with the short hair at the base of his neck. The feeling sent chills down his spine. He remembers when she helped him cut his hair and how she had run her fingers through the shortened locks then.

The super soldier pulled away briefly, only to press his forehead against hers. Her eyes were still closed, and lips still parted. She looked divine. Her bright eyes slowly opened and met his. And it felt like he was being seen for the first time.

How could anyone so perfect actually exist. And how could they love me?

“You’re perfect for me, Buck.”

His eyes widened and he pulled away slightly. Had she -? She shook her head.

“Your expressions are sometimes enough to know what you’re thinking.” She sat up on her knees and cupped his face. She ghosted her lips over his cheeks, moving over his eyelids and down to his lips. When she pulled away she whispered against his skin.

“I have loved you since I first met you. And when I saw you I thought to myself, in the words of Etta James, at last, my love has come along.” She sang the words and it sounded like the voice of an angel. It gave Bucky the little bit of courage he needed to ask her what he’s wanted to ask her all night.

“Stay with me tonight?” She kissed him again in reply.

“I didn’t plan on going back to my apartment tonight anyway.” Bucky grinned at that and pulled her off the bed with him.

“Good, because I was only asking to be polite.” Bucky grinned slyly at her as he pulled the duvet and sheets back. He noticed she had brought her biggest and softest blanket from her bed. “You were really confident, weren’t you?”

She shrugged and grabbed the blanket from where she had deposited it on the armchair in the corner of the room. He took it and wrapped it snuggly around her shoulders. She gave a squeal when he swooped down and picked her up. He couldn’t help himself as he kissed her again before laying her down on the bed, and then again as he crawled in next to her.

“I love you, sweetheart.” Bucky could feel the cracks in his heart fusing, held together by the pure gold of her love. She cuddled closely to his side and laid her head on his chest. He brought his vibranium hand up to caress her cheek.

“I love you, too, James Buchanan Barnes.”

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

When My Back Was Turned (Ezio Auditore X Reader)

Words: 3645

Warnings/Themes: Injury, Violence, Blood, Not Quite Character Death, Angst, Fluff

Characters/Pairings: Ezio x Reader, Claudia, Mario, Maria (briefly mentioned)

A/N: This is just something I’ve been working on and finally decided to post. I almost didn’t. This isn’t the whole story that I wrote, there is more to the ending, but it felt too rushed for me to want to post it. Some background information for this one, I imagined the reader/ this character as ten years younger than Ezio. And in a form of self-indulgence, she comes from a world where AC is just a game, but I imagine it also has it’s version of Templars and Assassins that no one knows about. Thanks for reading!

They limped up to the villa, having abandoned their horses at the stables at the entrance to the village. Eyes had been glued to the battered pair from the moment they had approached. He wasn’t as badly beaten as she was, only sporting a split lip, a sprained wrist, and various cuts and bruises. He held her upright with an arm gently around her waist. He didn’t want to jostle her bruised, possibly fractured, ribs or her recently dislocated shoulder. She was bleeding from multiple wounds along her face and hands.

They were on their way to what was supposed to be a simple visit to Monteriggioni that turned into an ambush by some mountain bandits. Ezio had made it out relatively well and was already running away, thinking that his wife was just behind him. However, her shout of surprise told him otherwise.

As she had been about to follow him, a couple bandits grabbed her. And before she knew it, they had shoved her over the cliff face. It felt like she had rolled for hours when it had been mere seconds before her hand grabbed onto a young tree sprouting from the rock. It groaned and cracked under her added weight and threatened to break. Upon catching herself, her already damaged body smacked the rock and a sickening pop sounded as her arm left its socket.

Ezio had immediately jumped into action, swiftly dispatching the remaining attackers, and rushing to the cliff's edge. His heart hammered in his chest at the sight of her clinging to that sapling for dear life. She was too far down for him to grab her and she definitely wouldn’t be able to climb back up with her shoulder. Thinking fast, he stripped the cloaks and capes from the fallen bandits and tied them together into a makeshift rope. She could barely keep a hold of it as he pulled her back up to safety.

He held her close to him, petting her sweaty and bloody hair. He whispered comforting words to her as she shook against him. He knew she was scared of heights and falling, the reason for her refusing to free-run on certain buildings and to do a Leap of Faith, unless absolutely necessary. However, in this situation, she hadn’t been in control and it terrified her.

Once she had quieted down, Ezio sat her up properly and told her he needed to reset her shoulder. She had nodded somberly and let him pop it back into place without a peep. Ezio almost found it amusing how she can take the pain of a dislocated shoulder with only a wince, but she couldn’t handle heights. But now wasn’t the time to tease her.

Recovering their horses that had run off with their packs, the pair made their way back to Monteriggioni.

A doctor was already waiting for them as they entered the villa, some kind villager sending for one when they saw the two. Mario and Claudia stood with the doctor, the older female’s hands over her mouth, and Y/N was practically unconscious by the time they made it to the trio.

Mario swept up to take the woman into his arms, allowing Ezio to cradle his wrist and follow them into their shared room. (Y/n) was placed gently on the bed and the doctor immediately began his treatment. Ezio collapsed into the chair at the foot of the bed, his armor digging uncomfortably into his flesh.

“What happened?” Mario began his interrogation before Ezio could get his bearings. Shaking his head, Ezio began to carefully remove his armor. Claudia was already helping the doctor remove (Y/n)’s, who moaned in pain. The younger man’s eyes fixed on her at the sound.

Seeing that his nephew was not going to answer him now, Mario rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Until (Y/n) was cared for and out of danger, Mario knew Ezio wouldn’t speak to anyone about the mission. This wasn’t the first time this has happened, but it is the worst condition either of them had been in in a long time.

“Once you two are rested, meet me in my office to discuss what happened.” Mario placed a hand on Ezio’s shoulder, squeezing gently. The younger man simply nodded, not wanting to take his eyes off his wife.

Nearly an hour later, (Y/n)’s wounds were patched up and Claudia had changed her into a loose shirt and pants. Ezio’s wrist had been wrapped and put into a sling and his lip cared for. He had moved his chair to be right next to her as she slept, tucked into the bed and her favorite blanket pulled up to her nose, just the way she liked it. He wished he could curl up with her in that bed, but on doctor’s orders, she was not to be moved around too much or her ribs would not heal properly.

Ezio knew he should probably go find his uncle but speaking to anyone and leaving his wife’s side didn’t sound very appealing. So he sat in his chair, watching as her eyes flickered behind her eyelids. She must be having a bad dream. As she often does after a particularly bad mission.

He reached over and stroked her cheek with his good hand, smiling softly when she nuzzled into his hand. She would probably wake in the morning grumpy and very hungry. An angel when she was asleep but a terrifying beast upon awakening. Ezio smiled wider at the thought. She would definitely kill him had she known his thoughts.

At some point in the late evening, Claudia knocked and left some food on the table next to him, squeezing his shoulder and telling him to eat and rest. He nodded and picked at the food. The roasted duck didn’t quite smell or taste as appealing as it did when he wasn’t consumed with worry.

Many times has he tried to convince his wife to retire from Assassin duties, to stay safe and live life to the fullest while she was still young. But those conversations usually ended with him sleeping on the floor and her not speaking to him for a full evening. How dare he think that she would ever let him face the dangers they did alone.

After eating as much as he could stomach, he carefully stripped from his robes and stepped behind the partition in the room. A tub filled with water sat in the corner, filled earlier with hot water by a maid. By now the water was less than lukewarm, but he hardly felt it as he lowered himself in. She had already been cleaned by Claudia with a cloth and a basin of water.

The partition was positioned so he could still see her on the bed when he leaned back. On his own terms, he would have just climbed into bed after changing into a sleeping shirt, but since he began courting her, she always refuses him to enter her bed unless clean.

‘I don’t want my bed smelling like blood, metal, and sweat!’ She had yelled at him early on in their relationship. No matter where they were if there was a bed, she had to be clean before entering it. He figured it came from whatever futuristic upbringing she had.

He still vividly remembers that day, he had just brought the Apple to Leonardo’s workshop with his uncle and Niccolò for the artist to study. When Leonardo had reached out to touch it a bright, golden light engulfed the room and a figure fell from thin air. Ezio had rushed forward to catch the person.

She was unconscious and dressed in strange clothes. But he wouldn’t lie, this stranger was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. In the next few days they had found out she came from a different world, far in the future. She had been tasked by a being called Minerva to guide Ezio on his journey.

Six years had now gone by and she had since become a master assassin and his wife. His gaze fell down to his bruised knuckles. A gold wedding band laid just above one, on his left ring finger. He didn’t normally wear it on missions but seeing as how this was supposed to be just a visit back to Monteriggioni, he had worn it proudly. It had a red smudge of blood on it. Removing it from his finger, he washed it in the waters.

Finishing up in the tub, he threw on a sleeping shirt and stepped quietly over to the bed. He was always hesitant when sleeping with her when she was injured. He was either a fitful sleeper or a cuddler. Neither one is very good for her injured state. But he knew she wouldn’t rest as well without him next to her. So being cautious, he placed a few pillows between them before fully settling in. He laid on his side, careful of his wrist, and gently stroked a knuckle across her soft cheek.  

Her lips quirked up and she turned her head to nuzzle into his hand. He let a gentle smile take over his face. Even battered and weary, she still found a reason to smile. Pride swelled in his chest at being the reason for her smiles most of the time. A truly beautiful thing to behold.

“Buonanotte, amore mio.” He withdrew his hand, but let it rest on her stomach. As his eyes closed, he felt calloused fingers wrap around his.

“Buonanotte, Bello.” Her voice was raspy and quiet, but it was still the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

________________________________________________________________

A knock to the solid wood door roused him from his dreamless sleep. As predicted, he had moved a lot in his sleep. Now he laid on his back, arms sprawled out and one leg tossed over the barrier of pillows, his foot tucked under her leg. The sheets had bunched around his waist and the duvet tossed over her slumbering body. Drool was crusted to the side of his mouth and his hair was in disarray. She, of course, looked positively heavenly, despite her injuries.

Rising from the bed, Ezio straightened his appearance and moved to the door as a second knock sounded. The kind Doctor from the previous day had returned, most likely to change her bandages. Behind the elderly man was Claudia, a tray with fruits, bread, and two small bowls of soup on it.

“Ah, Dottore, Buongiorno. Come in.” Ezio stepped to the side, letting the two into the room. He excused himself to behind the partition to change into more presentable clothes. It was somewhat difficult with only one good arm, but he managed. After struggling to button his shirt up with one hand he gave up, stepping out from the partition. Claudia rolled her eyes and buttoned his shirt up for him.

“Nothing but a child.” She grumbled, poking him roughly in the chest. He chuckled, rubbing the spot.

“Careful, Claudia, I still have uses for him.” A raspy voice came from the bed. Claudia’s attention snapped over to her sister-in-law.

“(Y/N)!” The siblings rushed to the bed, leaving enough space for the doctor. “How are you feeling?” Claudia questioned. The younger woman gave a pained smile as the Doctor peeled back the bandage on one of her deeper wounds.

“Like hell, to be honest. And I’d kill for some ibuprofen…” She bit her lip and pressed her head further into the pillows when the doctor dabbed an alcohol-soaked rag into the wound. Ezio took a step closer, worry flooding his veins. He truly hated seeing her in such a state. He was beating himself up inside for not getting to her sooner.

“I can give you a poultice to take the edge away around your ribs.” The doctor began rewrapping her wounds. “I’d advise you twist or move around as little as possible for the next few weeks to give your ribs time to heal, and only wear loose clothing. Your other bandages must be changed every eight hours.”

“Grazie, Dottore.” The woman nodded in appreciation. The doctor smiled and set a small jar of the poultice on the bedside table. After giving a few instructions on the next few weeks of healing, he bid the three farewell and departed.

“I’m glad you’re already doing better, mia sorella.” Claudia sat on the edge of the bed, taking Y/N’s hand in hers. “You had me worried sick seeing you return like that.” She lightly scolded.

“Sorry, Claudia. Next time I’ll tell those bandits to not attack us. Just because you worry about me.” Y/N smiled.

“Piccola merda.” The two women laughed, only to be cut off from the grunt of pain from the junior. Ezio finally stepped forward, still silent as before. He took the jar and removed the lid, setting it on the table.

Claudia stood up out of the way of the man on a mission. His face was drawn into a concentrated frown and he refused to look at his wife’s scratched-up face. With stiff and precise movements, he pulled up her shirt to just under her breast. Her skin was a vivid purple, the bruise forming overnight. His brows furrowed deeper at the sight.

His sister excused herself, sensing that the two needed to talk. But not before directing her brother to make sure to feed his wife the soup she had brought. He merely grunted in response, dipping two fingers into the greasy concoction.

Despite his angry demeanor and calloused hands, his touch was feather-light on her skin as he spread the poultice on her ribs. Her eyes didn’t leave his face as he worked. It had been so long that either one of them had been injured like this that Ezio was having a hard time controlling his emotions.

“Bello…” Her voice was just a whisper, but it had his finger freezing over her skin. He sniffed and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands clean. “Ezio. Look at me.” Her fingers closed around his wrist, tugging him down to sit next to her. He slowly brought his eyes up to meet hers. And the tears immediately sprung to his eyes.

“Oh, my love…” Her own vision blurred with tears and she threaded her fingers with his. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

“I should have been faster… I should have made sure you were following me…I’m so sorry, mia bella.” He covered his face with his free hand, the other squeezing her fingers. His chest constricted with suppressed sobs.

“Ezio.” Her voice was soft but stern. He managed to look at her again. “This is not your fault. You had no way of knowing what was going to happen, not even your sixth sense could have predicted this… I don’t blame you for this happening, so I don’t want you to blame yourself either.”

He sniffled and wiped the tears from his face.

“And besides, I promised to kick the ass of anyone who wronged you. So don’t make me kick your ass when I get out of this bed.” She gave him her signature lopsided grin. He let a laugh escape him despite the want to sob instead.

“Now, I’m starving, so help me sit up.”

“Sì, Signora.” Ezio helped her up and placed the tray of food in her lap. There was just enough for the two of them. They ate in silence for a few minutes, not realizing how hungry they were.

“The real tragedy here though is that I think I lost my hairpin down the side of that cliff.” She pouted as she popped a strawberry into her mouth. The dainty gold hairpin had been an anniversary gift from Ezio two years ago and she wore it every time they took a break.

Ezio chuckled. “I shall buy you all the hairpins until the void of missing that one is filled.”

“Oh, my dear, I fear your wallet will weep. As it may take all the hairpins in the world for the hole in my chest to be filled.” She feigned distress, pressing the back of her bandaged hand to her forehead.

A yawn suddenly forced its way from her, stretching her chest painfully.

“You should sleep, it will help you heal.” Ezio cleared the tray and set it next to the door. His wrist twinged. He almost forgot his own injury. Despite the pain though, he once again helped his wife lay down and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Her eyes batted slowly up at him; her lips pursed ever so slightly. He huffed a laugh and bent down to press a slow kiss to her waiting lips.

“I will be back before you wake again, mia bella.” After kissing her forehead, he made sure she closed her eyes then left the room. He had to report to his uncle about the attack. Not something he looked forward to.

________________________________________________________________

It took a little less than six weeks for her to be fully healed. Her ribs still twinged dully when she twisted wrong, but daily stretches were quickly strengthening her muscles again. Ezio had finally broken his moody attitude now that she was up and walking.

The pair had stayed in Monteriggioni while she healed but constantly corresponded with the others in the Brotherhood. But today, the two were finally returning to Venezia to continue their search for Savonarola and The Apple.

She knew Ezio was anxious to resume their search, but despite being injured, she was glad they had somewhat of a break. She knew it would be around this time that Savonarola would be making his way into Firenze to steal control from the Medici. In the next three years, they will be storming the city to take down the corrupt monk. And then they won’t have a moment to breathe.

“Tesoro, are you ready to go?” Ezio’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. She smiled up at her husband and nodded. They were already packed and had their horses ready for the long journey. She hugged Mario, Claudia, and Maria goodbye as they met them at the town's entrance. She mounted her horse, Ezio on his horse trotting up next to her.

Waving, the pair left the town. And for the next eight years, they fought tooth and nail against the Templars. They defeated Savonarola, regained the apple, took down Rodrigo, and returned to Monteriggioni. Got run out of said town and came to Rome. Together, they began the rebellion against Cesare, starting with destroying the machines he forced Leonardo to make for him.

The two had destroyed all but one, the naval cannon. Following the engineer and getting past the guards was the easy part. Burning the blueprints was also easy. But when it came to actually destroying the machine and the naval fleet, that had proved to be more difficult.

Ezio rowed the gondola while she manned the Cannon. And slowly but surely, they dispatched the large ships. They had survived a few near-hits, the small boat rocking violently, the ropes and extra ammunition sliding around on the floor.

She cheered as the last ship went down in flames, Ezio breathlessly laughing next to her. His arms were on fire from rowing.

Y/N turned the Cannon, facing down onto itself. She looked over to her husband with a grin. “Would you care to do the honors, messere?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Ezio wrapped his hand around the firing mechanism, “Perdonatemi, Leonardo.” He pulled back on the lever and they both turned to dive off the side of the boat.

But as she had said once, many years ago, they could not have predicted this.

As the boat had been rocking from enemy fire, and she moved around, a rope had looped itself into the perfect snare around her foot. When she jumped from the boat, it tightened, the other end is tied off on the metal machine. She had dived perfectly, was swimming next to Ezio as the explosion went off.

And then she was yanked back.

As the Cannon sunk to the bottom of the bay the rope tightened even more around her leg. She was quickly running out of air as she tried to free herself. Her hidden blade picked the wrong time to jam, if only she cleaned it as often as she should have.

Ezio was just about to break the surface when he turned to look at her. And his blood went as cold as the water around him. Managing to take a deep breath at the surface, he dove back down, swimming as fast as he could. She was sinking fast, faster than he could keep up. He watched desperately as she finally gave up, looking up at him and giving him an apologetic smile.

“NO!” The word only came out as a bubbled scream, mixing with the last bit of air leaving her body. Her eyes slipped shut and she descended into the dark depths. Out of his vision.

Not caring about his swiftly depleting oxygen supply, Ezio continued to swim after her. His lungs burned and his arms and legs grew slower. Just when he thought he was going to pass out as well, a bright golden light illuminated the bay, he could see the outline of the Cannon as it sunk. But not her.

The ache in his chest became too much and his body moved to the surface on its own. His head broke the surface and he gasped for air. His body was filled with relief, but his mind was a typhoon of emotions. Panic, confusion, grief.

He knew that light, he had seen it fourteen years ago when she first entered this world.

And just as she had come, she disappeared just as quickly.

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

UM eXUsE mE???

600 of you people actually follow my inactive ass?! 

But seriously, this is insanely awesome. I thought I would've deleted this blog by now but knowing 600 of you actually enjoy my work, I think I’ll keep it around for a while more lol 

And an explanation for my absence, I have been working an insane amount, along with the current process of moving, so i’m always either working or packing. coupled with those, I had a brief scare that I might have had  Covid (I didn’t, Thank God) and just this week I was in a car accident (Not injured but definitley traumatized)

So thank you for your patience with me and my blog, I hope to be back after I have moved and settled. xoxo

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Reblog if it’s okay to befriend you, ask questions, ask for advice, rant, vent, let something off your chest, or just have a nice chat.

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

Hi I just binged your masterlist and I fucking love your work. That is all. ♥️

OMG 😭 THANK YOU SO MUCH ❤✨💖❤ YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW.MICH I NEEDED TO HEAR THIS ❤❤❤❤❤❤

[quillsandcauldroncakes]

I suggest you change your username, miss, because your fanfictions, are most definitely NOT shit. you are a wonderful writer, and I hope you never stop. :)

You're too sweet! Thank you so much 😘🥰

I hope I'll have more time to write soon.