#one Shot

[pankowcrumbs]

Death Eaters X Mattheo Riddle Chapter one

Plot: You are Y/N Black the daughter of Regulus Black, raised in the shadow of a legacy stained by dark magic and impossible expectations. Destined to follow in your father’s footsteps, you're marked for service to the Dark Lord, bound by an unbreakable pact along with your cousin Draco Malfoy, and Mattheo Riddle the enigmatic, dangerous son of Lord Voldemort himself.

The three of you have been tasked with secret, high-stakes missions by the Dark Lord, all while trying to maintain the appearance of normality at Hogwarts. But between secret meetings, coded messages, and growing pressure from both sides of the war, life within the castle walls becomes a ticking time bomb.

As tensions rise and loyalties begin to waver, your bond with Mattheo begins to deepen. A connection forbidden and dangerous, but undeniable. Torn between what you were raised to believe and what your heart is beginning to feel, you’re left questioning everything: your family, your fate, and whether the darkness inside you was truly ever your own.

18+

Chapter one word count: 12K

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(3 parts total and 31K words in whole series)

The sound of steam hissing from the scarlet engine echoed through Platform 9¾ like a warning. Maybe it was just me projecting, but the air felt heavier this year like Hogwarts knew what we were all walking into.

Another year closer to the Dark Lord’s call.

“Stop fiddling with your wand, Y/N,” Draco muttered beside me as we approached the train, our trunks levitating behind us. “You’re going to snap it in half before we’ve even reached Hogsmeade.”

I rolled my eyes and tucked my wand into the inside pocket of my coat. “Maybe I’d like to be wandless before the first lesson. Save me from dealing with Snape’s greasy breath breathing down my neck again.”

Draco smirked. “He favours you, you know.”

I didn’t reply. He was probably right. Most professors did. Being a Black still carried weight at Hogwarts, even after all these years.

We found our usual compartment near the back of the train, far from the younger years and nosy prefects. Enzo and Eden were already inside, curled together in the corner like they hadn’t spent the past two months attached at the hip. Enzo lifted his chin in greeting.

“About time,” he drawled. “Thought we’d have to start without you.”

“Relax, we’re only two minutes late,” I said, sitting opposite them and crossing my legs.

Draco followed me in, flopping down beside me with a tired sigh. “Where’s Pansy?”

Eden smirked. “Still trying to flirt her way into the prefects' compartment, last I saw. Wanted to ‘make a good impression’ this year.”

“So she can abuse the power later,” I muttered.

The door slid open, and Theo and Blaise strolled in, talking lowly between themselves. Theo dropped into the seat next to Enzo, his hair as perfectly styled as ever, and Blaise nodded at me before stretching out, taking up more room than necessary.

And then came Mattheo.

He didn’t say a word. Just stepped inside, took the seat furthest from me diagonally opposite and leaned against the window with that same brooding silence he always wore like armour.

He looked different. Taller, maybe. Hair slightly longer, messier. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing ink along his forearm I didn’t recognise from last term. His jaw was sharper now. Eyes colder.

I quickly looked away.

We were in the same friendship group by default our families tangled like vines in the same dark garden but we barely spoke. Polite nods. The occasional "pass the sugar" at breakfast. Nothing beyond that.

I wasn’t sure if he disliked me or just didn’t care enough to pretend otherwise.

“How were the holidays?” Blaise asked, his voice lazy as ever.

“Hot,” Enzo replied. “France was boiling.”

Eden nudged him. “You complained every day.”

“I complained because you dragged me on hikes.”

“They were romantic hikes!”

“Babe, sweating my arse off on a mountain isn’t romantic. It’s torture.”

We all laughed, even Theo cracked a grin. I found myself watching Mattheo again out of the corner of my eye. He wasn’t laughing. Just gazing out the window like the rest of us weren’t even there.

Draco nudged me suddenly. “You alright?”

I blinked. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

He gave me a look, but didn’t push it.

We chatted through the countryside, the conversations shifting from family holidays to upcoming Quidditch trials and which professors we thought might mysteriously disappear this year.

It wasn’t long before Pansy strutted in, her hair styled immaculately and an overconfident smile on her face.

“Well, I’ve been made a prefect,” she announced, holding up the shiny badge like it was a trophy.

Theo whistled. “So hell did freeze over.”

She smacked his arm, but grinned. “Jealousy isn’t flattering, Theo.”

“I’m not jealous,” he replied, “just mildly concerned for the state of our disciplinary system.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but kissed her cheek when she sat beside him, fingers lazily playing with hers.

I shifted slightly in my seat and found Mattheo watching them, his jaw tight. He looked... irritated. But whether it was about them or just general disgust at all things romantic, I couldn’t tell.

We fell into silence for a while after that. The compartment grew warmer, the chatter quieter as the rocking of the train lulled most of us into lazy half-naps.

I pulled a book from my bag and tried to read, but I felt his eyes on me.

Mattheo.

Every time I looked up, he wasn’t looking anymore. But the weight of it was there like smoke trailing across the room.

Finally, I set the book down and stretched my legs.

“Anyone want anything from the trolley?” I asked.

“Chocolate Frogs,” Theo said.

“Liquorice Wand,” Eden added.

Mattheo’s voice broke through for the first time.

“Fizzing Whizzbee.”

I blinked, surprised he’d spoken to me directly.

“Alright,” I said, nodding once. “Back in a minute.”

The corridor was quieter than I expected. A few second-years giggled as they ran past me, and I stepped aside to avoid being knocked into.

The trolley witch looked mildly overwhelmed, but smiled as I approached. I gave her a few Sickles and filled my arms with sweets, trying to remember everyone’s requests.

I was just about to head back when I heard footsteps behind me. Slow. Steady.

I turned.

Mattheo stood a few paces away, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

“Didn’t think you liked sweets,” I said, nodding to the Fizzing Whizzbee in my hand.

“I don’t. I just wanted an excuse.”

“For what?”

“To get you alone.”

My heart skipped. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You and I… don’t talk much.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

A faint smirk touched his lips. “It’s hard not to.”

I crossed my arms, still holding the sweets. “What are you playing at, Riddle?”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“You never say more than two words to me, and now suddenly you want to chat? You could’ve just said thanks.”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine. “Alright then. Thank you.”

I stared up at him. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“Not even a little.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Why now?”

His expression shifted. “Because this year’s different. We both know it.”

A chill swept through me, even in the warmth of the train.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “We do.”

He looked down for a moment, then back up. “And because I’d rather not go into this next chapter of madness without knowing where we stand.”

“We stand… in the same group. With the same expectations. On the same path.”

His brow furrowed. “I meant you and me.”

I blinked.

Mattheo Riddle was not supposed to say things like that.

Before I could find the words, he took the bag of Fizzing Whizzbees from my hand and turned, walking back toward the compartment.

He paused halfway down the corridor and glanced back.

“You coming, Black?”

Still dazed, I followed.

The candlelight in the Great Hall flickered against the stone walls, dancing across centuries of whispered secrets. The ceiling overhead mimicked the dusky sky, casting a warm amber glow over the long tables where students buzzed with energy old friends reunited, gossip exchanged, houses reasserted in every glance.

I followed Draco and the rest of our lot towards the Slytherin table, the weight of expectation draped over us like the long black cloaks we wore. Sixth year. Practically adults. Practically Death Eaters.

Draco nudged me as we slid into our usual seats near the middle of the table. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” I replied, smoothing my skirt. “You?”

“Counting down the minutes ‘til we can get out of here and open that bottle of Firewhisky Enzo smuggled in.”

I smirked. “You say that every year.”

“And I mean it every time.”

Across from me, Pansy perched next to Draco, immediately attaching herself to his arm like a decorative brooch. Enzo and Eden sat further down, their fingers intertwined beneath the table. Blaise and Theo were in the middle of some whispered argument that Theo was barely pretending to care about.

And Mattheo… took the seat directly across from me.

He didn’t say a word.

But I caught the way his eyes flicked to mine as he reached for his goblet. Quick, almost imperceptible, like he hadn’t meant to.

Like he was looking without permission.

I blinked and glanced away, pretending to be far more interested in the golden plates being filled by magic before us.

The first-years filed in a moment later, guided by Professor Longbottom of all people he looked as flustered as ever trying to keep them in some sort of order.

I sat a little straighter, scanning the crowd until I spotted him.

Atticus Black.

Tiny, nervous, clutching his robes in his fists like they might float off without him.

Draco leaned in. “He looks like he’s about to vomit.”

“He’s fine,” I murmured, watching as Atticus glanced around wide-eyed, lips moving as he rehearsed something silently to himself.

He was the baby of the family. Regulus’ late-in-life surprise. Big eyes, bigger heart, and more questions about the Dark Mark than any eleven-year-old should be asking.

The Sorting Hat was placed, and the ceremony began.

Atticus was near the middle of the group. When they called his name “Black, Atticus” a few murmurs passed through the hall. The name still carried weight.

He hesitated, then shuffled to the stool. I watched every step. My fingers tightened around the edge of the table as the hat was dropped on his head.

It barely touched his hair before shouting, “Slytherin!”

There was polite applause, mostly from our end of the hall. A little less enthusiastic than in past years. But it was enough.

Atticus slid off the stool and walked towards us, still looking slightly stunned. His eyes searched the table until they met mine.

I gave him a small smile barely a tilt of my lips, a nod.

He didn’t return it, but his shoulders relaxed.

He found an empty spot further down and sat, fidgeting with his robes again.

I glanced sideways and caught Mattheo watching the whole thing. He didn’t comment, but his expression had softened just a touch. I tucked the observation away for later.

Before I could dwell on it, someone ruffled my hair from behind.

“Oi,” I hissed, whirling around.

Alexander stood there, grinning in that infuriating way only brothers could.

He was in his fifth year, taller than me now, all smug charm and permanently wrinkled uniform. “You’ve got Galleons, right?”

I raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because I don’t.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What happened to the ones Mum gave you before the train?”

“They’re in the possession of a very lovely card shark named Declan who did not play fair.”

I sighed, reaching into the hidden pocket of my robes and flicking him two Galleons without looking.

“You’re lucky I love you,” I muttered.

“I know,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before sauntering off. “Tell Atticus I’m proud he didn’t cry.”

Mattheo chuckled.

It was quiet, barely audible, but it was definitely a chuckle. I glanced at him.

“What?” I said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Just… brothers,” he said simply, shaking his head.

“They’re insufferable.”

He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “And yet, you’re the softest of us all when it comes to them.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because he wasn’t wrong.

The food appeared in a grand flourish roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, mountains of potatoes and conversation shifted to summer gossip. Who had secretly kissed who, who had been seen at Knockturn Alley, whose family had been seen at Malfoy Manor.

“You hear about Daphne Greengrass?” Pansy asked, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“Do we want to?” said Theo flatly.

“She’s engaged.”

“To who?” Eden gasped.

“Some French pure-blood. Her parents arranged it over summer.”

“Gods,” I muttered, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “We’re not even seventeen.”

Mattheo’s eyes were on me again.

“You worried your father’s planning the same?” he asked, voice quiet beneath the chatter.

I smirked. “If he is, I’ll hex the poor bastard before he gets a chance to kneel.”

He didn’t smile. Just kept looking at me.

I felt my cheeks warm under his stare and immediately turned back to my food.

The feast stretched on, conversation getting louder, messier as the plates emptied and sweets arrived. Atticus stayed quiet, watching everyone with big, uncertain eyes. I made a mental note to send Alexander to check on him later. The older brother talk always landed better coming from him.

As the plates finally vanished and Dumbledore stood to deliver his usual reminders about forbidden corridors and curfews, I felt Theo’s knee nudge mine under the table.

He leaned close and whispered, “Towers tonight?”

I nodded once. “The observatory?”

Enzo, listening from across the table, smirked. “Everything’s still stashed behind the heating panel, right?”

“Unless Filch found it,” Blaise muttered.

“Then we give him some and he mysteriously forgets,” Pansy chimed, shrugging.

“After lights out, yeah?” Eden said. “We’ll meet at the snake tapestry.”

I looked down the table at Atticus, who was listening to a prefect explain where the dormitories were.

“You lot go ahead,” I said. “I’ll come after he’s settled in.”

Draco scoffed. “Don’t baby him.”

“He’s eleven.”

“He’s a Black.”

“Exactly,” I said pointedly.

Mattheo watched this whole exchange silently, but his eyes never left me not even when I wasn’t speaking.

And for the second time that day, I got the sense that whatever polite distance we’d maintained for the past five years was beginning to… fray.

Not snap. Not yet.

But pull.

A thread unravelling.

I turned to Draco “I just want to check on Atticus first.”

He waved me off. “Be quick or we’ll start drinking without you.”

I grinned. “As if Enzo would let me miss the first toast.”

The Slytherin common room was just as I remembered dim, green-lit, full of whispers that never really echoed. I found Atticus by the fireplace, sat cross-legged on the thick rug with his little stack of first-year books already out and opened, though his eyes weren’t moving across the page.

He looked up as I approached and gave me a nervous sort of smile.

“You alright?” I asked, crouching beside him.

He nodded, but the hesitation was obvious.

“Everyone’s so... loud,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t even understand what half the boys were saying. One of them told me not to touch his wand, and I wasn’t even near it.”

I stifled a laugh and sat down properly beside him.

“You’ll find your people,” I said. “And until then, Alexander and I are your people.”

“You’re a girl,” he said bluntly, frowning.

“And don’t you forget it,” I smirked. “But lucky for you, I’m a Black first. Which means you come before the lot of them.”

He shrugged. “Dad always talks about you like you’re this big, scary Slytherin girl. The ‘shadow in the corridor’.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Well, I am scary. But only when I need to be.”

He smiled for real this time, teeth and all. A tiny thing, still full of baby roundness in the cheeks. I ruffled his curls gently.

“Get some sleep,” I said, standing. “Tomorrow we start the year properly. You’ll be fine.”

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re not scary. Not with me.”

My heart pinched. I gave him a wink. “Don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.”

The girls’ dormitory was mercifully empty when I got there. Eden was already rifling through her trunk, holding up potential outfits with a mischievous grin.

“You’re wearing the black one, right?” she asked.

I arched a brow. “Obviously.”

“It’s barely a dress.”

“Exactly.”

Truth be told, I hadn’t meant to change over the summer. But I had. I’d grown into my body in ways that were both a blessing and a curse: curvier now, fuller in places I hadn’t been before, and no longer just Regulus Black’s young daughter. I had started looking like a woman.

Tonight, I felt it too.

The black dress I pulled on clung like it had been spelled to. Low back, low neckline, and a hem that danced just below the tops of my thighs. The kind of dress that was illegal in the library and would’ve had McGonagall fainting into her tea.

Eden let out a low whistle.

“If Theo doesn’t combust when he sees you, I’ll eat my shoe,” she said, fastening the last of her bangles.

“Please don’t.”

“I’m just saying. You look...” She looked me up and down. “Dangerous.”

We slipped out after lights-out, shoes in hand, bare feet on cold stone as we padded silently down the corridor. At the snake tapestry, we met the boys already there, loitering like they owned the place.

The moment we turned the corner, the conversation cut.

Theo was the first to react.

He gave a low, theatrical whistle and clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Bloody hell, Y/N.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco groaned instantly.

Enzo barked a laugh. “Is it still Y/N or did we get a Veela over the summer?”

“I second that,” Blaise added, eyes flicking down and up again. “That’s not the same girl we left on the train last year.”

Eden snorted beside me. “Told you.”

I rolled my eyes, but the smirk I wore betrayed me. It felt good. Not because they were looking but because they noticed.

Theo stepped forward with a wink. “If I die tonight, I want this to be the last image seared into my brain.”

Draco elbowed him, hard. “Stop talking about my cousin like that or I swear to Salazar, I’ll hex my own ears off.”

“You’d prefer we lie?” Enzo teased.

Draco groaned dramatically and covered his face. “I’m going to vomit. All over your shiny shoes, Theo.”

Mattheo hadn’t said anything.

But I felt it.

The weight of his gaze as I stepped closer. Slower. More deliberate now.

When I looked at him he was already looking.

And his stare didn’t flick away like the others. It lingered. Measured. Not shocked. Not loud. But like he was trying to make sense of something he hadn’t noticed before.

Our eyes locked. Just a breath.

And then I turned to Eden.

“Shall we?” I said sweetly, lifting the hem of my dress slightly as we started up the winding steps toward the tower.

“Let’s drink until we forget we have classes tomorrow,” she grinned.

“Or until Draco actually throws up.”

“I heard that!” he called from behind.

The party hadn’t even started yet, but already, the air was different.

Something was brewing.

And I wasn’t sure if it was the Firewhisky in Enzo’s satchel, or the way Mattheo Riddle still hadn’t stopped looking at me.

The observatory tower wasn’t meant for parties but that had never stopped us before.

It was cold, sure. And mostly stone. But Enzo had charmed a few cushions into existence and Pansy had hexed the windows shut to keep the wind from cutting through our robes. The air was thick with the sugary scent of liquor and someone's overly expensive cologne.

Music drifted lazily from a wireless someone had smuggled in. Theo, of course, had already poured a round of Firewhisky into mismatched goblets he’d stolen from the kitchens.

I’d barely had two sips before someone probably Eden suggested it.

“Let’s play Never Have I Ever.”

Draco groaned loudly and threw his head back against the wall. “Must we?”

“Come on, Cousin,” I grinned, poking his leg. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You shag Theo and I hurl myself off the tower?”

“Oi,” Theo said, clearly not offended at all. “That’s rude. And oddly specific.”

“I hate this game,” Draco muttered, already covering his ears. “If any of you mentions anything involving Y/N and body parts, I’m going to start singing 'God Save the Queen' at full volume.”

“Deal,” I winked.

We arranged ourselves in a messy circle Pansy curled under Draco’s arm, Eden in Enzo’s lap, Blaise already sipping without a care, and Theo seated far too close to me for Draco’s comfort.

Mattheo, of course, was leaned against the stone wall, one leg up, arms folded watching everything. And saying nothing.

First round was tame enough.

Theo smirked. “Never have I ever... kissed someone in this room.”

Half the group drank.

Draco fake-gagged as Pansy proudly took a long sip, and then kissed his cheek just to make him squirm.

Next came Pansy: “Never have I ever snuck out of the castle walls past curfew.”

Everyone else drank. Naturally.

Eden: “Never have I ever hooked up in the library.”

Blaise raised his goblet with a wicked grin.

I stared at him. “Who?”

“Sixth year Ravenclaw,” he said, and left it at that.

“Never have I ever,” I said sweetly, “been caught in the act by a professor.”

Theo raised his goblet with a smug grin and drank.

My jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“I wish,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Who was it with?” Eden asked, already giggling.

Theo leaned back against the stone wall with a theatrical sigh. “A Ravenclaw. I won’t name names. But she had a thing for broom cupboards.”

The group groaned and laughed until Theo wiggled his eyebrows at me for a beat too long.

That was all it took.

“LALALALA!” Draco shouted, slapping his hands over his ears. “Do not flirt with my cousin. You’re disgusting.”

“Grow up, Draco,” Pansy rolled her eyes.

Next up was Enzo.

“Never have I ever had a dirty dream about someone here.”

Theo drank. Immediately.

All eyes turned to him.

“Shocking,” I muttered.

“Oh, come on,” Theo grinned at me. “You’re telling me you haven’t had any dreams?”

I raised a brow. “Not that I remember.”

“Pity,” he said, leaning closer, voice low. “I’d be happy to help you come up with a few.”

Draco threw a cushion at his face.

“Back off,” he growled.

Theo laughed. “I didn’t say it was about her.”

“You didn’t have to!”

As the bickering continued, I glanced up just for a moment and caught Mattheo’s eyes across the circle.

He hadn’t said a word all game. Hadn’t taken a sip. Hadn’t smiled or laughed or reacted.

But he was watching.

His gaze was sharp, cutting through the haze of candlelight and music. Like he could see through all of it. And for a second, I couldn’t look away.

There was something behind his stare.

Tension. Heat. Maybe irritation. Maybe something else entirely.

Theo nudged me gently with his shoulder, pulling my attention back.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just warm.”

I wasn’t lying. The room was hot from the whisky, the bodies, the press of something unsaid in the air.

Mattheo stood, finally, and crossed the room to pour himself a drink without saying anything.

Theo watched him, then turned back to me with a glint in his eye.

“Never have I ever,” he said, raising his voice just enough to drag Mattheo’s attention back to the group, “thought about snogging someone off limits.”

I blinked.

Theo looked at me as he drank.

Slowly.

And across the room, I saw it Mattheo’s jaw flexing, teeth pressing together, fingers tightening just slightly around the rim of his goblet.

He didn’t drink. But he heard it.

“Alright,” Draco said, standing abruptly. “Game over. I’m cutting it off.”

“Oh, come on,” Theo grinned. “Scared we’ll find out who Pansy’s dreaming about?”

She elbowed him hard.

“Don’t ruin the night,” Eden called out.

But Draco was already grabbing the whisky bottle from Theo’s hand.

“I’m not having my cousin’s name dragged into your filthy little fantasies.”

Theo held up his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t say it was about her.”

“You didn’t have to!” Draco snapped again.

Mattheo stepped forward calm but firm. “Alright, that’s enough.”

His voice wasn’t loud. But it cut through everything.

Everyone went quiet.

He looked at Draco first. “Sit down.”

Then at Theo. “Back off.”

Theo raised a brow. “Didn’t realise you’d appointed yourself our babysitter.”

Mattheo’s stare didn’t waver.

“Didn’t realise you needed one.”

A beat of silence.

Then Theo laughed, shaking his head. “Someone’s touchy tonight.”

“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath. “Someone definitely is.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked to mine for just a second.

Just long enough to make my stomach twist.

Something had shifted.

And I didn’t know if it was the dress, or Theo’s mouth, or the whisky catching up to all of us but I felt it in my chest.

When I met Mattheo’s gaze again, I didn’t smile.

Neither did he.

But I didn’t look away.

I needed a moment.

I slipped out onto the observatory balcony, cool stone biting beneath my bare feet as I leaned against the railing, drawing in a long breath of the night air. Stars blanketed the sky above, bright and far away, and down on the darkened grounds, something moved a Thestral, maybe, drifting through the trees beyond the pitch.

The world felt still. Quiet. I let myself melt into it.

Then I felt it.

A presence behind me. Close.

Too close.

One arm came down on either side of me, bracing against the balcony rail. I froze. My spine straightened. I couldn’t turn, couldn’t move whoever it was, they had me pinned without touching me.

Warm breath ghosted against my ear.

“You are such a fucking tease, you know that?”

The voice was low. Slurred, but deliberate. Dangerous. A whisper that curled like smoke and disappeared just as fast.

And then gone.

The warmth behind me vanished. No footsteps. No trace.

I spun, heart hammering, but the balcony was empty.

The doorway hung open, music pulsing faintly from inside the tower. Laughter. Glass clinking. No one looking at me. No one suspicious. No one out of place.

Theo was laughing with Blaze, his arm slung around Enzo’s shoulders. Mattheo was standing a bit apart, nursing a drink and scowling at the floor like it had insulted him. All three could’ve made it back in seconds. All three looked… normal.

I lingered a moment longer on the balcony, staring into nothing.

The echo of that voice that breath clung to me like a second skin. I could still feel the heat of it at my neck, the way it sent a shiver all the way down my spine. Whoever it was hadn’t touched me. But it felt like they had. Possessively. Like I was theirs.

My heart hadn’t settled. My legs were still unsteady, and not just from the Firewhisky.

Eventually, I pushed myself away from the railing and stepped back into the tower.

Warm light wrapped around me again, the smell of drink and smoke and bodies overwhelming my senses. Laughter roared from the corner. Enzo was doing some ridiculous impression that had Theo doubled over, wheezing. Blaze and Eden were attempting to balance goblets on their heads. Pansy was trying to drag Draco into a drunken slow dance while he looked like he’d rather be hexed.

And Mattheo was sitting on one of the window ledges, glass in hand, eyes unreadable.

None of them looked like they’d just slipped out and whispered something dark in my ear.

I scanned them again. Tried to look for anything. Anyone. A twitch of a smirk. A glance. But I couldn’t focus. My head was spinning and my limbs were loose, and every second that passed made the whole thing feel less real like I’d imagined it. Like I’d dreamed it up in a drunken haze.

Still… I knew what I’d felt.

That presence. That closeness. That raw, hot breath against my ear. My skin prickled just thinking about it. My body remembered what my brain was too dizzy to process.

“You are such a fucking tease, you know that?”

Who the hell had said it?

I gave up trying to figure it out.

Dragging my fingers through my hair, I crossed the room and grabbed my wand from where I’d left it tucked behind a stone bust near the staircase. “I’m calling it a night,” I said to no one in particular, voice hoarse and low. No one argued. They were too far gone.

Theo raised a lazy hand in goodbye, and Enzo blew me a ridiculous kiss. Mattheo didn’t look at me at all.

Fine.

I slipped out of the tower and padded down the corridor, my head spinning harder with each step.

By the time I reached the common room, I was sobering just enough to curse my thoughts.

That voice whoever it belonged to had burrowed under my skin like poison.

Not the words. Not really.

But the way it was said.

Like they’d been watching me. Wanting me. Resenting the hell out of it.

And somehow… the thought thrilled me.

I hated that I was so curious. So pulled in.

But lying in bed later, facing the dark ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory, I replayed it over and over.

That moment. That voice. That heat.

I’d never felt so owned by something by someone I didn’t even see.

And gods help me… I wanted to know who it was.

The next morning hit me like a Hippogriff to the chest.

My head pounded. My limbs ached. And I had the awful, itchy sensation that someone had crawled inside my mind and rearranged everything while I slept.

I moved through the motions of getting dressed in a daze pulling on my uniform, ignoring my mess of hair, and nearly buttoning my shirt up wrong three times. Eden was still snoring softly in her bed, one arm flung dramatically over her head, her makeup smudged and wand dangling off the edge of her pillow.

I didn’t wake her.

Mostly because I couldn’t form words.

My mind was a loop. That voice. That breath. That moment.

I hadn’t dreamt it. I was sure of that now. I could feel it still. Whoever he was Theo, Blaze or Mattheo had left something behind in that touchless, breathless moment on the balcony. Some thread tangled deep in my chest.

And now it was tugging.

Hard.

By the time I reached the Entrance Hall for breakfast, my stomach was twisted in knots. My eyes kept flicking sideways, scanning for tells. Blaze was talking animatedly with Theo near the wall. Mattheo stood apart, leaning against one of the stone columns, arms folded, jaw tight.

He wasn’t looking at me.

Or maybe he was, when I wasn’t looking at him.

It was maddening.

I didn’t eat. Couldn’t. The food looked like it was spinning on the plates.

We were halfway to Defence Against the Dark Arts when I felt someone fall into step beside me.

“You alright?”

I blinked up to see Draco watching me, brow furrowed. His platinum fringe was neatly in place as always and his robe hung perfectly around his lean frame. He looked composed. Sharp. Focused.

I forced a smile. “Fine.”

“You’re not.” His tone was quiet but pointed, a cousin’s mix of concern and condescension. “You’ve been floating through the corridor like a ghost. You didn’t eat. You look like you didn’t sleep.”

I said nothing. Just shrugged and kept walking.

Draco sighed, pulling me aside by the edge of the corridor, letting the others pass.

He turned to face me fully, voice low now. “Look… Y/N… this year isn’t just another year. You know that, don’t you?”

I met his eyes. I did know. Of course I did.

“We’ve got to be ready,” he continued. “When the Dark Lord gives the signal when he calls us in we don’t get to hesitate. He’s not going to care if you’re distracted or daydreaming or chasing shadows.”

I flinched slightly.

He paused. “I’m not saying this to be a prick. I’m saying it because I care. Because you’re my cousin and if you’re not focused, you’ll get hurt. Worse.”

I swallowed hard. He was right. I hated that he was right.

I forced another nod. “Yeah. I know. You’re right.”

His eyes searched mine. “So whatever happened last night whatever’s messing with your head let it go.”

But how could I?

I offered a small, tired smile and patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Draco. I’ll sort it.”

We rejoined the others, heading down into the Defence corridor, where Professor Snape was already stalking about with his usual grim energy.

I tried to focus. I did.

But all through the lesson wand gripped in my hand, dark spells echoing off stone walls I could feel it again.

That voice.

That whisper.

That heat.

You are such a fucking tease, you know that…

I closed my eyes for a heartbeat and told myself it meant nothing.

Even though I knew better.

By lunch, I’d convinced myself that I was fine.

Completely, entirely, totally fine.

Sure, I’d barely slept, I’d lied to Draco, and I couldn’t even look at a stone balcony without feeling my heartbeat stutter but fine. That was the story, and I was sticking to it.

The Great Hall buzzed with life voices layered over clinking goblets, the rustle of parchment, the occasional shriek from the Gryffindor table when the ceiling rumbled with the threat of an autumn storm.

I sat between Eden and Theo, across from Mattheo and Blaze. Draco was arguing with Pansy at the far end, their on-and-off drama swinging back into “off” for the moment. Pansy’s dramatic sighs could have powered the Hogwarts Express.

“You can’t actually believe the Cannons are going to make top five this season,” Blaze was saying, mouth half-full of roast potatoes. “They haven’t made top five since Merlin had knees.”

“Oh, and I suppose you think the Harpies will?” Theo shot back. “You’re all talk and no broomstick, Zabini.”

“I’m talk and strategy,” Blaze replied smugly, tapping his temple. “Unlike you, whose idea of defence is ‘fly in a straight line and hope for the best.’”

I smiled faintly, grateful for the familiar rhythm of their arguing. Eden leaned into me with a grin, whispering just loudly enough, “Watch this.”

Without warning, she pinched Theo’s side.

“OI!” he yelped, jumping a good six inches in his seat.

“Still ticklish, I see,” she teased.

“Betrayal,” he said, clutching his chest. “From my own best mate. I feel wounded.”

“Not as wounded as your dignity was when I beat you at Wizard's Chess twice last week,” I added sweetly, sipping my pumpkin juice.

Theo turned to me with a dramatic gasp. “You’re supposed to take my side.”

“You’re never winning that game,” Eden said, smug. “Y/N’s got you wrapped around her wand.”

Theo wiggled his brows at me. “If only.”

“Oh, grow up,” Mattheo muttered, not looking up from the book he was absently flipping through beside his untouched plate.

I blinked. He hadn’t said much all morning. Actually, not much at all since the party. Just the occasional glare at Theo but then again, that wasn’t exactly unusual.

“You alright, Matty?” I asked, biting a piece of bread.

He didn’t look up. “Fine.”

Eden gave me a glance, eyebrows slightly raised, but didn’t comment.

Draco finally slumped down beside me, dramatically dropping a scroll of parchment on the table. “If I hear Pansy say ‘You never listen to me’ one more time, I’ll jinx my own ears off.”

“Didn’t you two get back together like, yesterday?” Theo asked.

“She said I don’t communicate enough,” Draco said, already digging into his meal. “So I tried to tell her about my dream last night, and she said, and I quote, ‘You dream about yourself too much.’ I was fighting a basilisk, mind you.”

“That sounds very on brand,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“Was it shirtless basilisk fighting again?” Theo added.

“Obviously,” Draco muttered.

The laughter around the table was light and easy just like old times. For a while, it worked. The voice faded. The balcony slipped to the back of my mind.

We talked Quidditch, upcoming Hogsmeade trips, our new (and already detested) Arithmancy professor, and made plans to sneak out to the lake next warm night we got. It was… normal. And I needed normal.

By the time the bell rang and we all dragged ourselves toward our respective classes, I felt almost steady again.

Even when Mattheo walked just a step too close to me on our way to Charms close enough that our hands nearly brushed I didn’t let it shake me.

I was fine.

And nothing was going to ruin that.

The library was unusually quiet for a Wednesday. A soft patter of rain hit the tall windows and made the warm candlelight flicker against the stone walls. I settled into a corner table, textbooks and parchment spread out before me, determined to be a model student or at least appear like one.

Quill in hand, I scribbled the opening lines of an essay for Potions, but my mind wandered almost instantly.

A flash of warm breath. The ghost of a whisper. A grip too close, a voice too deep.

You are such a fucking tease…

I clenched my jaw, shaking the memory away. I had more important things to

Bootsteps.

Slow, familiar, deliberate.

I looked up just as Mattheo stepped into my line of sight, a textbook tucked beneath one arm, his other hand buried in his robe pocket. His hair was a bit messier than usual, the ink on his fingers fresh, like he’d just come from scribbling something he’d never show anyone.

He didn't notice me at first. Or maybe he did and pretended not to that would be more like him.

But when he settled at the table just a few feet away, I lifted my gaze again and caught him mid-sit.

I gave him a small smile. Not wide. Not overly friendly. Just enough.

A silent you can join me if you like.

His eyes found mine… and didn’t soften.

His stare was unreadable cold, almost and instead of moving toward me, he opened his book with a slow rustle and dropped into his seat as if I hadn’t gestured at all.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

And then tilted my head slightly, lips curling.

Interesting.

Because suddenly, now that I was paying attention really paying attention I could see it.

The jawline, sharp and tense. The slight rasp of his voice when he was annoyed. The way he always stood just a little too close when irritated. The sort of possessive, heavy way he watched things when he thought no one noticed.

Mattheo Riddle was all hot breath and dark heat.

And I was certain now it had been him on that balcony.

The realisation sent something electric down my spine. Heat. Thrill. A little flick of power.

He wanted to pretend? Fine.

Two could play that game.

I returned to my notes, posture adjusting subtly. Slouched just enough that I could cross my legs, letting my skirt ride up a little higher on my thigh. My hand drifted lazily to the top button of my blouse and I undid it.

Then another.

It wasn’t scandalous not by Hogwarts standards. But the swell of cleavage now visible beneath my open collar certainly wasn’t what Professor McGonagall would deem appropriate for study.

I didn’t look up. Not yet.

Instead, I reached to the far end of the table just far enough and gave my Charms book a careless nudge.

It slid off the edge and landed on the floor with a soft thud.

Mattheo didn’t move, but I knew he’d heard it. The room was too quiet not to.

I stood, stretched, and turned my back slightly as I bent to retrieve it slowly, carefully, just enough that the hem of my skirt shifted, lifting slightly. Enough for a teasing hint of lace to peek out at the top of my thigh-highs.

I didn’t need to look at him to feel it.

That subtle shift in the air. The heat of his stare. The way time sort of stilled between us quiet but buzzing.

I stood again, hugging the book to my chest, and finally glanced his way.

He was watching me.

Not reading. Not pretending.

Watching.

His jaw was clenched tight, mouth pressed in a hard line. One of his hands curled around the edge of his book, knuckles white.

Gotcha.

I gave him a small, innocent smile, as if none of that had just happened, and returned to my seat.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

But the tension radiating off him could’ve lit the whole bloody castle.

If Mattheo wanted to ignore me, he’d have to work a hell of a lot harder.

Something had shifted since the library in me. Knowing it had been him on that balcony, knowing he’d left me rattled with just a whisper, only to act like I didn’t exist afterward? That lit a fire under my skin I didn’t want to put out.

So I leaned into it. Boldly. Shamelessly.

And I made damn sure he noticed.

The first opportunity came in the common room. The whole group had gathered after class, sprawled across couches and mismatched chairs like we owned the bloody place which, by now, we practically did.

Enzo and Eden were tangled together in their usual corner. Blaise was reading or pretending to as Pansy painted her nails with a wand flick, fuming over something Draco had said earlier. Theo sat by the fireplace, legs spread, long fingers twirling a silver ring over and over again.

And Mattheo?

Slouched in the armchair closest to the window, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, jaw tight, eyes flicking between his book and the rest of us like we were all an irritation.

Perfect.

I walked past him slowly, letting my fingers trail across the edge of his armrest. As I stepped between him and the firelight, I made sure my skirt swayed just enough, and let my hand accidentally brush his thigh.

Just a whisper of contact.

But his whole body went still.

I didn’t look back.

The next day, I wore a top I knew would drive him mad. Low-cut, just slightly sheer in the right lighting, and I caught Theo blatantly staring three times before breakfast ended.

“You trying to kill someone this morning?” he whispered as he passed behind me in the Great Hall, his voice low and amused.

“Just making the most of the attention,” I replied sweetly.

Mattheo didn’t say a word the entire meal.

But when I reached for a piece of toast across the table, and my hand grazed his again, I felt it the tension in his body, the way he pulled his arm back like I’d burned him.

Still silent. Still seething.

During Herbology, I partnered with Theo. Not because I had to but because Mattheo paired himself with Blaise before I could even blink.

Fine.

Theo didn’t mind. In fact, he leaned in close as we worked, brushing dirt from my cheek with a grin that was way too confident for someone holding a spiked plant.

“You really did something over the summer,” he murmured as he reached past me.

“Oh?” I asked, tilting my head innocently.

“You’ve always been hot. But now?” He gave me a look. “Now you’re dangerous.”

Across the greenhouse, Mattheo’s gloved hands snapped the stem of a shrieking mandrake clean off its root.

Professor Sprout nearly cried.

Later that week, after another night in the common room, I passed Mattheo again this time with our arms brushing. Close. Too close.

And this time, I leaned in as I passed and whispered, “You always get this tense around girls… or is it just me?”

He didn’t respond.

Not with words.

But his nostrils flared. His eyes flicked up, sharp and dark. His hand gripped the book in his lap like he was seconds away from tearing it in half.

Good.

Because I wasn’t just playing anymore I was hunting.

And Mattheo Riddle?

He was trying very hard not to let himself be caught.

The wind nipped at my legs as we strolled through Hogsmeade, scarves wrapped loosely and cloaks billowing behind us like we owned the bloody village. Because honestly? We did.

We were those students the ones everyone knew, watched, whispered about. The children of Death Eaters, dark-blood royalty in Slytherin ties. And we moved like it.

Today, the whole group had come along Eden and Enzo hand in hand, Draco sulking because Pansy had refused to come unless he apologised for something he said about her shoes, and Theo?

Theo had glued himself to my side.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled as we passed Honeydukes, “I’m buying you something disgustingly sugary and romantic. Pick your poison.”

I smirked. “Sugar quills. And those little truffles with the gold foil.”

He threw a Galleon at the shopfront boy like he was royalty and turned back to me with a grin. “Anything else?”

“Surprise me.”

His eyes flicked down my frame in a slow sweep, smirk deepening. “Don’t tempt me.”

From somewhere behind us, Mattheo’s voice snapped out low and sharp: “You’re going to give her diabetes, not shag her.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Theo shot back, unfazed, “I can multitask.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Enzo and a scoff from Draco.

But me? I didn’t even blush. I turned to Theo, took one of the sweets he’d handed me, and placed it between my lips.

He watched as I bit into it, eyes locked on my mouth like I’d cast a spell.

Mattheo?

He didn’t say a thing.

But his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the tension running through him like a piano wire.

We ended up in The Three Broomsticks after an hour of wandering all squeezed into a booth that was far too small, our knees knocking beneath the table, the drinks flowing faster than usual.

Theo had his arm around the back of the booth behind me. He wasn’t touching me, technically but his fingers would brush my hair every so often like an accident. Except it wasn’t.

And I wasn’t stopping him.

“You’re quiet today,” he said softly, tipping his Butterbeer towards my lips. “Too much thinking?”

“Too much watching,” I replied, sipping from the tankard. “The company’s distracting.”

“Am I distracting you?” he asked, voice low.

“Terribly.”

Across the table, Mattheo said nothing.

But he hadn’t touched his drink.

Just sat there, hand tight around the glass, staring at Theo like he was moments from planting a dagger between his ribs.

Draco, blissfully unaware, was muttering about getting back to the castle.

Theo was smirking. Eden and Enzo were locked in their own world.

And me?

I was floating in the middle heat curling in my stomach, eyes drifting from Theo’s lazy grin to Mattheo’s dark stare and wondering how long this dance could really last.

By the time we walked back up the hill to Hogwarts, the sun was setting behind the towers in streaks of lavender and gold, and the butterbeer had settled warm in our veins.

Theo kept brushing his hand against mine.

Mattheo trailed behind with Draco, silent, his eyes never leaving me.

I could feel them.

Later that night it was far too late for any of us to be out of bed, much less piled into the back corner of the Astronomy Tower, sprawled on cushions someone had stolen from the Common Room and wrapped in stolen blankets and smuggled Firewhisky.

Someone had lit a few candles with their wand probably Eden and the flickering glow made shadows dance across the walls like ghosts whispering secrets.

The air buzzed. Maybe from the alcohol. Maybe from us.

“I swear on Salazar’s grave,” Theo drawled, voice lazy, “if I have to sit through another DADA lecture on Inferi, I might throw myself off this tower just for a bit of variety.”

I laughed. “You’re not even paying attention half the time. You spent the last class transfiguring Draco’s quill into a flaccid carrot.”

Draco made a sound of indignation. “That’s what that was?”

Theo only smirked.

But his attention, like always lately, shifted back to me far too quickly.

I was sitting on one of the blankets, legs crossed, revealing far too much thigh for propriety. And I knew it.

So did he.

“I’ve got an idea,” Theo said, pushing up onto his knees. “Let’s play something.”

“Oh God,” groaned Enzo. “What sort of something?”

“The fun kind.”

“Define fun.”

Theo didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to me, voice dropped low like we weren’t surrounded by half our housemates. “Y/N. Come here.”

The room stilled slightly. Even the candles seemed to pause.

I tilted my head at him. “Why?”

“So I can tell you a secret.”

I laughed. “You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough to miss the way you’ve been looking at me tonight.”

A few whistles went around. Blaze let out a cackle. Draco groaned again. “Don’t.”

But I was already moving, climbing up to my knees, leaning just slightly towards Theo with an amused smile playing at my lips.

“Fine,” I murmured. “What’s your secret?”

He grinned, a little wicked the kind of grin that meant trouble and leaned in, nose brushing mine.

His hand skimmed up my thigh.

His breath was warm.

And then

“Y/N.” Mattheo’s voice.

Sharp. Clipped. Firm.

Everyone turned.

He was standing now, dark jumper clinging to his broad chest, curls a mess from where he’d raked a hand through them, eyes blazing.

“I need your help,” he said shortly. “With something.”

I blinked, pulling back slightly from Theo, who let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t push.

“What?”

“Snacks,” Mattheo said, tone flat. “Or maybe more drink. Whatever. You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

He was already walking toward the door, not even checking if I followed.

I hesitated.

And then just to spite Theo’s soft curse behind me I stood and followed.

The corridor outside the tower was darker, cooler. Empty, except for the glow of the occasional floating lantern.

“Snacks?” I asked, arms crossed, catching up to him.

He didn’t slow down.

“Cut the act,” he muttered.

“What act?”

Mattheo stopped so suddenly I nearly crashed into him. He turned, eyes wild and dangerous in the low light.

“The bloody act, Y/N. The teasing. The fucking… games.”

I blinked, heart thudding. “You’re mad I didn’t let Theo kiss me?”

“I’m mad you wanted him to,” he snapped.

I gaped at him, stunned silent.

Mattheo Riddle son of the Dark Lord, ice-veined and cold-blooded looked like he might explode.

He stepped closer.

“I’ve watched you,” he said, voice lower now. “Every damn day since we got back. Walking around in skirts two sizes too small, laughing with Theo, touching me when you think no one’s watching…”

He leaned in. My back hit the wall of the corridor.

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing to me.”

I swallowed, heat blooming in my chest. “Then show me.”

His eyes flared. But he didn’t move.

Just stood there. Breathing hard. Clenching his jaw like he was holding himself back from either kissing me or hexing the wall beside my head.

“I’m not a game, Y/N,” he said.

“I never said you were.”

But he didn’t answer.

He just turned and walked away leaving me breathless, dizzy, and completely undone in the empty corridor.

He walked away...

Just like that.

Like he hadn’t just ripped open my ribcage and peeked inside. Like he hadn’t just stood close enough to burn me alive and then left me out in the cold.

I leaned back against the stone wall and let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way my hands trembled slightly at my sides. My skin still buzzed from where his voice had wrapped around me like smoke low, rough, possessive.

My lips parted. My chest ached. My mind screamed with a thousand thoughts, but none of them made it past my throat.

What the hell was that?

Why pull me away from Theo just to deliver that meltdown and leave?

Why not kiss me?

Why didn’t he just do something?

Instead, he gave me everything and nothing all at once.

I didn’t go back upstairs.

Not right away. I needed the cool corridor air more than I needed the teasing glances or the way Theo’s hand kept finding my waist like he already knew it belonged there.

Because for a moment, I wanted it to. Just to see how Mattheo would react.

But now? Now I couldn’t even pretend.

It wasn’t Theo I thought about. It wasn’t even what Theo might’ve done.

It was him. Mattheo. Mattheo, who had stared at me like I was something unholy and tempting and his, and then walked away like I wasn’t.

Again.

I don’t remember walking back to the dorm. Only that when I got there, the fire was out and the moonlight from the tall windows streaked across the common room floor.

I didn’t sleep.

I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like I’d run a race. His words echoed on a loop in my skull.

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing to me.”

But I did.

God, I did.

And worse? I liked it. Liked the way I made him snap. Liked the way he came undone.

Liked that he cared enough to fall apart about it.

And now? Now I was in so much trouble.

By morning, the usual chaos returned. A half-burnt piece of toast in one hand, bag half-zipped, Theo slinging an arm over my shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Tell me,” he said, chewing noisily, “if we all just dropped out, how long before the professors noticed?”

“Two weeks,” I said flatly.

Draco, walking ahead of us, snorted. “Two hours. We’re the only halfway intelligent ones left.”

“Speak for yourself,” Blaise muttered, dragging behind with a hangover.

Mattheo didn’t say a word.

He walked a few paces ahead, dark curls mussed, sleeves rolled, tie askew. His fists were jammed deep into his pockets, jaw ticking like a clock running out of time.

Every time I laughed at one of Theo’s jokes, I swore he walked faster.

Every time Theo leaned in close to whisper something in my ear, Mattheo’s back went impossibly straighter.

He didn’t look at me once.

So I mirrored him. I didn’t look either. But I felt him.

I felt the tension simmering between us like a hex hanging just beneath the surface, waiting to explode.

And it was only going to get worse.

The classroom was already full by the time we arrived desks scraped back, parchment scattered, and the dull hum of morning groans echoing through the dungeon walls.

Professor Slughorn didn’t look up as we filed in. His long, ink-stained fingers continued scrawling on the blackboard, wand tapping occasionally to underline something gruesome about blood magic and ritual binding.

“Partners,” he announced flatly, still not turning. “Same as last week.”

I froze mid-step. My stomach flipped.

Mattheo was already at the back table, slouched in his chair like the very act of existing annoyed him.

Our usual seat.

Our usual partnership.

And today?

It felt like walking into a war zone.

I slid into the seat beside him slowly, carefully as if he might snap again just from proximity. He didn’t look at me. Not even a flick of those burning eyes.

He had one hand wrapped around his quill, tapping it with precision against his notebook.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I sat stiffly beside him, pretending the space between our shoulders didn’t ache with everything unsaid.

From across the room, Theo caught my eye and grinned.

“Oi, Slughorn,” he called, lazy and smug. “Think we could do a reshuffle this week? I’ve been robbed of the only decent partner in the class.”

A few heads turned. I felt my cheeks heat.

Professor Slughorn didn’t even glance up. “No.”

Theo sighed dramatically. “Tragic, really. Was hoping for a bit of fun. I work better when my partner’s got good legs.”

I shot him a glare, but he just winked.

Next to me, Mattheo’s quill stopped tapping.

The silence was heavier than lead. His fingers tensed, the feather of his quill crushed in his grip. But still no words. No movement.

I didn’t dare look at him.

The instructions for the potion were scrawled messily on the board something complex involving powdered raven bone and an unstable fluxweed reduction. I started gathering the ingredients automatically, but my hands felt clumsy. Unfocused.

He moved beside me silent, efficient, infuriatingly cold.

Not a word passed between us.

Only the soft clinks of glass vials, the scrape of a knife on a chopping board, the dull roar of a low flame catching under the cauldron.

My chest felt tight. The silence was worse than yelling. Worse than his anger in the corridor.

This? This wasn’t him. This was something colder.

I measured out the fluxweed. He stirred counter-clockwise without needing a prompt. Our hands brushed briefly as I passed him the stirrer, and I swore I felt him flinch.

But he didn’t look at me.

Not once.

By the end of class, our potion shimmered perfectly violet stable, correct, flawless.

Unlike us.

When the bell rang, I stayed seated a second too long.

He stood, pushed his chair back, and walked out without a word.

And just like that, I was breathless all over again.

The courtyard was unusually full for a weekday afternoon the kind of overcast day where no one wanted to be inside, but the sun hadn’t quite shown up either. Clusters of students lounged on benches and stone steps, halfheartedly pretending to revise.

I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there.

“I still don’t understand why I have to be the one to return this,” I muttered, glancing down at the borrowed textbook in my hand.

“It was your idea to steal it from Granger in the first place,” Eden smirked, flicking her quill at me. “So you’re doing the noble deed.”

I scowled. “I didn’t steal it. I… borrowed it aggressively.”

But she wasn’t listening anymore, and before I could escape, I spotted them.

Granger, Potter, and Weasley. Sat under one of the arches, heads bent in discussion over some tattered bit of parchment that looked suspiciously like contraband.

Perfect.

I considered just tossing the book in their direction and fleeing, but something made me approach.

Maybe it was the sharp eyes I felt tracking me across the courtyard.

Mattheo was nearby half-lounging against the low stone wall with Draco, Theo, Enzo, and the rest of the usual suspects, all laughing at something Theo was miming with far too much enthusiasm.

I ignored the way my stomach twisted.

I stepped up to the trio.

Granger looked up first, surprised.

“I believe this belongs to you,” I said coolly, holding out the book. “Advanced Arithmancy riveting read, really.”

Hermione blinked. “I...thank you…?”

“I’d rather eat flobberworms than sit through another of Professor Vector’s lectures without caffeine,” I added dryly. “Not sure how you manage.”

Harry gave me a cautious look. “Didn’t think you lot borrowed from our side of the castle.”

I smiled tightly. “Desperate times.”

Ron, never one for tact, raised a brow. “Thought Slytherins didn’t need help from anyone. Especially you.”

I tilted my head. “Is that supposed to offend me, Weasley?”

He grinned like he’d won something. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just odd seeing you with your nose out of Malfoy’s arse for once.”

Draco sputtered with laughter from across the courtyard.

Before I could respond, Potter added under his breath, just loud enough to carry:

“Maybe she’s trying to trade up. Heard Y/N has a thing for dark-haired psychopaths lately.”

I turned just in time to see Mattheo push off from the wall, expression thunderous. That dangerous calm wrapped around him like smoke slow, deliberate, lethal.

He didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t need to.

“What did you just say?”

Harry stiffened. “It was a joke.”

“Say it again.” Mattheo stepped closer. “Go on, Potter. Make another joke. Let’s see how funny you are when your wand’s broken and your glasses are shattered into your bloody skull.”

Harry stood now too, jaw tight. But Mattheo’s stare didn’t falter molten and livid, like he was daring him to even breathe wrong.

The entire courtyard was watching.

“Mattheo,” I said quietly, barely audible.

But he didn’t look at me.

Didn’t look at anyone but Harry.

“You think I don’t see you watching her? You and your little band of idiots.” His lip curled. “She’s ten times the witch you’ll ever deserve. So next time you want to use her name to make yourself feel important. Don’t.”

The silence stretched, heavy and brutal.

Even Ron looked spooked.

Mattheo turned without another word, jaw clenched, and walked straight past me but not before his hand brushed mine briefly. Just once. Just enough to burn.

The moment he was gone, I realised I was holding my breath.

So was everyone else.

The laughter and tension still hung thick in the air, but I barely noticed it anymore.

My eyes flicked to Harry.

He looked stunned. Brows furrowed, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. I didn’t like him not really but even I could admit that jab from Mattheo had hit harder than necessary.

I caught his eye just briefly.

My lips pressed into the faintest, silent sorry.

Then I turned and followed Mattheo.

He was already halfway up the courtyard steps, shoulders tight, strides long cutting through the archway like a storm wrapped in black robes.

“Mattheo,” I called, quickening my pace. “Mattheo, wait.”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

I had to jog to catch up, fingers closing around the cuff of his sleeve as we reached the hallway outside the library.

He stopped, but didn’t turn.

I tugged again. “What the hell was that?”

Finally, he twisted, eyes flaring. “You’re asking me?”

“Yes,” I hissed, stepping in front of him. “You just threatened Harry Potter in front of half the courtyard”

He cut me off. “He deserved it.”

“That’s not the point”

“It is to me.”

I blinked at him.

Mattheo’s jaw clenched. His eyes, usually unreadable, sparked with something dangerous and unfiltered.

“No one gets to say your name like that. Like you’re just some… pawn in a joke. Some girl to make jabs at.”

I blinked again, softer now. “So you humiliate him? For my honour?”

“For you.”

Silence stretched between us.

It wasn’t performative now. Not like the teasing, the games, the tension we both pretended to ignore. It was raw. Real.

I swallowed. “You’re acting like we’re something.”

Mattheo looked down at me, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Aren’t we?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Then decide, Y/N,” he said, voice rough. “Because I can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep pretending I don’t want to ruin anyone who so much as looks at you.”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

Then finally: “You already are ruining them.”

His mouth twitched a ghost of a smirk.

But he didn’t say anything else.

Just stepped in closer, hand brushing mine for half a second a barely-there touch that sent my pulse skittering and then turned to walk away again, leaving me speechless and burning in the empty corridor.

By the time I made it back to the common room, the rest of them were already there sprawled in their usual spots on the couches and armchairs, laughter floating above the firelight like everything was normal.

Like nothing had just happened.

But I could feel it. The shift.

Like a crack in the floor that no one wanted to look at.

Eden glanced up from where she was tucked against Draco’s side, brows flicking slightly as her eyes swept between me and Mattheo. She didn’t say anything none of them did but they all felt it. I could see it in the way conversation faltered when I stepped in. The way Theo’s gaze lingered on me a beat too long.

And Mattheo?

He didn’t look up at all.

He sat in the corner armchair, legs spread wide, elbow hooked over the back, a book open in one hand and the other curled in a fist against his jaw. But he wasn’t reading.

He was watching Theo.

Theo, who was suddenly very interested in where I was going to sit.

“Y/N,” he drawled lazily, stretching out like a cat and patting the cushion beside him. “Come lighten my mood, would you? Being this handsome is exhausting.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched. “Is that your way of saying you’ve missed me?”

He grinned, head tilting. “Terribly. Tragic, really. I’ve been inconsolable.”

“Such a shame,” I said, sitting not beside him, but close enough that it still counted. Close enough that I felt Mattheo’s gaze snap up, hot and immediate, like a pull to my spine.

Theo leaned in slightly, dropping his voice just enough for it to feel intimate. “You always know how to fix me.”

“You’re hopeless,” I muttered, but didn’t move away.

Mattheo shifted.

Not much just the scrape of his boot across the floor and the creak of leather as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees but it was enough that the room seemed to notice.

Not directly.

But in the sideways glances. The awkward silences. The undercurrent of awareness.

“So,” Eden said, far too loudly. “Are we sneaking out tonight or pretending we’re model students for once?”

Draco scoffed. “Speak for yourself, Greengrass.”

“Obviously I was,” she snapped back, tossing a cushion at his head.

Laughter erupted. Conversation picked up.

But the tension remained like static, humming just beneath the surface.

Theo didn’t stop flirting.

Mattheo didn’t stop brooding.

And I didn’t stop feeling like I was walking a tightrope with no idea which direction I wanted to fall.

The moon was high by the time we slipped out the back gates, past the edge of the castle wards and into the open air.

Someone probably Blaise had suggested a late walk under the guise of getting “fresh air,” which really meant another excuse to sneak Firewhisky into our lungs and trouble into our bloodstreams. A few others came, laughter echoing across the grass in drunken stumbles and muffled giggles, but I didn’t stay with them long.

Not when I noticed Mattheo hanging back.

Not when I felt his gaze on the back of my neck like it ached to be acknowledged.

So I slowed.

Let the others walk ahead, their silhouettes drifting further into the trees near the edge of the forest.

And then it was just us.

The quiet closed in around us slowly, like fog. I glanced at him beside me tall, tense, curls pushed back from his forehead by the wind, jaw set hard against whatever war he was fighting internally.

I shoved my hands in my cloak pockets and asked, quietly, “What do you want from me, Mattheo?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t even look at me just kept walking, boots crunching over the frost-covered grass.

I waited.

And waited.

Finally, just when I thought he might stay silent forever, he exhaled hard, like the answer burned his lungs on the way out.

“I don’t know.”

I frowned. “That’s honest, at least.”

He stopped walking.

And I did too turning slightly, facing him now in the silver wash of moonlight.

His brow was furrowed. “You drive me fucking insane,” he said, voice low and raw. “One minute you’re all over Theo, laughing like he’s the only one in the world, and the next you're looking at me like you want to set me on fire.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Maybe I do.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Silence stretched again.

And then I said it what we’d both been tiptoeing around for weeks. “If this is just… whatever this is jealousy, boredom, a game say it. Because I’m not going to keep circling you like this forever, Mattheo. You either want something or you don’t.”

His eyes met mine sharply.

And something shifted in his expression. That usual razor-edged intensity dulled slightly not gone, but softer, almost vulnerable. It cracked something in my chest.

“I do,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it. “I do want something.”

I blinked. “Then why won’t you just...?”

“Because we’re about to find out what our tasks are.”

His voice was bitter.

And heavy.

Like he’d just yanked us both back to earth.

The Dark Lord’s trials. The reason we were all here, really why every death eaters child carried that same haunted look behind their eyes, why nights like these mattered so much, because we didn’t know how many we had left without fear behind every breath.

Mattheo stepped closer, eyes fixed on mine. “We don’t know what’s coming. And you… you shouldn’t be tethered to me when it does.”

I swallowed. “You think I can’t handle it?”

He didn’t answer that.

Didn’t need to.

We both knew the truth: it wasn’t about what I could handle.

It was about what he couldn’t.

And somehow… I understood that.

“Fine,” I said after a moment. “We don’t start anything.”

His jaw tensed. “Right.”

“But,” I added, holding his gaze, “let’s not pretend it’s nothing, either.”

A breath caught in his throat.

He nodded once. “Deal.”

Then because it was him and because it was me we stood there a moment longer. Close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Close enough to want to close that distance.

But we didn’t.

We turned back toward the castle.

Back toward the others.

Back toward everything that would come next.

And the tension didn’t fade it lingered, heavy and inevitable, like the kind of storm that builds before lightning finally cracks the sky.

The fire was dying in the Slytherin common room when the owl arrived.

A single black-feathered thing, silent as a ghost, with a scroll sealed in wax as dark as blood.

Mattheo caught it before anyone else did, his jaw locking the second his eyes scanned the names.

He didn’t need to speak.

I already knew.

Draco. Mattheo. Me.

The three of us summoned.

Malfoy Manor looked exactly how it felt cold. Silent. Timeless in the worst way, like the air inside had never been meant to carry warmth or laughter, only secrets and cruelty.

We stood outside the drawing room like prisoners waiting for trial.

Lucius had taken Draco in first. The doors shut behind them with a sound that echoed too loud for the velvet-draped hallway we waited in.

Neither of us spoke.

Mattheo leaned against the far wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes fixed on the marbled floor like it had insulted him personally. His jaw was clenched, lips thinned. The shadows under his eyes were worse now. He hadn’t been sleeping much.

I didn’t blame him.

I stood still, hands wrung together in my cloak, listening. Trying not to.

There were no screams. No raised voices. Just silence so deep it made my spine itch.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.

When the door finally opened, Draco stepped out pale as parchment.

His eyes didn’t find mine. Didn’t find Mattheo’s.

He just walked stiff, precise, like every movement had to be measured now.

“Go in,” came Lucius’ voice from the shadows behind the door.

Mattheo didn’t hesitate. He pushed off the wall and walked past me without a word.

But just before he stepped inside, he paused.

And turned slightly just enough to glance back at me.

Something flickered in his gaze. Not fear, exactly. Not regret.

But something.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And it was just me, now.

Waiting in the cold.

Alone.

I didn’t know how long Mattheo was in there.

Time stopped making sense the second the door shut behind him.

I just stood. Waiting. Heart drumming a slow, deep rhythm behind my ribs like a warning bell. The sconces on the walls cast long, flickering shadows, painting grotesque silhouettes of me against the cold stone.

The manor felt haunted. Or cursed.

When the door finally creaked open again, Mattheo stepped out.

His expression was unreadable.

He didn’t look at me.

But as he passed, his hand brushed mine barely there, the lightest touch of his fingers. A flicker of warmth.

And then he was gone.

Lucius’ voice slithered out next: “Y/N Black. You may enter.”

I stepped inside, spine straight, chin lifted but my hands were cold, curled tight into fists beneath the sleeves of my cloak.

The drawing room was darker than I expected. Curtains drawn, the fire low. The great chandelier hung like a dead thing above us, casting fractured glints onto polished floors.

And at the center of it all he stood.

Tall. Robed. Motionless.

The Dark Lord.

My blood turned to ice. I bowed immediately, the way I’d been taught. The way we all had been taught.

"Y/N Black,” he said, his voice soft, airy. A whisper that seemed to echo without needing to.

I didn’t raise my head until he allowed it.

He was watching me with something like curiosity. Pale, serpentine eyes glittering beneath the shadow of his hood.

“So much potential,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such… power in your blood.”

I stayed silent.

He stepped forward, slow. Each movement as deliberate as a chess piece being shifted.

“I want you to show me your loyalty,” he said, tone still smooth, almost pleasant. “Prove yourself.”

My breath caught.

He tilted his head, considering. “Use an Unforgivable.”

The air thickened.

My throat dried. I nodded once, stiffly. “Yes, my Lord.”

He stared at me like he could see through every bone in my body. Then he said it.

“The Killing Curse.”

My heart jumped so sharply I thought it might tear itself in two.

“But…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Not just anyone.”

He smiled.

And it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.

“Igor Karkaroff,” he said, voice laced with venom. “A traitor. A coward. A man who once wore our mark and abandoned it like filth.”

My stomach turned cold.

He took another step closer. I could feel his magic now pressure in the air, like standing too close to a lightning storm.

“Find him,” he said softly. “End him. For me.”

I nodded again, slower this time. “Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s smile widened slightly.

“Don’t fail me, Y/N.”

Then he turned away, cloak billowing behind him like smoke.

Dismissed.

The door clicked shut behind me, and for a long moment, I didn’t move.

The hallway outside the drawing room was cold, colder than before. Or maybe that was just me something inside me had shifted, frozen. My bones felt heavier.

Draco and Mattheo stood waiting at the end of the corridor.

Neither spoke.

I couldn’t look either of them in the eye. Not yet.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw sharp with tension. His hair fell into his face, shadowing his eyes, but I didn’t need to see them to know he’d heard. Or maybe he just knew. He always seemed to know.

Draco’s arms were folded, but even he didn’t have a sarcastic comment or disdainful glare tonight. He looked pale. Haunted.

We walked.

The corridors of Malfoy Manor echoed with each step, our footsteps the only sound. No one spoke. The silence between us wasn’t awkward it was sacred. A mutual agreement. We didn’t ask. We didn’t share.

We couldn’t.

Whatever we had been given inside that room… it belonged to us alone now.

It was a clear night outside. The wind had teeth.

Draco was the first to speak, just barely.

“We're not to speak of it.”

His voice was flat, brittle.

“Not to anyone,” he added after a beat. “Not even each other.”

I nodded slowly, watching the dark trees in the distance.

Mattheo stayed quiet, but he finally looked over at me.

His gaze lingered on my face like he was searching for something. Some crack. Some clue to what the Dark Lord had asked of me.

But he wouldn’t ask.

And I wouldn’t tell.

Something had settled between us thicker than tension now. It was weight. It was knowing. It was the price of being chosen.

We reached the gates of the manor, and Mattheo finally broke the silence not with words, but by brushing his fingers against mine again, like he had earlier. The contact lasted longer this time.

I didn’t pull away.

But I didn’t hold on either.

There was nothing left to say.

The library was too quiet.

Not even the scratch of quills or the turning of pages could distract me anymore. My books were open in front of me Advanced Defensive Magic, Unforgivable Curses: A Historical Breakdown, and a thick, dusty volume of obscure magical theory that I wasn’t even sure was relevant. But I hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

My hand gripped my quill tight enough that the tip had snapped hours ago.

The words blurred.

“The killing curse,” he’d said.

My chest tightened, and I slammed the book shut with a bit more force than necessary. Madam Pince looked up from her desk, but I didn’t care. I was unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. Like something fragile splitting under pressure.

I needed air.

I grabbed my cloak, shoved my books haphazardly into my bag, and left the library without looking back.

It wasn’t long before I found myself at the Astronomy Tower nearly deserted this time of night. The wind up here bit through my cloak, but I leaned against the cold stone anyway, letting it cool the burn under my skin.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

I didn’t turn, but my heart jumped.

Mattheo.

He stepped into view slowly, hands buried in the pockets of his uniform trousers, hair windswept, eyes darker than usual.

We hadn’t spoken much since Malfoy Manor. Not really. There was still something unspoken hanging heavy between us, but it wasn’t anger. It was… understanding. A reluctant sort of intimacy.

He stopped beside me, looking out over the Forbidden Forest.

“You alright?” he asked after a moment.

I scoffed under my breath. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood next to me, the silence thick and careful.

Finally, I turned my head to glance at him. “Do you ever wish you weren’t… this?”

Mattheo tilted his head slightly. “A Slytherin?”

“No. A weapon.”

That hit something in him. I saw it flicker across his face before he looked away again.

“All the time,” he said quietly.

The air between us shifted.

I swallowed, then asked the question that had haunted me since that night.

“Would you do it?” I asked. “Could you?”

His jaw tensed. “I don’t know.”

I let out a shaky breath. “He wants me to kill someone.”

Mattheo stiffened but didn’t interrupt.

“Igor Karkaroff,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “For… deserting. For betraying him.”

Mattheo said nothing. But I could feel him tense beside me, like every bone in his body was locked into place.

“Do you think that makes me evil?” I asked. “If I...if I go through with it?”

He finally looked at me, his eyes burning. “No.”

I blinked. “You don’t?”

He shook his head once. “We didn’t ask for this. None of us did. We’re just… trying to survive.”

I looked at him longer this time, really looked at him. He looked tired. Fractured. Like me.

“I think about you,” he admitted suddenly. “When I’m supposed to be thinking about my assignment. I think about… how your hands shake when you’re holding your wand sometimes. How you hate pumpkin juice. How you roll your eyes when Draco talks about himself.”

His voice was low, honest.

I blinked, startled by the softness in his tone.

“But I can’t let myself want this,” he said. “Not now. Not when everything’s about to fall apart.”

I nodded slowly, throat tightening. “Me neither.”

We stood there in the cold for a long time.

And neither of us moved.

[purplecoffee13]

Miss Possessive*

Summary: “You’ve been dating the ice hockey team captain for a while now, and while you’ve gotten used to his popularity, you can’t keep yourself from getting jealous at all the attention he’s getting at his house party…”

Tropes: ice hockey player!harry x medical student!y/n

Wc: 5k

Warnings: SMUT, possessiveness (surprise surprise), chok!ng, dirty talk, exh!bitionism (if you squint), overst!mulation and some angst and then some fluff at the end😊

A/N: hi y’all! I got two things to say!

1. I wrote this one-shot based off the song miss possessive by Tate McRae and this tiktok I saw of the hottest things guys can say in bed, and I incorporated all of them😈. Screenshot of the tiktok below:

LMAO, anyways…

2. I’m thinking of making more parts to this, like how they met and stuff, so let me know if that’s something you’d like!

Okay happy reading!!!

Oh here’s my general masterlist

Harry has been your boyfriend for almost two months now. It's so nerve wracking, but also the most fun you think you've ever had.

God... to think you found him such a pain in the ads when you first met him. The version of yourself that you were five months ago would be straight up laughing at you if she'd see you now. But then again, that version doesn't know what you know now.

Life works in miraculous ways. If Harry hadn't been one of the athletes you'd been paired up with for your assignment, you probably would've never talked to him. And if his physical exam results hadn't forced you to check up on him afterwards, you probably would've never ended up dating him.

So, despite the result being a bit negative, the positive thing is that you had to talk to him one more time, otherwise you would've never fallen in love the way you have now.

You also never would've been at a house party off campus organized by the ice hockey team.

You'd never been before, but Harry really wanted you to experience it at least once. Besides, it was his last year playing for this team, and as captain he had to be present for team bonding activities.

It wasn't like you didn't like to party, you just ran in different crowds before. It just so happened to be that you didn't attend the same parties as the student athletes. You usually found yourself more with the IT and Engineering people, who seemed to have a very strong opinion on the people who were more athletically inclined. You never shared that same opinion, not liking judgment all too much. Besides, any analyzing of athletes on your part usually involved a lot of gawking and not a lot of talking. You couldn't help it, you've always liked muscles.

Lucky for you, Harry is not short of them. Something you have found other people also tend to notice.

You're not entirely sure if it's your insecurities or the result of being an only child, but you've never particularly liked sharing what's yours. Harry had a blast with that fact when he found out, stating it was 'hot as fuck' that you were so possessive of him. While that's all fun and games, it's a little less nice when your boyfriend happens to look like he was shaped by a skilled group of greek gods.

It's why you were hesitant about this party tonight. Harry warned you that there's always puck bunnies at their parties, mostly because the single guys like to invite them.

The other day, you kind of had an argument about your possessiveness when you glared down a girl from his class that he had to do an assignment with. He ended up having to switch partners because the girl suddenly didn't want to work with him anymore. He got mad at you, telling you that you needed to get it in your head that he was yours, and that he didn't want anyone else.

You felt incredibly guilty, more towards him than to towards the girl, which was something you would unpack in therapy a week from now. You apologized and he forgave you immediately, because Harry hates to fight. But it does make you feel a bit queasy about tonight, because if there's going to be girls staring at him all night, you'll have to put a damper on your temper, which might be impossible if you've consumed alcohol. It always gets worse after a few drinks.

Doing some final touch ups in front of Harry's bathroom mirror, you give yourself a silent pep-talk. You won't do anything, unless they actively flirt with him. That'll give you enough grounds to play the jealous girlfriend card without it resulting in a huge fight.

The first hour of the party goes by pretty fast, and you've done surprisingly well so far. About five girls have walked up to Harry and struck up a conversation with him—not acting doesn't mean not observing—but he's handled it perfectly so far. You've talked about boundaries in the months that you've been dating, and he respects every single one of them.

You have to admit that you're a bit bummed out that you don't know many people here. Sure, you know Harry's teammates, but they're busy with other friends or people they're trying to hook up with. You're not going to be the annoying girlfriend and bother them while they're trying to get laid.

To be honest, you kind of miss Harry, despite the fact that he's in the same house. Then again, you knew he was going to know a lot of people here. You decide you'll find him and stick by his side as soon as you finish your drink.

You're still assuring yourself you're going to be fine tonight when a blonde girl with bright blue eyes appears from behind Harry and grabs onto his arm. You lean towards Connor, Harry's teammate, who's sitting next to you on the couch.

"Who's that?" You ask. Connor looks over at the pair and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Sydney." He answers. "Why doesn't she ever talk to me..."

You look at the boy next to you who is now slumped in his seat and staring over at the blonde girl with the tiny figure with wide eyes, and suddenly your stomach turns.

"Hey." Dan, Harry's other teammate suddenly appears in front of you. "You okay?"

You don't answer, your eyes traveling to Harry who— isn't there anymore. Seeing red, you down your drink in one go. Dan is about to say something, but you push him to the side and walk towards the spot where your boyfriend was five seconds ago. Frantically looking around, you feel some sort of relief when you spot your boyfriend, but it quickly burns to rage when you see he's still talking to that girl.

Your blood is close to boiling as you march over to where Harry and that girl are talking. He doesn't seem to notice you nearing, and your organs twist when you see him chuckle at whatever the girl in front of him said. You can see she's reaching for his arm, stepping closer to him. You're next to him in a millisecond.

"Hi." You say, announcing your presence to your boyfriend as if he didn't already feel it two seconds before. The girl has retracted her arm by now, which is good because if she didn't you would've cut it off with the nearest kitchen knife.

Harry senses your mood, because he immediately wraps his arm around your waist to calm you down.

"Hey babe."

"You two having fun?" You quirk up an eyebrow, crossing your arms, not even glancing at the girl once. You swear you see a hint of a smirk on Harry's face before it fades away.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom." The girl announces, clearly sensing an awkward situation on the horizon.

"Bye!" You chirp, still not taking your eyes off your boyfriend. He doesn't seem all too pleased with you, but you don't care because it's not like you can't say the same thing for him.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks once the girl has left the kitchen. He looks genuinely confused and somehow it pisses you off even more.

"I don't know, what are you doing?"

"Are you jealous or something?" He asks, taking a sip of his coke and bacardi. You let your eyes wander down his body, his gaze suddenly feeling quite heavy.

"She was hitting on you."

"We hadn't even started a conversation!" He responds.

"Well— she was trying to hit on you." You huff, because it's true. You know body language and you know girls, and you guess it's fine she couldn't have known that Harry isn't single, but that didn't mean you wouldn't just let her find that out herself.

Harry scoffs, and you're quick to look up at him. Your brow creases as you watch him shake his head in what appears to be disbelief.

"You know you don't have to do all of that." He says, and you can tell he's irritated. You try to control your breathing, trying not to let it waver from the turbulence you're feeling in your body. "Thought we agreed to talk about it."

That sends you over the edge for some reason. Partly, you know he's right. There is nothing for you to worry about. But for him to say it in this way, at this moment? It's so hypocritical.

"Talk? How? I thought I was going to have fun at a party with my boyfriend, but you've ditched me from the moment we stepped into this party." You bite back, and you can tell he didn't expect it, nor does he agree with what you're saying.

"What are you talking about? I told you I would probably run into a lot of people tonight."

"Yeah but you could've at least taken me along with you, couldn't you?" You frown at him. Harry stays silent, but when you try to slide past him to walk away, he grips your arm and stops you in your tracks.

"So, this is about you not getting enough attention?" He growls so lowly that it's almost a whisper, his eyes checking his surroundings to see if no one can tell that you're fighting. It rubs you the wrong way that he's annoyed with you right now, so you decide to get your claws out.

"Oh don't worry about me getting attention." You say slowly before shaking loose of his arm and walking back to the couch.

"Hey." Dan greets you when you appear again, standing up and gesturing for you to sit on the couch again. You thank him and sit down, letting out a sigh.

"What happened? Are you okay?" He asks again, and this time you answer.

"I'm fine." You brush it off because you don't want him to know the content of you and Harry's disagreements. You're a private person, and it's none of his business anyway.

"Is it because of Sydney?" Dan questions anyway. You look up at the guy next to you, a frown on your face. He shakes his head, throwing his hands up. "No, I'm just saying— if it is about her, I get it. Not the first relationship she's tried to fuck up."

Your eyes go wide, and your throat clamps up. Was your gut feeling right?

No.

You slowly shake your head, ridding yourself of that intrusive thought because just thinking it felt unfair and wrong. Harry would never do that to you, nor did he ever give you a reason to.

"That's a shitty thing of you to say." You say, getting up from your seat and heading for the stairs. This party suddenly has a bitter taste to it, and it's frustrating that you have yourself to blame for that.

You quickly do your business, but you stay in the bathroom unnecessarily long, fixing some of your make-up and your hair as a way to stall going back downstairs. After ten minutes of procrastinating you figure you've officially been here too long and it's time to get back to the party. You swing the door open and enter Harry's room.

You shriek when you see your boyfriend sitting on his bed. With your hand clutched to your chest, you let out a deep breath.

"Jesus fuck! You scared me. I didn't see—"

But Harry's already charging towards you, and before you can finish your sentence he's got you with your back against the bathroom door and his hand wrapped around your neck. You're stunned to silence.

"Is this what you wanted?" Harry asks, tightening his grip. Your mouth is going dry, and your heart rate picks up even more when you see his dark, lust-filled eyes. To the untrained eye you would think he was possessed by some feral animal, but you knew this is how Harry gets, and it's especially how you like him to get; unapologetically rough.

A slight smirk grows on Harry's face when you don't answer his question, just bucking your hips forward instead.

"What happened to all that attitude, sweet girl?" He asks as he strokes your neck with his thumb. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his free hand roaming down your stomach and towards your inner thighs. When his fingers suddenly stop tracing, your eyes shoot back open again. He acts surprised, his brows a bit raised and his eyes slightly widened, but you know he's enjoying the hell out of this.

You whine incoherently, easily giving into to the role he wants you to play. You have no problem doing it, especially knowing what's going to follow when he gets like this.

"Hm?" He hums innocently, his hand traveling to your ass and squeezing it before he pushes your heat against his crotch. "Use your words."

You gasp at the contact with his body. Even after being together for a year, you're still so hungry for his touch every time. In fact, it feels like it's only magnified since you've been in a relationship. "Please..."

"Please what? Tell me what you want." He tuts you, his hand loosening on your neck and sliding over your chest a bit.

"Please touch me." You say in hushed tone, pushing yourself against him again. You can feel he's hard as well, but he's actually composed. You never understand how he doesn't fall apart in these kinds of situations, his self control is astonishing.

"Where?"

"W— what?" You breathe out. Why is he making this so unnecessarily hard?

"Take my hand where you want it." He demands, although the way he brings it might lead one to think it's a suggestion. Then again, you know your boyfriend; it's an order.

So, you do as he says and lead his hand from your ass to your pussy, pressing his finger against your clit. It's all Harry needs, the gentle direction, before he goes to work with his fingers. He rubs them over your panties, soaking them with each movement. You let out an impatient whine, the friction bringing so much stimulation and still it’s not enough. Harry laughs.

"So wet for me baby. Is this what I've been neglecting all night?" He asks sweetly, pulling down your panties until they fall to your ankles. The sounds of your drenched pussy filling the room is almost embarrassing, would it not be so fucking hot.

"Yes..." you say stubbornly, biting your lip to prevent yourself from moaning too loudly, which miserably fails when he slides one of his long fingers into you. "Oh..!"

"Could've just said you wanted me to take care of this." He goes on, a certain nonchalance to his tone that makes you go weak in the knees. His tone makes it seem like he isn't currently bringing his girlfriend dangerously close to an orgasm in a minimum amount of time. "Didn't have to run t'my teammates, now did you?"

You shake your head at his question when he slips in another finger. You've gotten used to the size of his fingers, but the harsh way he's thrusting them into you right now does somewhat hurt. He is punishing you by going rougher than usual, and the sole thought of that makes the pain melt away.

"Think I deserve an apology for that, don't you?" He says, slowing down his movements on purpose to get you riled up. He knows you want to come.

"I deserve an apology too." You say breathlessly, standing your ground despite the weak position he has you in. Harry raises a brow.

"Well I'm making it up to you now, aren't I?"

You're about to respond to that when Harry silences you by increasing the speed with which his fingers drive into you. Your jaw is slack as you feel the bubble in your lower stomach growing, especially as the heel of his palm continuously slaps against your clit. Your eyes are closed, so you don't notice Harry leaning in until you feel his hot breath fan against your ear.

"Apologize, and I'll let you come." He says, not slowing himself down in any way whatsoever. But you know your traitorous body by now, and you know how it always waits for Harry's permission to explode. It's as if he's in possession of a red button, and only when he presses it, it goes off.

"S—sorry..." you say, but it's barely comprehensible. You're beginning to fall apart.

"What was that, baby?" Harry's condescending tone matches his wicked grin as he waits for you to articulate yourself better.

"I'm sorry!" You sputter out, that explosion feeling awfully close by now. You throw your head back, holding onto the door knob for a bit of support.

"For?" He goes the extra mile, and you could kill him would you not be on the brink of death right now yourself.

"F—for being jealous." You cry out, your other hand quickly grabbing onto Harry's arm before your knees can buckle. He is quick to wrap his free arm around your waist to keep you upright.

"Good girl." He breathes out, his fingers soaked as they pound into you. You finally begin to explode. "You can come now. There you go, nothing to be jealous of. I'll always make you come baby... no one else."

Your cries are downright pathetic as you come around Harry's fingers, and as you ride out your release, you realize your mind is all foggy. You can't really comprehend Harry leading you to his bed and laying you down on it. The only thing you know is that he hasn't stopped moving his fingers.

"Harry..!" You croak out before you cut yourself off with a loud moan the moment that his tongue starts to suck at your clit. You begin to squirm, trying to get away from the sensitivity, but your boyfriend won't let you.

"N—no...oh!" It's hard to get a word out with him working on you so roughly. The sounds of his mouth and his fingers are extremely vulgar and equally the most arousing thing you've ever heard. "Harry I'm too— no!"

Your boyfriend keeps his pace despite your attempts to make him stop. You gasp when he takes his tongue off your clit for a split second. You look down at him, his chin glistening in your arousal.

"Beg for it." He commands, and attaches his tongue to your clit again.

Like a mindless fool, something switches inside you, and despite the uncomfortable sensitivity of your pussy, you find yourself begging for it, for him.

"Please, please, make me come!" You shout, and Harry really takes your begging to heart, because he adds even more pressure to your clit. And just like that, you explode again.

Despite having your eyes shut, you swear you're seeing the light as you convulse around your boyfriend's fingers. You can't control anything. The volume of your moans, the way your body spasms, or the amount of liquid that releases from your pussy.

Your cheeks are flushed and your ears are ringing by the time you open your eyes again. You look at Harry with tired shock in your eyes, but he just looks amazed.

"Fuck, I've never made you squirt before." He says, eyes flicking from you to the mess you made under him. He looks incredibly proud, which nicely compensates for the sheer embarrassment that has washed over your body.

He leans over you, whispering for you to look at him. You obey him sheepishly. The hint of a smile on his face is gentle now, and as soft as the thumb that sweep the lingering tear from your cheeks. He places a kiss on your nose, telling you you did good without saying anything at all.

"D'you need a minute baby?" He asks sweetly, but you're sure he must know you well enough by now to know what your answer is to that. You immediately shake your head. He smiles, fully this time. "No? You're ready to take me already?"

You nod frantically, and Harry chuckles as he unbuckles his pants and pulls out his cock. The sole sight of him makes your cunt ache to be filled up, and you find yourself moving towards him to hurry up the process.

"Aw, look how needy you are... already squirming and I haven't even been inside you yet." He tilts his head like the mean guy he is. You frown at your sadistic boyfriend, not saying anything. Instead, you buck your hips and hope your glistening pussy will speak for you.

It does, because Harry is quick to line up his cock with your entrance. However, instead of just entering you, he drags his tip over your slick folds, wetting his tip even more. You move your hips a couple of times, hoping it'll make his cock slide in by accident or something, but you have no luck.

"Harry!" You whine. "Please..."

The smirk on his face has turned evil once again as he drags his tip from your clit to your entrance.

"Poor baby..." He says in the most condescending tone that you clench around nothing. You swear you could come solely from that specific tone of his voice. "You getting frustrated?"

"Yes." You're swift to answer. "Please, I need it so bad..."

"Oh yeah?" He teases, pushing into you, but just the tip. You gasp at the crumbs you're getting, moaning in agreement.

"Yes! Please, more Harry, give me more." You try to convince him. He is painfully hard right now, so you know he's bound to give in sooner or later. It appears to be sooner, because with a moan, he pushes himself entirely into you.

You lose your breath as he fills you up all the way, getting more and more knocked out of you as he starts to set a pace. You can do nothing but cry out as he drives himself into your tight cunt, the sound of his groans making you even wetter.

He leans back a bit, observing you from above as he fucks you. Your tits are nearly bouncing out of your bra from all the movement, and your mouth doesn't do anything other than let out desperate moans as you let your boyfriend wreck your pussy. He relishes the sight.

"Taking it so well, baby." He breathes, pressing down on your lower stomach. "Can you feel that? Can you feel me?"

"Y—yeah! Oh my god..." Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the added pressure. Harry curses under his breath.

"God, if you could see yourself... You look so pretty for me right now." He mutters, his thrusts slowing slightly. You're lost in your pleasure, but you immediately notice when Harry's pulled out. Your head snaps towards him, confused as he pulls at your arm.

He doesn't say anything, just leads you to the bathroom. You're still a bit lost as to what is happening when he places your hands on the counter and forces you to bend over. You know what you're in for by the time he stands behind you.

"Watch yourself." He demands before pushing right back into and continuing the speedy pace he had before. Your strangled moans are hardly louder than the sound of skin slapping that echoes the bathroom. You do as he says, observing how your body moves in reaction to his actions.

A quiet gasp escapes your throat when Harry leans forward and tugs down the top of your bandeau dress, along with your strapless bra, causing your tits to recoil more heavily while he slams into you. Your knuckles go white from how hard you're holding onto the sink.

"F—fuck! I'm close!" You tell him, like he couldn't tell already by the way you're pathetically clenching around his cock.

"I know baby." He shushes your cries, but not slowing down in the slightest. In fact, his finger finds your clit, and when he starts to rub it, you realize just how sensitive you are.

"O—oh..! Wait, I don't know if I can—" You sob out, your head falling forward. You shut your eyes tightly, your orgasm starting to feel so incredibly big that you don't know if you can handle it.

"You can take it baby, c'mon..." He encourages you, and it takes everything in you to lift your head to look at him through the mirror. You don't want to miss his face when you come.

It's then that there's a knock on Harry's bedroom door.

"Fuck off!" Harry shouts, vigorously ramming into you like the interruption fueled him to stay focused.

You would've been thrown off by the door opening if you hadn't been so close to coming. That doesn't mean you're not slightly thrown off by the girl from earlier locking eyes with you through the mirror. You look back at Harry, who frowns and slams the bathroom door shut.

"I said fuck off!" He shouts angrily before his voice goes softer. "Come for me, baby."

That's all you need to climax around him for the third time tonight. The whole ordeal is too hot not to come like crazy around him, and your orgasm fuels his as he stills inside you with a loud groan.

"Fuck... So. Fucking. Good." He says, each word accompanied with a thrust as he spills his cum inside you.

Both of your breathing is still heavy as Harry collapses next to you. You lay there in silence for a couple of seconds, staring at the ceiling.

You slowly get up and enter the bathroom to pee and just clean yourself off a bit in general. Harry doesn’t come in, you think he doesn’t know if you would like that. You did just have a fight, and that girl barging into Harry’s room unprompted did kind of prove your point that she was trying to flirt with him.

When you walk back into the room, Harry is fully dressed again, sitting on the edge of the bed like he was when you came out of the bathroom the first time. The air is thick with unresolved tension. You take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen at the identical words that are coming out of Harry’s mouth. You didn’t expect him to say that at all.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone so much.” Harry says, standing up and walking over to you. “I got caught up in talking to everyone and I saw you sitting with the guys so I foolishly figured you were having a good time.”

“Harry—”

“No, wait. I swear, at every person I talked to I thought, after this one I’m gonna go to Y/N, and then I kept getting interrupted. But intending to do something and then not doing it is just bullshit. I didn’t mean to be a bullshit boyfriend, I’m sorry.” He adds before you can try to intercept him. You sigh, a weak smile slowly appearing on your face.

“I love you.”

Somehow it’s the only thing your mind manages to come up with. You haven’t told each other that yet, so your ears immediately go red. Harry looks shocked, you can tell, but his eyes are beaming and in a matter of seconds he is smiling from ear to ear.

“And I’m sorry.” You continue. “I trust you, I swear, I do. I just saw the way she was looking at you and I mean— I get it, but it also made me sick because I feel I look at you like that. And if she can look at you that way, then maybe— I don’t know… my point is I’m sorry.”

“Maybe she can what?” Harry asks, suddenly frowning. When you don’t immediately answer, he grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes go a little misty.

“Nothing, I’m being overdramatic.” You try to wave it off, but Harry doesn’t let you. His single raised eyebrow tells you to spill it, and so, naturally you do.

You sigh. “If she can look at you like I do, then she might be able to love you like I do, maybe even better.”

“No one can love me like you do.” Harry answers, determined. Your brows crease.

“How do you know that?” Your voice is trembling, and by the way Harry winces, you know you’ve just cracked a piece of his heart.

“You want to know why I’m sure no one can love me like you do?”

You nod, wondering how he can be so certain about this, about you.

“Because I’m letting you love me like no one else can.” He says it like it’s a fact. “I know there’s this narrative that love is this uncontrollable force, but it’s not, not for me. I let you love me, because I wanted you to. You let me in too, didn’t you? Because I love you.”

“Yes.” You croak.

“Right, I need you to understand that I didn’t fall in love with you. I walked into this with my eyes wide open, and I didn’t even fucking blink once. I still haven’t, and I’m pretty sure I never will.” He tells you, and you swallow, your throat burning from his heavy words. “I choose you, this, us, every day, and it’s the easiest and most natural decision I’ve ever made and will ever make.”

You smile at him, a tear rolling down your face.

“And no random girl at a party or whoever the fuck else can come between that, because I don’t want them to.”

You let out a small sob, and even though it’s a happy cry, it still weighs a ton on your chest. Harry pulls you into an embrace.

“Don’t keep those thoughts from me. I understand your anger way better now that I know this.” He tells you, rubbing your back. “I promise I’ll be more considerate of it.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve such an emotionally mature boyfriend.” You say, your words a bit muffled because your face is buried in his neck. Harry chuckles. You pull out of the hug.

“But I also need to figure out a way to prevent those thoughts from occurring, because I know they’re not true.” You say, sniffing a laugh. “I mean, I knew it when I thought it tonight as well. I was so mad it even popped up, but I guess what Dan said just kind of pushed me over the edge—”

“What Dan said?” Harry interrupts you. “What did he say?”

You bite your lip, afraid you might have said too much. “Just— that I was right to be jealous because it wouldn’t be the first relationship that girl has ‘ruined’.”

Harry’s jaw is clenched, and his eyes travel to the door. “I’m gonna have a word with him.”

You grab Harry’s arm, but he keeps heading for the door.

“Harry— stop!” You push the door shut when he opens it. He turns to you, and when you see the look on his face, you realize what’s happening.

“…Are you jealous?” You question carefully, and when he breathes out through his nose and looks away instead of answering you straight away, it’s only more confirmation that he is. “Oh my god… you’re jealous!”

“He’s been after you since that fucking assignment. I already reminded him you’re mine once, I have no problem reminding him again.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, and you cross your arms. “What happened to choosing to love each other? Don’t you trust that I’m choosing you— wait, what do you mean you already reminded him once?”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t respond.

“When?” You urge.

“Couple months ago.”

You think back on a couple months ago, trying to figure out if anything was off, and then, suddenly you remember.

“You gave him that black eye?” You gasp, and he nods in confirmation. “Oh my god, he said it was from a game!”

Harry shrugs. “It was during practice.”

“That’s why you got benched?” You finally put the pieces together. “You little liar!”

There is not one ounce of regret on Harry’s face as he takes your small slaps to his chest. You’re not mad, in fact you’re amused. You’re so getting a free pass from now on.

“So what? You’re gonna beat him up because you want him to know I belong to you?” You tilt your head, and Harry winces, probably realizing how old-dated that sounds. You smirk.

“That’s so fucking hot.” You confess in a whisper. That catches Harry’s attention. You back up towards the bed, and he follows you like a puppy.

“D’you think you could put that on hold, though, and remind me who I belong to first?” You ask, sitting down and leaning back on the bed. The sight of Harry being so primal about you has fired your whole body up again for a round two, despite the three orgasms you’ve had already. Harry grins.

“You know I’ll never say no to you…”

[bcksbarnes]

flowers in hand

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing.

word count: 3.6K cw: 🔞 some suggestive content (mdni)

a/n: based off of this request! lots and lots of fluff.

Bucky Barnes was an ex-brain washed assassin who had been broken down and beaten time and time again. He had seen horrors that would leave most people catatonic, he had done things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. This was not a man that wore his heart on his sleeve.

Stoic. Brooding. An absolute brute, to put it mildly.

But there was something that Bucky never wanted anyone to know. A secret he’d take to his grave and would deny if ever asked about it. 

What was this secret? Simple. 

Bucky was head over heels in love with you.

He knew it the second the two of you met. When you stretched out your hand and told him your name, he felt his knees buckle. When you asked him for his? A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He was nervous . A reaction Bucky had never had before.

It sent him into a spiral for several days after the two of you met. Weeks, actually, if he was being honest. 

Everything after that had fallen into place pretty quickly. You had liked Bucky as soon as you met him and before you knew it months had passed, the two of you quickly found yourself in a budding romance that needed nothing but water and sunlight to grow. 

The hardest part of learning to fall in love again was that he was so taken aback by how his body and brain responded to you, it was a bit jarring. It was like his entire brain had awoken a part of himself that had been dormant for years. One yearning for love.

It showed in the way you would get home from work and your favorite flowers would be waiting on the kitchen table, powder blue hydrangeas, with a handwritten note alongside it. Bucky’s handwriting was a little scratchy and hard to make out, but you didn’t need to read it to know what it said:

Thinking of you always. - BB

Or when he took you on a joy ride on the back of his motorcycle, never wearing a helmet himself but making sure the straps were just right when he helped you get yours on. His hands would carefully click the buckle together, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration as he made sure it fit you perfectly.

He didn’t want you getting hurt, not on his watch.

That was it - his big secret. You had him wrapped around your finger. Something so mundane and, frankly, obvious.

Though you never went out of your way to use this knowledge to your advantage. Bucky always came running at the sound of your voice.

“Buck?” you called out one afternoon.

The sun was high in the sky, it was a beautiful day - maybe a little warmer than you liked, but the cool breeze offered some relief. 

You were sitting on the balcony reading a book in your favorite spot, overlooking the city that Bucky had loved so much, and that you’ve learned to love with him. It was different from the one he lived in all those decades ago, the apartment he had lived in as a child was small, cramped - to look out the window was to face a family he never knew, living their own lives.

Now, in this decade, the apartment was spacious, overwhelming, the view encompassing the bridge and the East River separating the two boroughs. 

A different life, a different time.

“Yeah?” he called back, the door to the balcony slightly ajar so you could both hear each other.

“Can you bring me my sunglasses?”

Bucky chuckled to himself at such a simple request. He was working on fixing some issues in the kitchen, a leaky faucet to be exact - the one that kept dripping. Bucky had a hard time falling asleep as it was, hearing the pitter patter in the middle of the night made him feel like he was going insane.

“Hold on, honey.” 

He was currently laying on his back under the sink, his shirt was discarded somewhere next to him and his black mesh shorts rode a bit lower on his hips than he had purposely intended. 

It only took him a few turns of his wrench to tighten the compression ring around the pipe in hopes that it would stop the leaking. 

“That should be it.”

A few moments passed as he placed the wrench down next to him. He held his breath, but Bucky, unfortunately, a second later felt another water droplet land on his forehead: unsuccessful.

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself before gripping the side of the counter and pulling himself out from under the cabinet. 

Bucky hated that this wasn’t working - honestly, he wanted to run to the store and grab some new PVC pipes and just fix the entire thing from scratch. But, your request ran through his head and he quickly pivoted his priorities as he stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Where’d you put them?” he calls, trying to look in the usual spots before finally stumbling on them. “Nevermind.”

You hear the door swing open, his footsteps alerting his presence but your attention stayed on the book in your lap, wanting to finish the page you were on.

“I couldn’t find them,” he says. 

When you finally finished the passage, you placed the bookmark in the between the pages, saving it for another time.

Your head turned to look up at Bucky, his metal arm glistening in the sun and your sunglasses sitting right on his face - that goofy smile of his plastered on his features as he waits for you to notice.

A loud chuckle passes your lips as you reach your hand out for them, shaking your head as he slides them off the bridge of his nose and into the palm of your hands. Once you grab them from him, you put the glasses on, the world dimming a bit, but Bucky still shines bright in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, tilting your head back to admire his half dressed physique. You whistle lowly, causing Bucky to roll his eyes at you. “Were you working on the sink? Sorry, I didn’t even realize.”

“Yeah,” he responds, taking a step closer. 

Bucky gestures for you to move over and make room for him, groaning as he finally sits down. His arm rests on the back of the sectional while his fingers run through the hair on the back of your neck.

“I thought I’d be able to fix it by tightening it, but I think the pipe itself has a crack somewhere,” he huffs out, shaking his head. “I’ll have to go to the store later.”

You watch him carefully, your hand holding the book on your lap moving to rest on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You could see the concentration in his face, the way his brows furrowed until there was a crease between them. He hated unfinished projects.

“You’re not going to rest until it’s fixed, are you?” you ask, though it’s a question you already know the answer to.

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “Why? Have something in mind for us today?”

“I thought maybe we could go to the park later” you hummed, your fingers tracing shapes into his skin. You tilt your head back to look at him, both of your eyes meeting. “They’re doing a movie night. Raiders of the Lost Ark, if I remember correctly.”

Bucky’s other leg bounced anxiously at the thought, it’s not that he didn’t want to go with you - it’s that he really wanted to fix this stupid sink. 

He peaked over at his watch, it was nearly 5:30pm. The store would be closing soon, he’d have to find the right parts then fix the sink, and shower at some point before he’d be ready to go. He didn’t know if he had time to do both the movie and finish this project.

His eyes trail back over towards you and he was greeted with the most beautiful pair he’d ever seen. Were you batting your eyelashes too?

“You play dirty,” Bucky mumbles.

He brings his metal hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks softly as he leans in to press a few soft, chaste kisses to your lips. He mumbles something about how unfair it is, but you’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips you don’t even care what he says.

Bucky begins to stand from his seat, though he doesn’t remove himself from your lips, hunched over to make sure he stays closely connected to you. Your hands now resting on his abdomen as if to keep him in place.

“I have to shower,” he hums against your lips. “And if the movie sucks I’m coming home and ripping the sink apart.”

“You did not just say that Raiders of the Lost Ark is going to suck.” 

Bucky chuckles as he trails his lips down your jaw to your neck, giving it a few kisses and a quick bite before he pulls back completely, that same love stricken look on his face.

“I did. I mean it too,” he teases, backing up until he gets to the door of the balcony. 

“You’re going to be very upset when you’re wrong, Barnes,” you call out after him.

He gives you a quick wink before dipping back inside the apartment. 

You take one last look over the balcony, the cars that were passing over the bridge and the people walking on the streets below. All of them had their own little story. It makes you smile to yourself, thinking of this little life you had built with Bucky.

It kept you both going.

Finally standing, you stretched your arms over your head and grabbed your book before heading back inside the apartment. The cover made a soft thud as you set it down on the coffee table on your way over to the kitchen.

The sound of the shower trickling had your thoughts distracted, even as you began packing the tote bag. You tried to keep your focus on all the goods you wanted to bring and not your very naked boyfriend some 50 feet away from you behind one, probably not locked, door.

How easy it would be to slip in.

You shake your head and focus on the task at hand, packing the bag with: a blanket to sit on, two lime sparkling waters that Bucky had picked up a few days ago, and a mix of snacks to enjoy. The perfect picnic.

Right as you finished, you hear the door open and Bucky step out of the bathroom, the warm steam filling your apartment almost immediately. He looks striking with the towel draped around his hips, his almost freshly cut short hair now wet and combed back.

“You didn’t join me,” he teases, making his way past you and into the bedroom.

“I want to make the movie,” you say back, a smirk on your features. You knew well enough that if you took a step in that shower, Bucky would never let you leave.

The sound of shuffling comes from the other room as you can hear him looking through drawers and the closet for his clothes. Your feet walk you into the bedroom right as he slips his boxers on, a smile on his features as he catches your gaze.

He didn’t want to go out to the park and watch a movie. He didn’t even care about that stupid leak under the sink that he could still hear and was driving him up a wall. 

No, he wanted to stay here with you and show you all the ways he loved and adored you. He wanted to worship you with everything he’s got. 

His hand reaches out for you and he intertwines your fingers together before he pulls you towards him. You happily oblige.

“You’re still thinking about that damn leak aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice filled with jest.

“Every fucking second.”

The smile on his face is wide as he brings his hands up to your face and kisses your cheeks once, twice, three times, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips. In one fluid motion his hands are under your thighs and lifts you up, placing you on the dresser behind you.

He slots himself between your legs and watches you closely, your hands moving to grip his wrists.

“Let’s stay here,” Bucky pleads softly. “Let’s never leave this apartment ever again.”

“I’d love to never have to do that, but you know that’s impossible.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Not with that attitude, sweetheart.”

He manages to get his hands free from your wrists, sliding them down to your hips and pulling you forward until your legs wrap around his waist, your heels resting on the back of his thighs. 

“Bucky,” you groan.

Your head falls back softly against the wall, in the same motion Bucky rests his head on your shoulder.

“Wishful thinking, huh?” he asks, a sigh leaving his lips afterwards. 

It’s not that he hated the power that you had over him, it was that he didn’t know how you managed to affect him so much. You didn’t even put up a fight with him and he folded, all because you said his name.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before he untangled himself from you and moved to get dressed - a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that was a little too tight around his muscles and a sweatshirt he knows you’re going to steal at some point. 

Finally ready to go.

It only took a few minutes to get to the park. You’re greeted by a sea of people, most of whom have already laid out their lounge chairs or blankets. The sun hadn’t set yet, casting a warm glow as you two found a spot a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. More secluded, but you two would still be able to see and hear the movie just fine.

Bucky helped set up the blanket, a long red gingham pattern one that he may have muttered a sarcastic comment about how cliche it was. You may have, lovingly, given him the finger in response. 

The movie started only a few minutes after you and Bucky set up the snacks and drinks. Both of you were laying on your sides, elbows planted on the blanket while hands kept your head off the ground. 

Bucky was very into the movie, barely sneaking glances over at you like he normally did whenever. It captured his attention almost immediately. You watched as he popped a grape into his mouth, his tired eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he absentmindedly chewed. 

It was calming to see him in this environment. You knew that deep down he would never 100% be present, that he always kept one part of his brain active to scan for any potential threats. But seeing Bucky in a state of, mostly, ease felt like finding a diamond in the rough. Rare, but valuable.

Halfway through the movie Bucky moves to sit up, stretching his arms over his head before holding his hand out to you. He always seemed to be reaching for you. Once your hand is in his, one swift motion is all it takes for him to pull you into his lap, nestling you between his legs, your back now resting against his chest. 

His hands move to run down your arm and he can feel the goosebumps rising against your skin.

“You’re cold,” he mumbles in your ear.

You want to protest that it’s just from his touch, but the words die in the back of your throat as soon as you feel him sit back from you. He pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it over, watching as you carefully slip on the oversized material. Bucky wraps his arms around your torso once you’re settled, pulling you back as close as he can before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Much better.”

Your heart flutters, as it seems it always does when he acts this way. 

Cuddly. Soft. In love.

Bucky feels like his heart is bleeding out right through his shirt at this moment, you could tell him to do anything in front of this crowd of people and he would comply without hesitation. He didn’t even care.

Maybe that was the thing that kept him going in this life. The little pieces of calm he can get when you are around. When the tides don’t feel as strong.

He didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to enjoy himself: your presence, and the movie.

It’s a little while later when the movie finally finished, you craned your head back to look up at him, a smirk on your lips. He was staring ahead at the now blank screen, jaw slightly dropped. 

“I thought you said the movie was going to suck,” you teased.”

“I didn’t know I was coming to see a cinematic masterpiece.” 

You let out a laugh, and then another one as Bucky squeezes your sides as his response, falling back over his thigh as you wriggle to try and get away from his wandering, playful hans. 

God, he wished you weren’t in public right now.

“And here you wanted to stay at home to fix that stupid sink.”

“No, I wanted to stay home so I could –”

“ Bucky ,” you cut him off before he can finish that thought, watching as a family walks past.

He lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh and pinches your side again as you start to stand up from his lap. Bucky admires you from this angle, the way that you towered over him was so jarring compared to how small you normally were when he stood next to you.

“I was going to say so I could take care of you , but if you were worried I was going to say something more vulgar than you need to get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

Bucky’s smile reaches his eyes this time as he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. You were so right and he loved being called out on it, because he loved how well you knew him.

He stands to help you pack the tote bag again, throwing it over his shoulder when it’s done. You grab his metal hand and intertwine your fingers together as you make your way back to the apartment. 

The city was dark now, only illuminated by street lamps and a few fluorescent signs. Surprisingly the neighborhood was mostly empty, you and Bucky seeming to take up most of the sidewalk and filling the silence with your chit chat about the movie.

Bucky was blown away by the story, the action … well the whole thing. 

You were biting back your tongue to not say I told you so .

“You always get your way, you know that?” he says once you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “I don’t think I’m capable of saying no to you if I really tried.”

“That’s not true,” you respond.

Though if you take a second to think about it, he’s probably right.

The elevator dings its arrival and dips slightly from the weight of the two of you as you step on. You press the button for your floor a few times before turning your attention back to Bucky. He’s standing right next to you, his hand slipping out of yours to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. Your head leans to rest against him, it always fits perfectly.

“It’s a little true,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not complaining.”

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“I’ve never had anyone to care about. Not in this way at least.”

“You cared about Steve.”

“That’s different,” he sighs. “I made sure Steve stayed alive. I didn’t dote over him. I look at you and I’d drop everything just to see that damn smile on your face.”

The blush developed on your cheeks at record speed, a smile accompanying it that was hard to hold back. Sometimes Bucky had a way with words that took your breath away. He could be deeply poetic. It made you wonder what he thought of in that brain of his. 

“There it is,” he whispers, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

The ding of the elevator snaps the moment back into reality, but that doesn’t deter Bucky in the slightest. 

No, instead he follows you down the hall and into the apartment, waiting for the door to shut before he picks you up from behind and walks you to the bedroom to toss you on the bed - the sound of your giggles filling the air.

The second you hit the mattress, and he crawls on top of you, your hands grab his face bringing him down to kiss him feverishly. It’s rushed and messy, tongues sweeping across lips, teeth biting and pulling. 

You don’t need to tell him you need him for Bucky to know it, he can read you like an open book. 

As he kisses down your jaw – his stubble scratching your soft skin, hands moving to slide your shirt up, ready to spend the night devouring you – all he can think about is how his love for you is the worst kept secret in the world. And not about the stupid leaky faucet.

[dancingbugs]

I love how no one looked at the camera, a collective effort.

This 'impossible' crane shot from Mikhail Kalatozov's SOY CUBA (1964) ...

IS the greatest and quite remarkable one shot scene of them all.

[amethystarachnid]

BET

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, angst and fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: not requested but taken from MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k (damn this surprises me too)

ᯓ★ Summary: When Bucky Barnes suddenly starts talking to you you don't think much of it and when he asks you out on a date you couldn't be happier, Bucky truly is everything you could ever want in a man, a man that really loves you...At least that's what you thought until you discovered that it was real all just a bet.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of virginity and virginity loss, small mentions of a smut scene

ᯓ★ AU: college au

ᯓ★ Request: not requested

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests closed)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The music is loud, pulsing through the walls of the frat house as Bucky sits slouched on a couch, one arm draped lazily over the back. The night is already wearing on him, but he knows he’s going to be here until Sam and Steve call it a night, which—based on the collection of red solo cups by their feet—might be a while.

They’re all trading stories from the semester, voices buzzing with that blend of laughter and cheap beer. Sam is in the middle of recounting his latest dare when he nudges Bucky’s arm, catching his attention.

“Bet you couldn’t last a month with someone like her,” Sam says, nodding toward the corner of the room.

Bucky glances up, following Sam’s gaze until he spots you. You’re perched near the bookshelf, alone and fidgeting with your drink as you flip through a book someone left behind. He’s seen you around campus before, usually with your nose buried in a novel or surrounded by a pile of textbooks. There’s something unassuming about you, something quiet and untouchable. His friends know he’s more the type to go for a party girl—someone loud, someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.

“What, the bookworm?” Bucky scoffs, raising an eyebrow. But his friends don’t let up, and soon Steve and Sam are egging him on.

“You’re always chasing the same type,” Steve chimes in. “What are you afraid of, that she’d actually challenge you?”

Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes. He knows he should shut it down, but their teasing digs at him, scratching at that competitive edge that’s always lurking just beneath his smirk.

“All right,” Bucky finally says, shrugging. “I’ll do it. One month.”

His friends exchange knowing grins, slapping him on the back. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, Bucky feels a strange knot settle low in his stomach—a feeling he’s not used to. He brushes it off. It’s just a game, a challenge. It’s not like he’s actually going to care.

The next day, you’re tucked into your usual corner in the library, surrounded by a fortress of books. You barely notice him when he walks up, leaning against the edge of the table with a casual confidence that doesn’t match the usual quiet of the space.

“Mind if I join you?” His voice is smooth, low enough that you almost have to lean in to hear him clearly.

You glance up, surprised to see Bucky Barnes standing there, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’ve seen him around campus—he’s hard to miss with that leather jacket and effortlessly messy hair, the type of guy who always has someone laughing beside him.

“Sure,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say as you move your books aside, offering him a seat. You’re used to people mostly ignoring you here. It’s your refuge, your sanctuary. So when he sits across from you, stretching out as if he belongs there, it feels jarringly out of place.

“You look like you’re buried in work,” he observes, nodding at the mountain of papers in front of you. “What’s got you so busy?”

You hesitate, but something in his easygoing manner convinces you to answer. “Just…assignments. Trying to keep up with everything.” You give him a small smile, your guard still up but feeling oddly curious.

“What’s your major?” he asks, and the question catches you off guard. Most people don’t bother to ask; they assume or don’t care enough to wonder. He listens as you talk about your studies, nodding, asking small questions. Before you know it, you’re telling him more than you intended, falling into an easy rhythm that surprises you.

It becomes a pattern. Over the next few weeks, he finds reasons to run into you—at the coffee shop, in the library, even in the quad between classes. Each time, he stays a little longer, asks a little more, his eyes holding yours with that subtle intensity he wears so well. At first, you’re wary, cautious of his attention. But Bucky is good, easing his way in like he has all the time in the world, his jokes and questions slowly weaving a thread of trust between you two.

And Bucky? He’s surprised at how much he finds himself drawn to you. Each time you laugh, he catches himself watching, feeling something strange and warm unfurl in his chest. There’s a gentleness in you, a quiet intelligence, that keeps him coming back even as he reminds himself this isn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the longer he spends time with you, the more he feels the weight of what he agreed to, creeping up on him every time he catches your smile, every time you look at him like he’s someone worth knowing.

He tells himself it’s just part of the bet. But deep down, he knows he’s starting to cross a line he never meant to touch.

It’s been a few weeks since Bucky started spending time with you, and against every reminder he gives himself, he’s found himself looking forward to it more than he wants to admit. He tells himself it’s harmless—he’s just getting to know you, just finding ways to pass the time. But he knows he’s lying, especially when he starts finding excuses to see you outside of the library or when he catches himself glancing at his phone, hoping for a text from you.

One night, back at the frat house, he’s lounging with Sam and Steve again, half-listening to their conversation when Sam nudges him.

“So, Barnes. How’s it going with the bookworm?” Sam asks with a knowing smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes, trying to brush it off, but Sam isn’t so easily deterred. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings.”

Bucky scoffs, forcing a laugh to keep the truth buried. “It’s going fine. Like I said, a month’s no problem.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Steve, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Let’s make this interesting then. If you really want to win this thing, you’ve got to take it further.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Further?” He has a bad feeling about where this is going.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Buck. You’ve been hanging out with her, sure, but we’re talking about actually making her fall for you. Ask her out, and, you know—” He raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Sleep with her,” Sam adds bluntly, laughing. “Seal the deal, and there’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”

Bucky hesitates, that uncomfortable knot tightening in his stomach again. He tells himself it’s just a stupid bet. He’s done things like this before—gotten close to people just to prove he could, had plenty of meaningless hookups that never meant a thing. He’s Bucky Barnes, the guy who doesn’t do commitment or complications. But for some reason, picturing it with you makes him feel…off.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the uncertainty he’s trying to ignore. “Two hundred bucks. Done.”

The next day, he texts you, his fingers hovering over the keys a little too long before he finally sends, Hey, you free Friday? Let me take you out somewhere nice.

When you see his message, your heart skips a beat. It’s been a while since anyone has asked you on an actual date, and even longer since you’ve felt genuinely excited about someone. Bucky’s been different from the start—warm, attentive, and surprisingly easy to talk to. You’ve caught yourself looking forward to his company, replaying the moments he laughs at one of your jokes or leans in close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne.

After a second, you type back, Yeah, I’d love to! You add a smiley face, feeling almost giddy as you press send.

The days leading up to Friday drag by, each one marked with bursts of nerves and anticipation. You spend a little more time getting ready than usual, finally deciding on a simple but pretty dress that makes you feel confident. When Bucky picks you up, his usual leather jacket replaced with a dark button-up, you feel a thrill of excitement. He looks genuinely happy to see you, his eyes scanning over you appreciatively as he gives you a lopsided grin.

“You look amazing,” he says, his gaze warm. There’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes you blush.

“Thanks,” you mumble, smiling as you walk beside him. He leads you to a small Italian place tucked away from campus, the kind of cozy, dimly lit restaurant you wouldn’t have expected him to know about. The conversation flows easily between you two, laughter spilling out as you talk about classes, hometowns, and childhood memories.

The night feels magical, almost surreal, and you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something real here. Every time his hand brushes against yours, a spark shoots up your spine. And when he reaches across the table, fingers lightly grazing your wrist as he laughs at something you said, your heart flutters in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

After dinner, he suggests taking a walk, and soon you’re strolling through the quiet streets, the chill of the night air making you shiver just slightly. Without a word, Bucky slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It feels so natural, like you belong there.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date this nice,” you admit, smiling up at him, your voice soft.

He chuckles, though it sounds slightly strained. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I guess I’ve just never…met anyone like you before.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that charming grin. He steps closer, his arm slipping from your shoulders, and you hold your breath as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice low.

You feel like the world has stopped, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of, the moment where everything finally falls into place.

But for Bucky, something sharp and painful twists inside him. He can feel the weight of what he’s doing pressing down on him, can see the way your eyes look at him with such unguarded trust, and it’s enough to make his stomach turn. He’s never felt guilty over a stupid bet before, but right now, the idea of hurting you feels unbearable.

“Hey,” he says softly, his hand still on your cheek. “You trust me, right?”

Your eyes widen, and you nod slowly, too caught up in the moment to notice the tension in his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, a small smile forming on your lips.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he takes a steadying breath. “Good,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Because if he’s going to go through with this, he tells himself he has to believe that none of it matters—that he won’t let himself care. But even as he kisses you, his lips soft and warm against yours, he knows he’s lying to himself.

The days after that first date drift into a series of moments that feel surreal, almost like they’re happening to someone else. You find yourself checking your phone at odd times, waiting for his texts, smiling down at your screen whenever his name lights up. Bucky is a part of your routine now, and it feels strange, thrilling even, like there’s this magnetic force that draws you to him despite every bit of caution you try to hold onto.

Every time you’re with him, the outside world fades. He makes you laugh with stories about his friends, leaning in close, his voice warm and low as if he’s sharing some secret just for you. You catch yourself stealing glances when he’s not looking—at the way his jaw clenches when he’s lost in thought or how his eyes soften when he looks at you, a mix of curiosity and something you can’t quite name.

It’s after one of your study sessions at the library that Bucky invites you over to his dorm room for the first time. He tells you he’s got some old movies you’ve probably never seen, and, honestly, he’s right—you’d never pictured Bucky as the type to own black-and-white classics, but that’s exactly what he has, a surprisingly large collection lined up on a low shelf near his TV. He insists you pick one, and soon you’re sitting side by side on his couch, your legs tucked up beneath you, feeling almost shy in the soft glow of the screen.

The movie starts, but his arm stretches along the back of the couch, barely brushing your shoulders. The faintest touch sends electricity through you, but you stay quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment. Then, halfway through the movie, he shifts, glancing at you.

“You can get closer, you know,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with something mischievous yet gentle.

Your heart flutters as you scoot closer, until you’re tucked into his side, his arm draped around you in a way that feels possessive yet comforting. He smells faintly like cedar and something distinctly him, a scent that’s becoming familiar. Before you know it, your head is resting on his shoulder, his hand absently tracing patterns on your arm, and you feel like you could stay there forever.

Time slips by in a collection of small, perfect moments. There are more dates—little coffee shops tucked away from campus, a bookstore where he buys you a copy of a novel you mentioned in passing, a late-night diner where you both end up after laughing so hard that you can’t breathe. You never expected him to be so attentive, so eager to listen to your stories and learn every detail about your life. He even surprises you with your favorite snack on study nights, tossing it to you with a grin before leaning in close to steal a bite for himself.

One evening, after a long day of classes and a surprise text from Bucky inviting you over, you find yourself curled up on his couch once again. This time, he’s stretched out beside you, one arm tucked under his head while the other rests around your shoulders. His fingers brush against your arm absently, and you can’t help but notice how natural this feels. It’s terrifying, too, the way he seems to melt into your life so effortlessly, as if he’s always been there.

You glance up at him, catching him mid-laugh as he recounts an embarrassing story about Sam, who apparently tried to show off on a skateboard and ended up with a sprained ankle.

“You’re terrible,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder, though you’re laughing too.

“Oh, come on. It was hilarious,” he insists, grinning down at you. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second, and your laughter fades as something shifts between you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “I just…can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to reply. But then he leans down, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. The kiss deepens slowly, each touch feeling like a promise, and you lose yourself in the warmth of his embrace, forgetting every doubt, every insecurity that ever kept you guarded.

As the weeks pass, you find yourself falling harder than you ever expected. Bucky seems to find every crack in your armor, every scar and hidden fear, and instead of pulling away, he draws closer, listening to your stories and letting you into his own in ways that leave you breathless. He’s there to listen on your tough days, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring words of reassurance. He’s there on your good days, too, laughing with you, pressing kisses to your forehead as if he can’t believe his luck.

One night, you’re back on his couch, cuddled up under a thick blanket as a storm rages outside, the rain tapping against the windows. You’re nestled against him, his arm holding you close, and he’s quiet, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder absentmindedly.

“Bucky?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to yours, his eyes soft and warm in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

He frowns slightly, shifting so he can look at you fully. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Being with you…it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest, and he kisses you again, slow and soft, like he’s savoring every second. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re finally safe with someone, that this is something real.

But for Bucky, each moment with you is a double-edged sword. He’s never felt this way before—this calm, this…connected. Every time you laugh at one of his jokes or lean against him, trusting and unguarded, he feels that awful twist of guilt, the memory of that stupid bet lurking in the back of his mind.

He’s supposed to ask for more. That’s what Sam and Steve were expecting, weren’t they? They wanted him to win the bet, to seal the deal and prove he could pull this off. But every time he thinks about going further, about pushing this relationship into a place where he can’t turn back, he feels that nagging ache, that quiet, gnawing feeling that he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross.

He knows he needs to tell you. He needs to come clean, but every time he opens his mouth, the words get stuck in his throat. You look at him with those bright, trusting eyes, and he can’t bring himself to shatter the way you see him. So he holds his silence, hoping that somehow, he can bury the truth forever, that maybe you’ll never have to know.

One evening, as you’re lying together on his couch, you let out a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest as his hand traces lazy patterns along your back.

“Bucky?” you whisper, your voice soft.

He glances down at you, his fingers pausing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then take a steadying breath. “I…I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, vulnerable and open, and for a second, his face goes still, his eyes widening just slightly. Then, his expression softens, and he tightens his arms around you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. But as he kisses you, the warmth of his touch hiding the flicker of guilt behind his eyes, a single thought haunts him.

She deserves the truth.

That night, Bucky barely sleeps, lying awake with the knowledge that he’s in far too deep to ever come out of this unscathed. Every soft breath you take beside him reminds him of how much he’s risking by staying silent. He knows he has to tell you, but he’s terrified—terrified that this fragile, beautiful thing you’ve built together will shatter, that you’ll look at him with betrayal instead of trust.

In the morning, he makes a decision. He’ll find a way to tell you, he promises himself, but he wants one more day, one more memory before he risks everything. Just one last perfect day where he can pretend that none of it was ever a lie.

So he takes you out, leading you down to the pier just as the sun begins to set, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold. You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, watching the waves lap against the shore.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice soft. “It is.”

But as he stands there, holding you close, he knows that the beauty of this moment is fleeting, that the truth waiting in his chest is too big to ignore. And tonight, when he finally gathers the courage to tell you, he knows there’s a chance he’ll lose you forever. But for now, he lets himself savor this last quiet moment, memorizing the feeling of you in his arms, the warmth of your laughter as it fills the air.

For now, he holds onto the hope that maybe, somehow, you’ll understand.

The sunset fades, leaving the world painted in muted purples and blues, but neither of you seem ready to break away from each other. Bucky holds you close, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath against his chest as if it’s his own. He knows he should say something—that he needs to say something—but the words seem so impossible now, tangled up in his chest. The truth would ruin this moment, shatter whatever he’s built with you. And so, he tells himself it can wait just a little longer.

As the evening slips into night, Bucky leads you back to his dorm room, his hand intertwined with yours. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers wrap around yours as if he never wants to let go. The air feels charged, every touch electric, each shared glance simmering with something that feels fragile and exhilarating. Neither of you says much, as though speaking would break the quiet spell between you.

Once you’re inside, Bucky hesitates. He turns to you, his expression vulnerable, softer than you’ve ever seen it. "You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand.

“I want to,” you say, the words escaping before you can even think. There’s no hesitation in your voice, only a gentle certainty that makes his chest tighten. The way you look at him, so open and trusting, makes his heart ache with a mix of guilt and longing.

Bucky’s eyes search yours, lingering for a moment that stretches into forever. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers trail down to your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re something fragile and precious. Slowly, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s softer than any before. It’s unhurried, tender, as if he’s savoring every second.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel yourself melting into him, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst. His hands move to your waist, steady and grounding, and he pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the strength of him, the warmth radiating through his clothes, and it makes your head spin.

Before long, you find yourselves tangled together on his bed, the world outside fading into nothingness. Each kiss is deeper than the last, each touch laced with a longing neither of you can deny. There’s a gentleness to Bucky’s movements, a quiet patience as he explores the curve of your shoulder, the softness of your waist, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. He’s slow and careful, constantly looking at you as if to make sure this is what you want.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion.

You nod, feeling breathless but certain. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His eyes darken, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands skimming over your skin with a reverence that leaves you feeling cherished. You lose track of time, surrendering to the way he makes you feel—safe, wanted, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When you finally fall back against the bed, your bodies wrapped around each other, you’re exhausted yet filled with a warmth that feels all-encompassing. The reality of what just happened settles in, but instead of feeling nervous, you feel at peace, secure in the quiet intimacy that has grown between you.

Bucky shifts beside you, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The steady thump of his heartbeat lulls you into a peaceful daze, and you feel his fingers trace small circles on your back, soothing and grounding.

You’re both quiet for a long time, the silence comfortable as you bask in each other’s presence. Eventually, though, you feel a need to tell him something you’ve been holding back, something you hadn’t planned on revealing but that feels right to share in this moment.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, lifting your head to look at him. He gazes down at you, his eyes warm and attentive, as if you’re the only thing he sees. “I…I want you to know that this was my first time.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that he’ll think you were too inexperienced or that you should have told him sooner. But he doesn’t flinch or hesitate. His hand moves up to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“Your first?” he echoes, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and something that sounds almost like reverence.

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat as you look down, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah…I wanted it to be with someone who made me feel safe. Someone I trusted.”

Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly as he takes this in, his expression softening. He seems almost humbled, like he’s just been given something rare and delicate. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, as if he’s holding back a hundred things he wants to say but can’t find the words for.

You smile, the last traces of your nervousness melting away. “Thank you, Bucky…for making it so special.”

He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid to let you go. “I’d do anything to make you feel special,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

You nestle into his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling safe and cherished in a way you never have before. And as you lie there, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be truly, deeply in love.

But as you fall asleep in his arms, Bucky lies awake, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he’s kept from you. He knows he should be content, that he should just let himself savor this night and the closeness you’ve shared. But the memory of that stupid, careless bet gnaws at him, a dark cloud looming over everything.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling, feeling torn between the desire to protect you from the truth and the fear that he’s already crossed a line he can’t uncross. The realization that you trusted him enough to give him something so deeply personal makes the weight of his lie even heavier, almost unbearable. He swallows hard, tightening his hold on you as he resolves to tell you the truth—soon, somehow, even if it means risking everything.

But tonight, he lets himself stay silent. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your hair, the warmth of your body against his, and allows himself to believe, if only for a moment, that this can last.

The morning sunlight filters softly through the blinds, casting warm, golden patterns across the bed. You stir beside him, your movements gentle as you wake up, and Bucky watches you with a quiet awe, his heart racing as he takes in the peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, it feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You blink up at him, your face lighting up with a sleepy smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice soft and a little shy, as if the night is still too fresh, too beautiful to fully believe.

He grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Morning,” he replies, his voice low and warm. His fingers trail down to your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and you squeeze back, a shared moment of silent understanding passing between you.

The morning stretches on in a gentle haze of quiet touches and soft words. Bucky makes you coffee, insisting you stay curled up under his blanket while he brings it over to you, and you laugh, watching him with a mix of affection and disbelief. This side of him—the playful, thoughtful side—is something you never expected to see, and it makes you fall for him even harder.

You’re both lounging on his bed, your legs tangled together, talking in low voices about everything and nothing. He tells you stories about his childhood, tales about him and Steve getting into trouble, and you share your own memories, laughing as he reacts with wide eyes and exaggerated shock.

It feels so real, so natural, that you almost forget about everything outside this room, about the possibility that this could be something fleeting. You feel like you’ve found a place that’s safe, a person who makes you feel more like yourself than you ever have before.

But in the quiet moments, when you catch him staring at you with that far-off look, you wonder if there’s something he’s not telling you, a hesitation lurking behind his gaze. You don’t press, not wanting to shatter the peace between you. But part of you wonders if you’re seeing a glimpse of something deeper, something you’re not yet ready to confront.

As you leave his dorm room later that morning, he kisses you softly, lingering as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of your lips, the feel of your hand in his. There’s an unspoken promise in his touch, a silent assurance that this isn’t the end.

Later that afternoon, you make your way back to the frat house, humming softly as you climb the steps to Bucky's door. You left your notebook there, a little blue book you’re pretty sure you’ll need for your upcoming assignment. You barely slept last night, too caught up in the warmth of his touch, the memory of his whispered words that lingered long after you left his dorm this morning. You’re nervous, too; you feel so much for him that it scares you.

As you approach his room, laughter drifts out into the hallway, low voices filtering through the partially open door. You recognize Bucky’s laugh, the familiar sound stirring warmth in your chest, but the laughter feels different, carefree and loud. And then you hear a familiar voice—Sam’s—cutting through, low and joking.

"Guess she fell for it pretty hard, huh?" Sam’s voice sounds amused, lighthearted, as if he’s talking about something trivial.

You freeze, your hand hovering inches from the door. Something about his tone makes you hesitate, a strange, unsettling feeling creeping into your chest.

"Come on, Bucky," Sam presses, “don’t act all innocent now. I saw you this morning, looking like you just won the lottery.” You can hear the grin in his voice, a laugh bubbling beneath it. “So? How was it?”

Bucky laughs, the sound uncomfortable, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, his voice casual, light. “It was… good.”

You feel a stab in your chest, a faint panic that tells you to leave, to walk away before you hear any more. But your feet don’t move, and you find yourself listening, every word driving another splinter into your heart.

Steve’s voice joins in, chuckling. “Well, you earned it, man. She had no clue, huh?”

“No clue,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer now, almost unreadable. You can picture him there, maybe rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s nervous. But the words are there, undeniable.

Sam laughs again, louder this time. “And hey, bet’s a bet,” he says, and then there’s a pause before you hear the unmistakable rustling of bills being exchanged. “Two hundred dollars, as promised. Can’t say you didn’t earn it, though—you even managed to get her into bed. Didn’t think you had it in you, but here we are!”

Your vision blurs, the words echoing in your mind, distorting into something raw and jagged. Every affectionate touch, every gentle kiss, every whispered promise from the past few weeks twists into something ugly, something unrecognizable. You feel sick, the image of Bucky’s earnest smile, his soft words about wanting to make you feel special, tainted beyond repair. Everything you felt for him, the trust you’d handed him so freely, crumbles beneath the weight of their laughter.

Slowly, you turn and leave, gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you make your way out of the frat house. You don’t let yourself cry, not yet, not when you still feel the echo of his betrayal throbbing in your chest, too raw, too painful to acknowledge fully.

Hours later, you’re back in your dorm room, your heart aching as you sit in silence, the truth settling over you in waves. Part of you wants to believe it was a misunderstanding, that maybe there’s an explanation you’re missing. But the memory of their laughter, the casual way Sam handed him that money, makes the truth impossible to ignore.

A knock on your door interrupts your thoughts, and your heart skips a beat as you hear Bucky’s voice calling your name softly from the hallway. It’s just him now, his voice hesitant, almost as if he senses that something’s wrong. You take a steadying breath, steeling yourself before you answer the door.

When you open it, Bucky’s eyes light up, and he steps forward, a soft smile on his face as he reaches for your hand. “Hey, you,” he murmurs, his voice warm. But when he sees the look on your face, he pauses, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to speak. You can only look at him, trying to reconcile the gentle, caring person you thought you knew with the man who took a bet to seduce you. You pull your hand away from his, ignoring the confusion in his gaze as he watches you.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, a dull ache threading through every word. “Or were you just going to take the money and pretend it never happened?”

Bucky blinks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Tell you what? I—I don’t understand.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you look away, wrapping your arms around yourself as if it’ll keep you from falling apart. “Don’t play dumb, Bucky. I heard you. I was at the frat house earlier, and I heard everything.”

He freezes, his face going pale, and you see the truth in his eyes, clear as day. He opens his mouth, stumbling over his words. “Y/N, I—I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

The admission twists the knife deeper, and you feel yourself trembling as you look back at him, tears stinging your eyes. “So, it’s true, then? All of it? This whole… this whole thing was just for some stupid bet?”

He reaches for you, his expression desperate, his hands hovering just inches from your arms. “Y/N, please. Just let me explain. It wasn’t like that, I swear. It started that way, but then… then it became real. I fell for you, okay? Everything we did, everything we shared—it was real.”

You shake your head, pulling away from him, the anger and betrayal simmering beneath the surface. “Real? You think that makes this okay? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice breaks, and a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “I trusted you, Bucky. I thought… I thought you cared about me.”

His face crumples, and he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to wipe away the tear on your cheek. “I do care about you. More than anything, Y/N. That’s why I wanted to tell you, I just—”

“Wanted to tell me?” you interrupt, your voice shaking. “When, Bucky? After you cashed in your winnings? After I found out on my own?”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbearable, and Bucky’s shoulders sag as he looks away, guilt etched deeply into his face.

“Do you even realize how humiliating this is?” you continue, your voice a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I trusted you with something… something I’d never given anyone. And the whole time, it was just part of a game to you.”

His eyes snap back to yours, filled with anguish, his voice barely a whisper. “It was never just a game, not after the first night. I swear, Y/N, I was going to tell you everything. I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t want to lose me?” you repeat, laughing bitterly. “You lost me the moment you made that bet. You had no right to… to play with me like that, to make me believe that any of it was real.”

He looks at you, his blue eyes full of desperation, his voice breaking. “Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, but I need you to believe me when I say I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Just stop,” you whisper, the weight of it all crashing over you. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you when you’re the one who lied.”

Bucky’s face falls, and he drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, just… give me a chance to make it right.”

Your heart aches, torn between the memories of every gentle touch, every whispered word, and the undeniable truth of his betrayal. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to believe that somewhere in all of this, there was something real. But the pain is too deep, the wound too fresh, and you don’t know if you can ever look at him the same way again.

“I can’t do this,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t just forget what you did. You hurt me, Bucky. And right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

He flinches, as if your words physically hurt him, and he nods slowly, a look of resignation in his eyes. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he takes a step back, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob as he glances back at you, his voice soft, broken.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N… I love you. I know I don’t deserve to say that, but it’s the truth.”

You don’t reply, staring at him with tear-filled eyes as he finally steps out of your dorm, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, and you sink to the floor, the weight of everything crashing down as you realize that the person you thought you loved never truly existed.

The days blur together in a haze of heartbreak and emptiness. You go through the motions, attending classes, completing assignments, and showing up to study groups, but it all feels mechanical, like you’re on autopilot. It’s as if something inside you has shut down, leaving only an echo of who you were before you met him, before he became the center of your world.

It doesn’t take long for your friends to notice the change. They ask if you’re okay, if something happened, if maybe you just need a break. But you give them the same answer each time—a nod, a small smile, and an assurance that you’re just tired. It’s easier than explaining the mess of emotions tangled inside you, the hurt that seems too big to fit into words.

Late at night, lying alone in your dorm room, you can still feel the warmth of his arms around you, the softness of his voice in the quiet hours when he’d whisper promises you thought would last forever. The memory feels cruel now, tainted by the knowledge that it was all built on a lie. And yet, despite everything, you miss him. You hate yourself for it, but you miss the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel safe, special, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Bucky isn’t doing any better. In fact, he’s a mess. Days have passed, but the guilt, the emptiness—it lingers, gnawing at him, refusing to let him move on. He can barely sleep, haunted by the look in your eyes, the betrayal, the hurt he put there. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you, hears the way your voice cracked when you told him you didn’t know who he was anymore. And the worst part is, he doesn’t blame you. He knows he did this, that he ruined everything, and now he has to live with the consequences.

Sam and Steve notice almost immediately. Bucky, the confident, charming guy they’d known for years, looks hollow, as if he’s carrying a weight he can’t shake. He barely speaks, keeps to himself, and they rarely see him at the frat house anymore. Instead, he spends most of his time shut up in his dorm, a shadow of the person he used to be.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Sam and Steve exchange a glance, silently agreeing that they need to intervene. They knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, Sam pushes it open, finding him lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, stepping inside. Steve follows, closing the door behind them as they both approach Bucky’s bed.

Bucky doesn’t react right away, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. But eventually, he sits up, running a hand through his hair, looking exhausted and defeated.

“What’s up, guys?” he mumbles, though his voice lacks any real curiosity.

“We should be asking you that,” Steve says, his tone softer than usual. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Ever since things ended with Y/N, it’s like… you’re a completely different person.”

At the sound of your name, Bucky’s face falls, and he lets out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “That’s because I am.”

Sam frowns, studying Bucky’s expression, the guilt etched into every line of his face. “Look, man, we didn’t mean for things to get this serious. But if you cared about her, really cared… why didn’t you just tell her the truth from the start?”

Bucky shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I was scared, I guess. I knew I’d screwed up, and every time I tried to tell her, I just… couldn’t. I thought I could fix things, somehow, make it up to her without her ever finding out.” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stupid, right?”

Steve sighs, sitting beside him on the bed. “Not stupid, just… a mistake. A big one, yeah, but you’re not the first guy to mess up. You’re just… Bucky, this isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

Bucky looks away, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I’ve never felt this way before. Not like this. I love her, Steve. And I threw it all away over some stupid bet that meant nothing. I hurt her in ways I can’t even fix.”

Sam places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “So what are you gonna do about it? You can’t just sit here, wallowing. If she meant that much to you, then maybe you owe it to her—and to yourself—to try and make it right.”

Bucky laughs, but it’s empty, hollow. “And how am I supposed to do that, Sam? She told me herself she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t deserve another chance.”

Steve exchanges a look with Sam, and then he says, “Maybe. But you can’t just give up without trying. If you really love her, Bucky, you have to prove it. Show her that you’re not just the guy who hurt her, that you’re willing to fight for her. And if she doesn’t take you back… at least you’ll know you tried.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at the floor. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I don’t even know if I deserve it.”

Sam crosses his arms, his expression softening. “Look, man, I get that you’re hurting. But don’t you think she’s hurting, too? She’s probably out there feeling just as broken, wondering if anything between you was ever real.”

Bucky swallows hard, his chest tightening at the thought. He knows you’re hurting, knows you trusted him with something precious, something he didn’t deserve. And knowing that he’s the reason for your pain… it’s a feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Over the next few days, Bucky wrestles with himself, caught between the fear of making things worse and the desire to show you that he’s truly sorry, that he wants to be the man you thought he was. He writes and rewrites texts he never sends, shows up outside your dorm but never works up the courage to knock. He’s terrified, but he can’t ignore the way his heart aches for you, the empty, gnawing feeling that only seems to grow with each passing day.

Finally, he decides to try one last time. He doesn’t know if you’ll listen, doesn’t know if you’ll even give him a chance. But he has to try—to give you the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

And so, as the evening sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over campus, Bucky finds himself standing outside your dorm, his heart pounding as he gathers the courage to knock. He knows this is his last chance, that this is the moment that will decide everything. And he only hopes, as he takes a deep breath and raises his hand to the door, that you’ll give him the chance to show you that he’s not the man who hurt you—that he’s ready to fight for you, no matter what it takes.

The knock on your door is soft, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to pull you from your thoughts. You’ve been lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the strength to move forward, to somehow patch yourself up after everything that happened. When you open the door, you see him standing there, his eyes filled with an uncertainty that’s almost heartbreaking. He’s gripping a small notebook in his hands—your notebook, the one you left in his room—and his gaze is fixed on you with a desperation you’ve never seen before.

“Hi,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t reply right away, the sight of him dredging up the familiar ache in your chest. Part of you wants to slam the door and hide, to keep yourself safe from any more hurt. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to remain steady.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice guarded.

He shifts on his feet, glancing down at the notebook before offering it to you. “I, uh… you left this. Thought you might need it.”

You take it from him, feeling the familiar weight of it in your hands. “Thanks.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, one that neither of you seems willing to break. Bucky swallows, his face creased with an anxious, uncertain look that makes him seem vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Can we… can we talk?” he asks, his voice almost pleading. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need to say a few things. If you don’t want to listen, I’ll understand, and I’ll leave you alone. I just… I need you to know the truth.”

You hesitate, but finally, you nod, stepping back to let him into your room. He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, and takes a seat in the small chair by your desk while you remain standing, arms crossed protectively over your chest.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze heavy with regret. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I know you have every right to hate me,” he starts, his voice barely steady. “I know I messed up in ways I can’t even fix. And I know… I know what I did was horrible. I just—” He swallows, his throat tight. “I just need you to know that it wasn’t all a lie. When we started this… when we first got close, I didn’t expect any of this to happen. I didn’t think I’d feel the way I did.”

You look down, his words stirring a fresh wave of pain in your chest. “But it was a bet, Bucky,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You… you did all of that just to win some money. To you, it was just a game.”

He flinches, guilt flashing in his eyes, and he nods. “I know. I won’t make excuses for it—I was stupid, and I hurt you. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the bet. It stopped being a game. And I started… I started caring about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair again, his expression tortured. “Because I was scared. I was terrified that you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now, that I’d lose you. I know that doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. I tried to find the right time, tried to find the right words, but I kept putting it off, thinking maybe… maybe I could make it up to you before you ever found out.” He looks down, his voice breaking. “But that was stupid. I should’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You take a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of everything he’s saying. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to forgive him, but the wound he left is still fresh, still raw. “I trusted you, Bucky,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought what we had was real.”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a desperate sincerity that takes you off guard. “It was real. For me, it was real. And I know that doesn’t change anything, but I need you to know that. I never meant to hurt you, and I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to find some indication of sincerity, something to show that he’s truly sorry. And when you see the remorse in his eyes, the sadness that mirrors your own, you feel something in your chest soften, just slightly.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, forcing yourself to stay strong, “I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. You hurt me more than anyone ever has, and it’s going to take time for me to get past that.”

He nods, his expression resigned, but he doesn’t look away. “I understand. And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just… I just want the chance to prove to you that I’m more than the guy who hurt you. Even if we can’t go back, I want to be there for you, even if it’s just as a friend.”

You let his words sink in, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the ache in your heart. Part of you still longs for what you had, for the closeness you shared, but you know that you can’t rush back into it. If Bucky truly wants a second chance, he’ll have to earn it, piece by piece, day by day.

“Maybe…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable but determined. “Maybe we can start as friends. Just… friends. No promises, no expectations. If you’re willing to do that, to rebuild things from the ground up… then maybe, someday, I’ll be able to trust you again.”

Relief floods his face, and he nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take that. Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take it. I’ll prove to you that I can be better. I’ll prove that I’m worth your trust.”

You give him a tentative smile, and for the first time in days, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile, but it’s enough to remind you that maybe healing is possible.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky becomes a constant but careful presence in your life. He shows up when you need help with an assignment, offers a listening ear when you need to vent about a long day, and joins you for coffee on campus, keeping the conversation light and easy. He respects your boundaries, never pushing for more, never expecting anything beyond friendship. You’re surprised at how attentive he is, how willing he is to wait, to prove that he’s serious about making things right.

Slowly, the walls around your heart begin to crack. You start to feel comfortable with him again, to let your guard down, if only a little. You catch him glancing at you sometimes, a soft, almost wistful look in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something precious he thought he’d lost forever. It’s in these moments that you remember why you fell for him in the first place, why his smile used to make your heart race, why his touch felt like home.

One day, as you’re both sitting on a bench by the campus pond, he turns to you, a hesitant smile on his face. “I know we’re just friends right now, and I’m okay with that. But I want you to know that I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with you, even if it’s just like this.”

You feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. “Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “For not giving up. For being patient with me.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on yours, his touch warm and steady. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll prove to you that I’m here for you, no matter what.”

And as you look into his eyes, you feel a flicker of something you thought was lost—a tentative, fragile hope that maybe things could be different this time. That he could truly be the person he’s trying to be, the person you wanted him to be all along. And though you know there’s a long road ahead, you’re finally willing to take that first step with him, trusting that maybe, this time, he won’t let you down.

The night is alive with music and laughter as you step into the crowded frat house. It’s your first time back here since everything happened, and you can’t deny the nervous flutter in your stomach as you take in the familiar scene. But tonight feels different—Bucky is by your side, watching you with a gentle smile as he guides you through the chaos of people, his hand warm and steady on your arm.

Over the past few weeks, things between you and Bucky have been slowly mending. He’s proven himself time and time again, showing up when it mattered, respecting your boundaries, and never pressuring you for more than you were willing to give. He’s become someone you can lean on, someone who’s earned back your trust bit by bit. And, to your own surprise, you feel something new blossoming between you—something deeper, stronger, and more genuine than before.

When you reach the main room, you spot Sam and Steve near the keg, both of them giving you a thumbs-up as soon as they see you with Bucky. You laugh, rolling your eyes, but Bucky just grins, shrugging as if to say, They’re harmless.

“Glad you came tonight,” he says, leaning closer so you can hear him over the noise. “I was worried you might skip.”

You shrug, glancing up at him. “Well, I figured it was about time I faced the frat house again.”

He chuckles, a warm, rich sound that sends a spark of something familiar through you. It’s the same feeling you used to get when you first met, when you were just getting to know him, before anything got complicated. Only now, it feels even better—because you’re finally on solid ground with him, without secrets or lies standing between you.

As the night goes on, you find yourself enjoying the party, laughing with friends, and even dancing a bit. Bucky stays close, his presence a comforting, steady anchor amidst the noise and chaos. He’s attentive, offering you drinks and glancing over every so often to make sure you’re comfortable. And every time you catch his gaze, you feel your heart race just a little faster.

At one point, as you’re talking with a friend, you feel Bucky’s hand gently touch your arm, and he leans in close, his voice soft and intimate against your ear. “Want to get some air?”

You nod, letting him lead you through the throngs of people until you step out onto the back porch. The cool night air is a welcome relief from the warmth inside, and you breathe deeply, taking in the quiet calm of the evening. Bucky leans against the railing, watching you with a soft, almost nervous smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he begins, his voice low and steady, as if he’s thought about this moment a thousand times. “I know we’ve been rebuilding things, and I know you wanted to take it slow. But, Y/N… being with you these past few weeks, even just as friends, has been everything to me. And I can’t stop thinking about you. About us.”

Your heart stirs at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of longing that’s been building quietly since the day he asked for a second chance.

“Bucky,” you say softly, stepping a little closer. “I… I feel the same. It’s been hard, letting go of the past. But I think—no, I know—I’ve forgiven you. You’ve shown me who you really are, and… I like that person.”

His eyes brighten at your words, and he reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek as his thumb strokes gently across your skin. He leans closer, his gaze searching your face as if to make sure you’re truly ready for this.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his voice barely audible in the quiet night air.

You feel your heart skip a beat, and you give him a small, almost shy nod, your pulse racing as he leans in, closing the distance between you. The moment his lips meet yours, it’s like the world melts away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth against yours. It’s gentle at first, tentative, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell. But as you respond, his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet, aching intensity.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath, sharing a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice full of warmth, “I promise, I’m not going to mess this up again. I want this with you—for real, no games.”

You smile, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Good, because you’re stuck with me now.”

He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder, feeling a happiness you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re finally ready to move forward with him, to start fresh, knowing that this time, it’s real.

maybe I should've made it more angsty? I love angst, request angst people! lol

[batboysanonymous]

A Soft Place to Fall

Azriel x Reader

Summary: When Azriel finds himself drawn to her warmth, her curves, her unapologetic softness, he knew he didn't stand a chance; and once he finally gave in, he'd never crawl back out of her arms, or her bed, again.

Azriel had spent five centuries mastering silence. He could slip through shadows, read a room with one flick of his cold golden eyes, and kill a man before his target ever heard a footstep.

And yet none of it prepared him for you.

None of it protected him from the way your laughter—bright, unfiltered—sank under his skin like sunlight in a place he’d long since left dark. Or the way you walked into a room with curves that refused to be quiet, hips that swayed like they knew his eyes were on them, thighs that whispered promises in the cradle of his dreams.

You were soft where others were sharp. Loud where others tiptoed around his silence. And you were kind to him. Kind. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon. Like he was a man.

And gods, he was fucked.

It started with glances.

One night at the River House, your thigh had brushed against his under the table. Just a second. Just a spark. But Azriel had spent the rest of dinner sitting stone-still, sweat between his shoulder blades, trying not to glance down at where the curve of your legs pressed so innocently against his. Like you didn’t know what you were doing.

He knew. Or hoped.

He went home that night and fucked his hand with your name on his tongue.

Over the following weeks, it only got worse.

His shadows told on him. Whispers of you undressing, fingers brushing lotion over your skin. Your voice, singing softly in your room when you thought no one was listening. The bond—Cauldron, the bond—was growing louder, insistent now, humming in his bones every time you walked by.

He began to crave you like blood. And it made him sloppy.

Sparring with Cassian? He caught a glimpse of you stretching on the sidelines and missed a block, got knocked on his ass. Mission debriefing with Rhys? Azriel didn’t hear a word—because you’d walked in wearing a dress that hugged the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips like a sin.

But he couldn’t touch. Not yet.

He didn’t know if you felt it. The bond. The way it pulled on him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him closer to you with every breath. You deserved more than a man who didn’t know how to be soft. A man who burned and bled and broke.

But then… you smiled at him.

That day in the training ring, your face flushed, thighs trembling from the workout, sweat glistening between your breasts—he snapped.

"You alright?" you asked gently, blinking up at him as he stalked toward you, dark and silent.

"No," he said hoarsely. “No, I’m not.”

You looked up at him with that wide-eyed kindness, a little confused, a little wary. “Az…?”

“I need to show you something.”

He didn’t give you time to overthink. Just took your hand and led you through the House—past the halls where his shadows curled and listened, past the tension thrumming in his chest—to the bathing chamber. Quiet. Private.

Sacred.

When the door shut behind you, you stood very still. “Is something wrong?”

Azriel turned to you, heart in his throat. “I think you’re my mate.”

Silence. Thick. Shocking.

You blinked, once. Twice. “You think—?”

“I know,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ve known for months. Since the moment I saw you. The bond—it’s been screaming at me, and I’ve been pretending I can ignore it. But I can’t anymore. Not when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

The bath steamed behind him, sweet with oils and magic. And you—beautiful and wide-eyed and so damn soft—stood before him like a vision.

He raised a scarred hand. Let it hover near your cheek. “Say something. Please.”

You stared at him, lips parted, and then whispered: “Why me?”

Azriel exhaled, voice thick. “Because your laugh sounds like something I want to protect. Because when you walk into a room, I don’t see shadows—I see a future. Because your thighs drive me insane, and when you smile at me, it hurts. And because I would burn the world if you asked.”

Your eyes shimmered.

“Let me show you,” he said. “Please.”

And you nodded.

He undressed you slowly.

Azriel had never gone to war with trembling fingers, but he did now—unlacing the front of your tunic, pushing the fabric down your arms, eyes drinking in every glorious inch you revealed.

Your breasts spilled free first, soft and full and gods, he wanted to mouth at them for hours. Then your waist, the slight dip of your belly, the luscious curve of your hips.

You reached to cover yourself, instinctive.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

And when you dropped your arms, vulnerable and trembling, Azriel fell to his knees like he’d been commanded by the gods themselves.

You gasped as he kissed the inside of your thigh, his voice shaking with reverence. “I’ve dreamed of this. Every damn night.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Azriel worshipped you like a prayer—his tongue seeking, finding, devouring the sweet bundle of nerves that made you moan and buck against his face. He gripped your thighs with reverent hands, spreading you open wider for him, shadows caressing you like a second touch.

When your thighs clamped around his head, he groaned—groaned—like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your slick. “Use me, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You came for him like a breaking wave. Then again. And again. Until your legs shook and your voice was hoarse from moaning his name.

When he finally rose, your eyes were glazed, your lips kiss-bruised from his.

“Bath,” he murmured, lifting you easily into the water.

You curled into him, back to his chest, the warm water cradling you both. His hands never stopped moving—palming your belly under the surface, stroking the curve of your hip, dragging lazy circles along your inner thigh.

“You drive me mad,” he said, lips against your ear.

“I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled. “I think I was waiting for someone like you. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when I said I’m broken. Who would still want me when I got like this—desperate and wild.”

Then he kissed you.

Not fierce. Not possessive. Just full. Devout. Like a man finally drinking water after years of thirst.

Later, as he dried you off with his own hands—slow, careful, utterly in love—he murmured: “You're mine now.”

You smiled up at him. “And you're mine?”

Azriel lowered his head. Rested his brow against your belly.

“I’ve always been yours.”

Taglist: @willowpains, @masbt1218, @antonia002, @bookishcait, @fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, @buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff,  @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch,  @okaytrashpanda, @mariaxliliana, @kksbookstuff, @marina468, @tele86, @raccoonworld, Princesssunderworld, dinosandwaffles, @xadenswhore

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[fumble-femur]

The Beheaded forgot about the cursed chest they opened, didn’t they?

Womp womp

You know. Now that I think, maybe it's for better beheaded didn't meet others. Audio by wonderful Zach Fuller

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐄𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚

Pairing: Sub!Joel Miller x F!reader

Word Count: 2400

Summary: Trying to slip Joel Miller away from his dominance is an unfortunately difficult task

Warnings: PORN-NO-PLOT. Joel fighting the dom demons. (Spoiler they eventually win.) Bondage. Overstimulation. Daddy kink. Handjob. Joel cumming via nipple play. Dom-ish!reader Kinda? Male moaning & whimpering we’re so back! No beta.

Author’s Note: Another unwarranted repost brought to you by my OCD 👌 p.s. Erotica by Madonna FUCKSSSS

Masterlist

This wasn’t the position he had ever strived to be in. 

You had bound one of his wrists to the headboard behind him, feeling particularly sadistic every time his hips would rut into thin air.

In a more sober circumstance he would’ve found himself rejecting any ounce of torment you’d beg to put him through–unfortunately, one Viarga chased with a shot of bourbon had never led any man to a good, wholehearted decision . Although, Joel knew what he’d be getting himself into the moment he felt the leather of his belt bite into his wrist. He knew what his pretty girl wanted. 

He’d anchored a heel to the mattress, your eyes were staring into him, objectifying his being as he could only lay there. His tummy rising and falling at a quick pace. 

“C’mon, touch your old man, Darlin’.” Were his first, undignified words since he had become one handed. His cock twitched with a mind of its own against his belly. 

You had never been too keen on the idea of giving him physical pain, but, he’d beg to differ, this was equal to that. The throbbing, the aching, how heavy, how swollen he felt. All making his engorged member leak a pearly drop of precum onto his stomach, rolling downwards and following the path of his happy trail.

Joel always took care of you. Every time your thighs would spread, beckoning him in, he’d make sure you got a satisfying fill of him, leaving you nothing short of pleased. But, it’s something about him, sprawled out, vulnerable, in the way you had only ever found yourself under him, you’d only want to abuse the power. 

And, that you did. 

His eyelids lowered, staring at you through slits as you brought a palm close to his chest, running it up the dewy skin, felt warm, felt hot, actually. 

“Just relax.” You encouraged. Almost mean.

He seized as your palm shifted lower, rubbing over his belly. He was fully erect, and so uncomfortably so, he felt like his dick would pop any minute now–shit, any second. Your fingers wiggled down, carving a path of cruel heat to where he needed it most, and once your digits met with the wiry, coarse hairs that crowned his cock, you pulled back with a ‘tsk.’ A deep, exasperated groan escaped from his chest in response. 

“Fuck me, fuck–” He’d only be cut off by his Adam’s apple rubbing harshly against a grunt. “Fuck you.” 

“Oh yeah? Fuck me, hm?” You tested him. Joel, deep down, knew that curses would only get him farther from what he wanted. 

Joel had to stifle a growl as soon as your index began tracing a fine line up towards his ribs, the touch bone-chilling to him, in current. You leaned down to slot your lips against his, opening, allowing his tongue to push sharply into your warm, wet mouth. You’d feel his unbound hand slowly creeping up the nape at your neck, thick fingers carding into your locks, you moaned involuntarily, but quickly swatted him away and pulled back from his lips with a wet, salvia-slicken smack. 

“Nuh uh.” You’d nudge, pressing your thumb into his wrist, his fingers spreading. “Wouldn’t wanna lose this one too, hm?”

Joel could only sigh and shake his head. Receding his left hand behind his head, fisting into his greying curls. Finally beginning to understand how degrading it was to find yourself in this supine position. He wasn’t a fan. Sweating and aching, it wasn’t ideal combined with the modicum amount of pleasure you were giving him, if any. 

Your lips puckered into a taunt at his expression, so needy. Never, not once had it ever crossed your mind you’d be seeing Joel Miller sprawled and staggered against his own sheets. But you’d find yourself with not one complaint, of course, it was only fun for you. 

As his loud, shallow breaths filled the otherwise quiet room, he spoke, hoping, praying it’d get him what he wanted, give him a mere touch, tired of waiting. 

“Baby,” Already, his voice had split into a groan. In another attempt, not shy of sounding needy, he’d moaned. “Sweetheart…” 

“What? Does daddy’s cock need me?” You’d pout. Urging him on. 

Your palm flattened against his navel. That touch alone was enough to get his hips bucking. His cockhead flushed a deep red, thick beads of precum crying down his swelled shaft. 

“Bad.” He gritted. “So. Fucking. Bad.” 

His spine arched awkwardly against the mess of tangled sheets. His body growing rigid and stiff. 

You sighed at his clear discomfort, he should have never decided to pop that tiny, blue, hellsend of a pill. If he hadn’t he’d be more likely to find himself prone to this, more willing to be at your expense with a half hard dick and a comforting warmth spreading beneath his skin. Rather, now he was burning up with a painfully blood filled cock. But fuck, did he look pretty. 

Your head ducked lower, pressing a sweet kiss to his side before leading a soft path to the center of his belly. Basking in his warmth, the scent of him, the musk of his sweat would only make your mouth water.

“Oh, Joel.” You’d murmur. 

Your lips would part against his tummy, palms pawing at the soft, fatty flesh on his sides. Your pussy throbbing, untouched and clad in the pretty lace panties you had bought just for him. Unfortunately, his palm was swatted with every scarce touch, throat squeezed and punished at the cost of a look. It really wasn’t fair, now was it? 

But, you didn't mind taunting him for your own gain. He had bottomed out in you, rutted until he filled your walls with hot spend many times before. You’d say too many as if he didn’t have you moaning and writhing whilst he filled every corner of your cunt over and over again, every time more pleasurable than the last. 

You kissed above his belly button before wiggling your free hand down your underwear, breath hitching as you cupped yourself, the heel of your palm brushing against your clit. 

“Baby–” Joel hissed. “That just ain’t fair.” 

“Who said anything about fair?” 

You definitely hadn’t. Joel had only complained about it since the night had begun, since the idea had been discussed. Your hips rolled upwards into your hand, moaning again, softer this time. 

“Patience, Joel. Just like you taught me.” 

Fuck. He oughta have you over the knee the moment you’re finished. The moment he’s used and softening which at this point in time, felt like you’d never let him cum. And that would only frustrate him more. 

You removed your palm from your undies, leaving your pussy pleading for more friction. Now, bracing clenched fists either side of him, you peered over his body, watching his coffee brown eyes look right back at you. He throbbed in response. 

“Can’t give two fucks about what I taught you, or what I didn’t fuckin’ teach you right now.” 

He growled, “Jus’ wanna fuckin’ cum.” 

At that, you leaned in and kissed his sternum. 

“I know, daddy.” You cooed.

And that fucking voice of yours. It was the verbal equivalent of being shackled and whipped. 

You’d breathe, peeling off your soaked panties and tossing them uncoordinatedly, to any odd place in Joel’s room, before straddling his thick, hairy thigh and grinding.  

“God– fuck!” Joel wretched. Feeling your warm, drenched folds gliding back and forth on his thigh. 

Unbridedly, he bounced his leg. His knee prodding against your entrance, you mewled, but quickly regained  your control as much as you wanted to get off. Joel was feigning for his own climax, hell, for a slow, languid touch of any sorts, he’d thank you for a mere prod against his head just for some stimulation. Babbling out anything that he thought could convince you.

“Sweetheart, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.” 

And, also. 

“Any more of this, fuckin’ cock’s gonna explode–baby–please.” 

But, to no avail, more silence would fall into the air. He’d swallow down a whimper feeling your cunt contract against his leg. You watched his eyes squeeze shut, lips purse, brows knit in undying frustration. He. Needed. To. Cum. 

Then suddenly, you’d wrap a fist around his length, gratefully, he wailed. Eyes rolling back into his skull from the intense stimulant of your palm. His dick fluttering eagerly into your grasp. He worms himself backwards, just barely propping himself up so he could get the better angle to begin thrusting creaky hips into your hand. The base of your fist coming in contact with his thick patch of greying curls that crowned at the root of his cock. Matted and sticky with his fluids. 

Baby–sweetie, just–just a little more and–” 

You removed your palm from his shaft, he immediately throbbed violently, bobbing back against his tummy, his slit leaking like a fucking faucet. He cried, just a little louder this time. Sweat beading dramatically over the lines of his forehead. 

“FUCK!” 

That had been the loudest you had ever heard him. Without a doubt heard by the neighbors. The poor, unfortunate neighbors. 

“Shh, m’sorry, daddy.” You pressed a cruel, gentle kiss right to his cheek. Tracing up to nibble the shell of his ear. “Just a little more.” 

Just a little more?

Just a little more and his cock would fall out of commision for a good month. He’d have to strap the poor, crine thing into a cast and hope for the better. 

But, you had found yourself exploring up to his broad chest again, while your palm touched over his warm, sun-kissed skin, your other hand found his face, cradling his jaw before probing a finger to his lips, in which he let in, as humiliating as it was he sucked dumbly. Your fingertip resting against the hollow of his tongue. 

Accidentally, you brushed a finger over his nipple as you soothingly rubbed his chest, thus, making his teeth scrape against your knuckle and his hips spasm. Your stomach would plummet, taking a breath before running the pad of your index over the flat, erect tip again. 

This time, Joel moaned as more opaque, pearly liquid sputtered out his shaft. You’d take it as a sign and pinch. 

Your thumb popped out of his mouth as his breathing made quick, ragged gasps. His stomach intensely inflating and deflating with every hard, labored, huff and puff. It was safe to say, he was enjoying it now. You’d teased him far too long and far too painfully that you couldn’t refuse the provision of his pleasure any longer. You adjusted yourself so you could lay more comfortably against his side, throwing a leg over his own, running your lips over his collarbone as you thumbed around his nipple. 

You were quick to begin planting firm, wet kisses all down his chest before your breath would fan over the hardened bud on his right. Your tongue flattened, and you lapped a stripe up the sensitive peak, feeling the warm, velvety texture beneath the lick. 

“Mhm– yes– fuck. Jus’ like that, sweetheart and– oh–” 

His body shuddered, cock twitching violently as his heels hooked hard into his mattress, baring down involuntarily. 

His head craned back into his feathery soft pillow as he felt the oxygen being pulled from his lungs, and a numbness going from his base from his glands with an angry, heavy pulse. His balls pulled tightly, and with one more, gentle, sweet drag of your finger, he came. 

Thick, hot, milky globs of cum pumped out of his opening onto his tummy, you heard the head board rattle as he instinctively tried to pull his arm down to stroke himself through his climax, so, you’d gladly help him. 

You propped yourself onto the weight of your arm as you wrapped your fingers tightly against his dick, feeling him contracting violently with each warm rope of semen that jerked out of him. Sliding up and down in rough, satisfyingly slick pumps. Moans falling short of escaping his throat, only broken, desperate gasps. Your lips would lean in to gently suckle upon the head, the access pooling against your cheek as you palmed the rest into his stomach. 

You licked and sucked eagerly at his cock, relief crashing into his body like a fucking freit train. That familiar tingling sparkling beneath his skin. 

“Oh–thank you, baby…” He’d grunt, “Daddy really, really needed that.” 

You hummed around his shaft, eyes looking up at him with that certain glint. He was completely, utterly spent.

You’d wrung his sensitive, twitching cock against his thigh before placing one, gentle kiss to his emptied balls, pulling back up to look at him. Chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Tenderly moving a stray, sweaty curl away from his forehead. Your poor, tired, daddy. 

He was exhausted, but he smiled faintly at the touch. A stray act of kindness despite the night of torture you had given him. Though, it had all worked him into a state of mush against his bed. Pulling you against his side. 

“You’re mean.” He muttered, sighing heavily as he tugged his wrist away from its leather binds, the headboard whined. 

“If I was mean, I wouldn’t have made you cum, daddy.” 

It was fair, and true. But you also couldn’t put your poor, old man through blue balls just for a night of fun. 

“Huh, maybe you’re right.” He grumbled, noticing your eyes were locked onto his soft tummy, watching the fat, wet streaks of spend dribbling down his skin. Blissfully unaware of your surroundings for a moment. 

Joel would take that to his advantage. Using his freehand to work his wrist out of his belt. 

In a blink, both of his massive hands clamped your waist and forced you down prone into the bed, you’d moan, your hips wiggling up. Really, you only deserved it. Feeling a callused palm rubbing over the curve of your ass, you were still soaked. He groaned, stuffing his face into your hair and inhaling sharply. 

“You’ve had your fun, babygirl. My turn.” 

So much of wringing him away from his dominance. Still, yet to be proven impossible. Maybe you’d just need to tie a tighter knot. Or, bind his legs next. 

But for now, you’d bask in the feeling as he notches his cock to your cunt, and drives himself home. 

[splishfish]

Thinking about…

~~~

Anyone who knew Nerd!Gojo knew that he was utterly in love with you.

It was pathetic, really.

Nerd!Gojo couldn’t live without you. He was constantly on your tail, whether it was to -beg- to do your homework for you, or to eagerly hand you his notes and homework to claim as your own, he was there. Nerd!Gojo didn’t care if you were using him, as long as you kept him by your side, he would do anything for you!

He’d even let you peg him! Wait, what? 

“NhhgaaAah! W-WaIT-!” The girly moan that escaped his lips echoed between the four walls of your bedroom, followed soon after by the sickeningly wet slurp of your tongue as you lapped at his untouched hole.

Well. Once untouched.

A simple swat! to his reddened ass made him flinch forwards and away from your prying muscle, but it only encouraged more of your mean slaps :(

How did he get here? Did you plan this? Did you know you’d have him wriggling in your bed, his cock red and sticky with cum from the moment you pulled his pants down?

Honestly, despite the whirring thoughts in his mind, he just couldn't bring himself to care. Not when your tongue was pushing past the pink rim of his asshole and into his gummy caverns. 

A sharp gasp escaped his lips, eyes rolling back as drool spilled from his parted lips. This..this was wrong! He wasn’t supposed to be the one ruined and rutting his hips into your mouth! It- It should have been the other way around! You were supposed to be the one begging for his tongue! You were supposed to be on your hands and knees, pretty pussy sloppy and leaking just for him, not-! Not whatever this is! Oh, but he just can’t pull away. I mean, you were the one who wanted this right?! Not him! He- He doesn’t want your tongue to fuck him into another orgasm, of course not! And he definitely doesn't want you to finger fuck him while you suck his dick! No! How could he ever dream of such a thing?!

So when you pull away from his now winking asshole and pressed the fat of your thumb against his tight muscle, he obviously tried to move away! Yes! So when he bucked his hips into your thumb, shoving the fat digit into his ass, it was obviously an accident! He was trying to get away! Not shove your pretty finger deeper into his hole!

Oh, but when it slipped inside, all the fight he had completely disappeared :( The way your thumb gently fucked and spread his tight hole wider made his mind melt, and he finally gave into -his- your desires.

And as you replaced your thumb with your middle and index finger, could you really blame him for fucking into your fingers? No, and not even when he started moaning like a bitch in heat, begging for the cock you didn’t have, you could hardly blame him for giving into -his- your desires. It was only in his nature to give in to you :(

Because he loved you. He loved you so damn much, that when you pressed the tip of your dildo against his barely stretched out hole, he held back his whimpers of pain. He didn’t want you to worry, and somewhere deep inside him, he didn’t want you to stop.

And how could he not love you? When you so sweetly massaged his ass as you let him get used to the size of the dildo, kissing his spine and whispering sweet praises against his skin and-…ah…he came again.

But even as his cock twitched and spilled gallons worth of his thick cum, he could still feel the way you began to push the dildo even further into his hole, using his orgasm as a distraction. And when he finally felt the silicone balls of the dildo press against his perineum, oh, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forwards and ramming the dildo inside him.

He felt like a whore. Every moan and whine of pleasure that escaped his lips was accompanied by a mewl for more, followed by the harsh slamming of the silicone toy hitting his prostate.

He was dreaming. He had to be. Because as he reached what seemed to be his 100th orgasm of the night, he was blessed with the soft feeling of your lips pressing against his slobbering ones, and a soft praise he’ll never forget.

“There we go…my sweet nerd…”

[pankowcrumbs]

The grid's secret X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lando Norris x Reader The whole grid helps him planning a marriage proposal.

I should’ve known something was up the moment George Russell started acting weird.

We were all gathered in Monaco for the Grand Prix weekend, and somehow, everyone on the grid had time for me. Too much time. Max kept asking if I liked sunsets. Charles insisted I join him for a "random" walk along the pier. Even Fernando complimented my dress twice.

“Don’t you think this is a bit… suspicious?” I asked Lando that morning, narrowing my eyes at him as he tied his shoelaces.

He looked up, innocent as ever. “What, that the guys finally realised how great you are? Shocking.”

I rolled my eyes, but dropped it.

Until the paddock cleared earlier than usual that evening. Until Carlos gave me a suspicious wink as he handed me a small envelope with my name scribbled in Lando’s handwriting. Until I found myself following a path of Polaroids tied to string lights, leading through the quiet marina, each one a memory of us: our first karting session, our first win together (well, his, but I was in the garage crying like I’d won), our first trip to Portugal.

My hands were trembling.

The last photo was of us at Silverstone, arms wrapped around each other, both sunburnt and smiling stupidly at the camera. On the back, he’d written: Meet me where it all began.

The rooftop. Our rooftop.

I turned the corner and there he was Lando, standing under a canopy of fairy lights, in that black suit I loved, hair slightly windswept, eyes wide and nervous. Behind him, the rest of the grid stood at a respectful distance, each holding a sparkler, trying (and failing) to look casual.

My hand flew to my mouth.

“I know I drive fast,” he began, voice shaking slightly, “but I’ve never wanted to slow down more than I do right now. Every lap, every race, every season... I want them all with you.”

He dropped to one knee, the sparkles of the marina dancing in his eyes.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

Tears blurred my vision as I nodded, barely managing a breathless, “Yes.”

The cheers from behind us exploded like champagne corks. Oscar tackled Charles in excitement. Lewis clapped and laughed. Even Esteban raised his sparkler like a proud uncle.

Lando slipped the ring on my finger simple, elegant, very me and pulled me into a kiss that tasted of salt and joy.

He whispered, “I couldn’t have done it without the boys. They’ve been planning this for weeks.”

I laughed into his chest. “I should’ve known they were in on it.”

George shouted from the back, “We’re expecting a wedding invite, by the way!”

Lando winked. “Hope you’re all ready to be groomsmen.”

As the sun dipped below the waterline, I stood there, surrounded by our motorsport family, holding the hand of the man who loved me enough to make the whole grid part of his plan.

It was perfect.

And it was just the beginning.

[ilovejb]

| Married and milky |

Pairings: Lewis Pullman x female!wife!reader

Summary: lewis pullman is a tired dad, a full-time simp, and extremely obsessed with your boobs — in that order.

Warnings: dad!lewis, lactation kink (light), fluff overload, domestic chaos, thirsting, no smut just vibes

Authors note: pray for me… i can’t stop thinking about Lewis Pullman, and i fear it’s going to destroy me

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with Lewis Pullman, but it had happened in the quietest, gentlest way—over coffee mugs and late-night calls, the smell of rain on the back porch, and that ridiculous way he laughed with his whole body. You were just the production assistant on set. He was the actor who somehow made being sleepy look hot. Years later, you were married, living in a cozy craftsman house in upstate New York, and waking up every morning to the chaos of two very different little humans you’d made together.

Your daughter, Sadie, five years old and full of energy, was all wide eyes and wild curls, practically bouncing out of her unicorn pajamas. She had Lewis wrapped around her little finger. Total daddy’s girl. And your son, Theo—barely eleven months—was the clingiest mama’s boy you’d ever met. If you even hinted at putting him down, he’d let out a betrayed little wail that shattered Lewis’s heart every time.

This morning was no different.

You stood in the kitchen, hair a mess, robe half-tied, baby on one hip, trying to get coffee into your bloodstream while also nursing Theo. He was latched on, humming softly, content and warm against your chest. And then, like clockwork, your husband entered the kitchen shirtless, sleepy-eyed, and unfairly hot, like some kind of domestic god with bedhead and boxer briefs that hung just low enough to be a distraction.

He paused in the doorway, eyes locked on you—and more specifically, on Theo breastfeeding.

“…God,” he muttered, voice low and a little raspy. “I still get jealous of him.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Lewis…”

“No, seriously,” he walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “He gets you, and milk from you, and gets to sleep curled up on your boobs all day. I’m just saying. I should get dibs.”

“You do get dibs,” you said, laughing softly, adjusting Theo as he shifted. “Just… not at 8 a.m. with spit-up on my shirt.”

Lewis pressed a kiss to your neck, voice low against your skin. “I love this version of you, you know that? All sleepy and soft and feeding our baby. It’s hot. Like… wildly hot. Dangerous levels of hot.”

“Babe, we’re in our kitchen.”

“Yeah, and?”

Right then, Sadie burst in, carrying a plastic tiara and demanding Lewis attend her royal tea party.

“You promised, Daddy! You said you’d be King Sparkle!”

Lewis groaned dramatically and kissed your shoulder one last time. “Duty calls.”

As he scooped Sadie into his arms and pranced around the living room wearing a glittery tiara, you couldn’t help but watch him—barefoot, half-dressed, playing princess at full volume. A part of you still couldn’t believe this was your life. That this insanely hot, big-hearted man was all yours. That you had built this warm, chaotic little universe together.

Theo finished nursing with a sleepy sigh, his chubby cheek resting against your chest. You smiled down at him, then over at Lewis, who caught your eye mid-curtsy and winked.

Yeah. This was your favorite version of forever.

Evening settled over your little house like a worn-in sweater—familiar, warm, just snug enough to make your heart ache a little.

Sadie had declared it was “Mermaid Spa Night”—which really meant dumping half a bottle of glittery bubble bath into the tub while Lewis played sea captain and you tried not to step on any squishy plastic fish. Theo had been fussy most of the day and now was finally quiet, dozing on your chest in that heavy baby way, his chubby cheek plastered against your collarbone like he belonged there.

“Hey,” Lewis murmured, lifting Sadie out of the tub and wrapping her in a fluffy towel. “You okay?”

You nodded, watching as he gently rubbed her hair dry. “Just tired. He didn’t nap, and I’ve been used as a human pacifier since lunch.”

He gave you that look. The one he always did when you said anything involving you nursing. A flash of something dark and teasing crossed his face as he walked over, brushing Theo’s curls back and pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’d volunteer as tribute,” he whispered into your ear.

You let out a low laugh, adjusting Theo in your arms. “Oh my god, Lewis. You’re literally jealous of a baby again.”

“Tell me it’s not insanely hot that you make milk, though.” He kissed the side of your neck, slow and warm. “Like. From these.” His hand brushed your chest, just enough to make your breath catch.

You turned to swat him away playfully. “You are impossible.”

“And yet you married me,” he grinned, then leaned in close again, eyes gleaming. “Remember when you were breastfeeding Sadie, and I asked if I could just try it once?”

Your eyes widened. “Lewis—”

“You let me. You liked it.”

“Because you were hot and I was hormonal!”

“You’re still hot. And now I’m the hormonal one,” he said, dropping a hand to your waist.

Theo stirred and let out a tiny burp, drool seeping into your shirt. Mood shattered instantly.

Lewis groaned, pulling away with a dramatic sigh. “They always know when I’m about to make a move.”

“They’ve got sixth sense for foreplay,” you said, laughing. “Tiny cockblockers, the both of them.”

Sadie shrieked from the bathroom. “MOM! DAD! The mermaids escaped!”

Lewis looked at you like a man defeated. “Rain check?”

You nodded, stepping closer so he could kiss you properly—slow, lingering, just long enough to promise later.

Later never came. Sadie insisted on three bedtime stories, Theo peed on the sheets mid-diaper change, and by the time the house was finally quiet, the two of you crashed on the couch, exhausted, tangled up like laundry.

Lewis tucked your hair behind your ear. “Still the hottest milkmaid I’ve ever seen.”

You threw a pillow at him.

The house was quiet.

Not “naptime quiet,” not “TV is paused quiet.” It was the kind of stillness that only came once both kids were deeply asleep and the universe granted you a night off from chaos.

Theo had finally slept through the feed. No cries. No midnight diaper blowouts. Sadie was curled up like a cinnamon roll in her blanket fort, and you were standing in the kitchen wearing Lewis’s T-shirt—one of the old, soft ones that hit your thighs and still smelled like him.

He walked in slow, quiet, barefoot, shirtless. His hair was a mess, and his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“You’re still up,” he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d get this lucky.”

You smiled sleepily. “Figured I’d enjoy the silence for five minutes before one of them wakes up.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking down your body. “I was hoping I could enjoy you for five minutes. Or maybe… ten.”

Your lips twitched. “You’re really still thinking about it, huh?”

“I haven’t stopped,” he said honestly, his voice low and wrecked. “I’ve been so patient, baby. I let Theo have them all day—every day. And you… you just walk around leaking, looking like that, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t wanna sink my face into them like a damn starved man?”

You laughed softly, cheeks flushing.

“God, I missed these,” he murmured, stepping closer and cupping your breasts through the fabric, reverent and a little desperate. “I mean—don’t get me wrong, watching you feed him is… it does things to me. Like I get why he’s obsessed. But I’ve been obsessed since before they even made milk.”

He pulled your shirt off slowly, breathing hard, and his eyes flickered with awe and hunger when he saw the swell of your chest, full and heavy from the day.

“Can I?” he asked, soft but aching.

You nodded.

He didn’t rush. He cupped you gently, thumb brushing a nipple, then leaned down and kissed it like it was sacred. He tasted—tentative at first, then bolder when he heard your breath hitch.

“Jesus,” he groaned against your skin. “You taste like heaven.”

His hands splayed across your back, holding you so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. There was no performance in it—just raw want, soft sighs, and Lewis finally getting something he’d been quietly desperate for since the baby was born.

“Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?” he whispered. “You. Like this. Full and soft and mine.”

“Lewis…”

“I know they’re for Theo. I know. But god, just for a moment… can’t they be mine too?”

You tugged him up and kissed him, messy and deep, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. You let him worship you—because you were still his, even after becoming theirs.

Later, curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and discarded blankets, he whispered into your hair, “Thank you.”

“For what?” you murmured, eyes heavy.

“For sharing,” he said. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you give every part of yourself to them. You still save some of you for me.”

You pressed your lips to his shoulder. “Always.”

It was one of those rare, slow mornings. Sunlight poured through the windows, casting that buttery golden glow across the kitchen table. Sadie was deep in her cereal, humming to herself, little curls sticking out in every direction, while Theo sat in his high chair slapping a spoon and squealing like a gremlin.

You? You were in leggings and a sports bra, hair up, trying to sip coffee that had been reheated three times.

Lewis?

He was behind you, hands very much not helping with breakfast.

“You’re being a menace,” you warned in a whisper as he slipped his arms around your waist and slid his palms up.

“You’re being unfair,” he murmured in your ear, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Walking around in this tiny thing, jiggling all over the kitchen while I’m just… standing here starving.”

You turned slightly, narrowing your eyes. “You had your midnight snack, Mr. Pullman.”

He grinned—that grin. The one that made your knees wobble and your brain short-circuit.

“I want seconds.”

You tried to swat him off, laughing under your breath. “Sadie’s right there.”

“She’s focused,” he whispered, eyes dropping to your chest like they had a gravitational pull. “And Theo doesn’t know what these are. He just thinks they’re milk machines.”

“Which they are,” you teased, sipping your coffee.

“They’re mine,” he muttered, half to himself, kissing your bare shoulder. “Even if I have to share them, they’re still mine.”

Then—you felt it.

A very cheeky little squeeze.

You yelped, turning to smack him, just as Sadie looked up with narrowed eyes.

“Daddy,” she said with the serious tone of a child who knows something, “why were you kissing Mommy’s boobs last night?”

You choked on your coffee.

Lewis froze. “I—uh—what?”

“I saw!” she insisted, pointing her spoon like a gavel. “You were holding them like this—” (she mimed a very aggressive grab) “—and kissing them like they were cupcakes.”

Lewis coughed violently. “I—I was just—uh—helping Mommy.”

“Helping her boobs?” she asked, truly confused now.

Theo babbled something in solidarity, smacking the table.

You stepped in, still pink in the face. “Sometimes Daddies kiss Mommies because they love them very much. And also because… grown-up reasons.”

Sadie squinted. “Weird. I’m never kissing anyone’s boobs.”

“Please don’t,” Lewis mumbled. “Not until you’re married. And thirty-five.”

As Sadie went back to her cereal, totally unbothered, Lewis leaned into your ear and whispered, “We’re so getting caught one day. I need to be faster.”

“You need to be better at hiding it.”

“I can’t help it,” he groaned. “They’re right there. I’ve been deprived for months. I see them and my brain just… empties.”

You smirked and handed him Theo’s spoon. “Well, Daddy. Channel that energy into feeding your son.”

He gave you a long, hungry look.

“I’ll feed him if you promise to feed me later.”

The house was quiet for once. The kids were both out — your daughter at a friend’s birthday party and your son napping after a long morning of play. The rare silence wrapped around you and Lewis like a warm blanket, cocooning you in a bubble of intimacy that felt both new and deliciously familiar.

Lewis found you in the kitchen, humming softly while you cleaned up after lunch. His eyes darkened the moment he saw you, that familiar hunger bubbling beneath the surface, the way he always looked at you when he thought no one else was watching.

He crossed the room in two long strides, hands sliding gently onto your waist. “You smell like home,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something more than affection.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “And you smell like trouble.”

He chuckled, but his hands didn’t move. Instead, they began to roam slowly, reverently, as if rediscovering the curves of your body like the map to his favorite place.

Then, his fingers brushed over your chest — soft, tentative at first — and a familiar thrill shot through you. Lewis always had this magnetic fascination with your boobs, and it made your skin tingle every single time. But today, with the kids gone, you could see it clear as day in his eyes: he wanted you all to himself.

His lips found your collarbone, trailing warm kisses that sent shivers down your spine. “I’ve missed this,” he whispered, voice husky, “missed you.”

You leaned into him, hands tangling in his hair as his mouth found yours in a slow, heated kiss. It was the kind that melted away everything — stress, tiredness, the chaos of parenting — leaving only the two of you.

Then came the teasing, the thing you both knew was coming.

Lewis pulled back just enough to murmur, “I want you… all of you. Especially your mommy milkers.”

You laughed, breathless, heart pounding. “You want to try again?”

He nodded, shy but eager, eyes sparkling with that mix of vulnerability and craving that always made you want him more.

Carefully, you guided him as he nuzzled against your breast, tasting you gently at first, then with more confidence. The sensation was electric — his lips warm and soft, his hands holding you steady. It was intimate, sensual, and filled with that delicious lactation kink edge that sent a thrill straight to your core.

Lewis groaned softly, pulling back just to look at you with wide, adoring eyes. “God, you’re perfect.”

You smiled, fingers tracing patterns down his back. “Only for you.”

For the rest of the afternoon, you let yourselves get lost in that quiet, stolen bubble — no interruptions, no distractions, just the two of you and the simmering heat of love that felt like home.

The doorbell rang just as you and Lewis were settling into the couch, still basking in that rare quiet glow from earlier. You glanced at the clock — perfect timing. The Thunderbolts cast was coming over for a casual hangout, and Lewis had insisted on showing off his “domestic MVP” side.

You opened the door to Florence Pugh, David Harbour, and Sebastian Stan all grinning like they were about to crash the coziest, most intimate scene ever.

“Look at you guys, invading the family nest,” Lewis greeted with a shy but proud smile, slipping his hand into yours.

Florence, ever the mischief-maker, caught sight of your still-flush cheeks and those lingering hints of milk from the afternoon. Her eyes sparkled with immediate mischief.

“Okay, spill,” she said, plopping down next to Lewis like they’d been best friends for years. “What’s the secret? Lewis is glowing. Like, literally glowing. We thought it was just the lighting, but—”

David, deadpan as always, added, “I mean, the dude’s basically got heart eyes. For… you? That’s wild.”

Sebastian chuckled, leaning in. “I think he’s just obsessed with your boobs.”

Lewis’ face turned a bright tomato red. You could barely hold back your giggles as he scrambled to defend himself.

“I’m just… uh, very appreciative of, you know, what she provides,” he mumbled, voice cracking slightly.

Florence smirked. “Yeah, we saw that. The whole ‘trying your milk’ thing? Legendary. We didn’t know we were dating a lactation kink king.”

Lewis groaned, burying his face in your shoulder, but you could tell he was loving every second of the gentle ribbing. He squeezed your hand tightly, his shy jealousy mixed with pride lighting up his eyes.

David raised an eyebrow, teasing, “So, do you get exclusive access? Or is this a public boob buffet?”

You laughed, squeezing Lewis back. “Exclusive. Dad’s got dibs.”

“Dibs!” Sebastian echoed with a grin.

The rest of the afternoon passed in laughter and playful teasing, but through it all, Lewis never took his eyes off you. The way he looked — part adoring husband, part protective daddy, and all-around hopelessly in love — made your heart melt.

And when the cast finally left, Lewis pulled you close, whispering, “I don’t care if the whole world knows. You’re mine… and so are these.”

He cupped your chest with a possessive tenderness that made your knees weak.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Forever yours, Lewis.”

It was late afternoon, the kids were with your mom for the night, and you were curled up in bed — not sleeping, not reading, just… scrolling. TikTok, Instagram, Twitter — they were flooded with edits of your man. “White Boy of the Month” wasn’t even enough. Lewis was everyone’s new obsession. And you? Oh, you were thriving.

You played one of the edits on loop — a slow-motion scene of Lewis in Top Gun: Maverick, walking with that easy, almost bashful confidence, the soundtrack matching every smirk and blink of his long lashes. Someone captioned it: “he could ruin my life and I’d thank him.”

You couldn’t help it — you snorted, then bit your lip as your body warmed with the tiniest flicker of pride. You grabbed your phone and snapped a selfie in Lewis’s shirt — oversized, worn soft from years of being stolen from his side of the closet — and posted it to your story with a zoomed-in shot of his name stitched into the collar.

“Y’all can thirst, but just know… I do more than that. 💅🏼 #WhiteBoyOfTheMonth #Mine”

Just as you hit post, Lewis came out of the shower, hair damp and curling, a towel slung low on his hips.

You looked up, blinked, and exhaled like you’d been punched. “Babe,” you groaned, “you’re making it so hard not to objectify you.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, smirking shyly as he rubbed his hair with another towel. “Didn’t realize I had to stop you.”

“Oh, you don’t,” you said, climbing off the bed and sauntering over, arms sliding around his waist. “You’re the people’s white boy, baby. But you’re my husband. My personal thirst trap.”

His ears went pink as you traced your finger across the line of his chest. “I saw your story,” he murmured. “So now the whole internet knows?”

You kissed under his jaw, slow and smug. “They knew before. I’m just reminding them.”

He pulled you closer, voice dropping. “And what are you reminding me?”

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his. “That you may be the world’s White Boy of the Month, Lewis Pullman, but you are my forever.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?” he whispered, like you didn’t already own his soul.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And then you kissed him — slow, deep, teasing — not rushed, not desperate. Just a full, heavy moment that reminded him you were more than proud. You were possessive.

And Lewis? He didn’t mind one bit.

It was Sunday morning — the kind that smelled like warm pancakes and baby shampoo, sunlight pouring in through the curtains like honey.

Lewis had one arm around your waist, the other wrapped securely around your daughter, Sadie, who was currently passed out on his chest like a drooling little koala. On your other side, your son Theo was curled up like a kitten, one chubby hand tangled in your hair.

The house was still — not quiet, not really, because the sound of cartoons drifted in from the living room, and someone’s sock was definitely stuck to the ceiling fan. But still in the way that mattered. Still in the way that made your chest feel like it might float off your body.

Lewis looked down at Sadie, then at you, eyes soft, sleepy, and completely wrecked with love.

“How’d we get so lucky?” he whispered.

You smiled and reached over to brush a curl from his forehead. “I think you tricked me with your baby blues and I never recovered.”

He huffed a sleepy laugh. “Guess I really was the white boy of the month, huh?”

“You still are,” you said, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “But now you’re a daddy first. Mr. Milky Boobs Stealer second.”

He grinned, that shy dimple flashing, and dipped his head to whisper, “Speaking of… once the kids are down tonight, I fully plan to—”

Sadie stirred with a tiny snort, then sleepily patted his chest. “No talkin’, Daddy. I sweepin’.”

Lewis’s mouth dropped open in a silent laugh, biting back a groan. “Okay, okay, sorry, bug.”

You reached for your phone and snapped a picture before anyone moved — your sleepy husband, baby drool on his shirt, one kid flopped over his chest, the other half on top of you, all tangled in blankets and limbs and love.

Caption: “This is it. This is the good stuff.”

And it was. Not the edits. Not the red carpets. Not the chaos or the teasing or even the boobs.

This. Warm beds. Lazy mornings. Pancake batter handprints on the counter. The way Sadie said “I wuv you, Dada” and the way Theo only fell asleep when his cheek was pressed to your collarbone. The way Lewis looked at you like you hung the stars, even with a spit-up stained hoodie and three hours of sleep.

It wasn’t glamorous.

But it was yours.

And it was perfect.

[bcksbarnes]

watch it burn

pairing: target!bucky barnes x assassin!reader

summary: you were given a mission: eliminate your target quickly. what you weren't told? your target is the very elusive, highly trained winter solider. that makes things a little bit harder. now you've found yourself back against the wall with his knife pressed to your throat, but there's a look in both of your eyes, one that says this won't end the way either of you planned.

word count: 6.3K cw: 🔞 suggestive content (mdni), violence (they are both trying to kill each other), weapons (are used and mentioned).

a/n: i hope you all enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it! credit to @thenameswintergifs for making me this fantastic gif and a special thank you to @elixirfromthestars for beta reading! 🤍

Your mission was very simple: Get in. Kill him. Get out.

And for you, that was a walk in the park — another day on the job.

You had done plenty of these missions before. Undercover on high-profile cases with a gun strapped to the inside of your thigh, with a name and face in your mind.

You didn't like to call yourself an assassin, even if that was technically what you were. Really you liked to think of yourself as a problem solver. Your employer had a problem, and you solved it by terminating your target. Simple as that.

Not everyone has the ability to do what you do. Then again, not everyone was forced into this life either.

One minute you were a child, feet sinking into the Earth with each pounding step, the warmth of the sun beating down on the side of your face. High-pitched screams and endless laughs filled the air as you enjoyed every bit of freedom that you had. Your world was limitless.

At least, it was.

Because your luck had run out. Ripped from your home in the middle of the night, your parents promising you everything would be okay over sounds of sobs and pleas. They didn't know what they were signing you up for. They thought it was for protection, for a better future. How were they supposed to know what you would endure?

You were just a kid, standing in an undisclosed training facility. The harsh lights above illuminating your instructor, an older man with a perpetual scowl on his face, and a scar that ran from his left cheek down to his chin, and who always had a knife twirling between his fingers. His instructions were very clear: take the shot.

One move out of line and —. 

There was no use thinking back on it. What was the point in remembering the screams of the others who weren't as lucky as you? Those who didn't get praised for being the best in the class, the ones who hesitated. You never hesitated.

Tonight’s mission was no different from the countless others you’ve been on. Maybe a new location and a different target, but the bare bones were exactly the same. It was a gala dedicated in memory of one of the Avengers, you didn't need to know too many specifics other than who you were after. 

He would be there, so you would be too.

"Think you can do it in under an hour?"

A scoff crosses your lips, what an absurd question.

You're sitting in the back of a large, blacked out luxury SUV, dressed like any other civilian who is about to attend this event, only your attire comes with some slight modifications. Your earpiece is well hidden, your gun is neatly tucked in the holster strapped to your thigh, and you can feel the blade of your knife against your side in a hidden pocket.

Everything was where it needed to be.

"Absolutely. How much do you want to bet?" you ask.

Your head tilts up until you catch the eyes of your driver in the rearview mirror. He's an undercover agent and your usual ride to these outings. You needed to rely on someone to safely get you in and out, and this was your guy.

"$500 and you fill up my gas tank for the next one," he responds, his hands turning the steering wheel to join the line of cars that lead up to the venue.

"Deal," you agree, nodding your head once. You were confident in your skills, even a little cocky at times, and the smirk on your face confirmed that. This line of business had no time for anyone who didn't believe in themselves; it needed conviction, someone to pull the trigger. That was you.

Your driver nods his head, locking in the deal before flickering his eyes ahead of him, the brim of his cap lowering as he does.

A crinkling of static in your comms piece catches you off guard, followed by the voice of another agent calling your name.

"Do you copy?"

"I copy," your hand moves to instinctively fix the earpiece.

"Good, we'll be approaching in a minute. Do you remember the man you're looking for?"

"James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky. Tall with a broad build, long dark brown hair, light blue eyes, with a bump on his left ear. Probably hiding against the wall, not keen on people," you reiterate the description verbatim. "Am I missing anything?"

You had seen a picture of your target during the briefing — some CCTV footage they were able to obtain of his right side. Although it was blurry, you were able to distinguish some key features, which was all you needed.

"Maybe a smile." Your eyes roll. What an asshole. "You're on."

The door of the SUV opens as if on cue, and a valet appears ready to help you out of the vehicle. You slyly shut off the microphone to your comms piece before giving him your hand. Bright lights illuminate the exterior of the building as a mass of people begin to enter, chatter hitting your ears as your foot hits the ground.

Showtime.

There are more people in attendance than you had expected; a bigger crowd meant that you'd have a lot more people to filter through. He could be anywhere, and that meant there wasn't a second to waste. Your eyes flutter over the attendees' faces, quickly crossing them off your mental checklist.

No. No. No.

You climb the stairs into the building; the long corridor holds the entrance to the ballroom. With whom this event was in honor of, you had a gut feeling he already would be in there. 

Weaving through a sea of bodies, your pace has to be exact, not too quick because anyone who is paying close enough attention will flag you down, but you also can't be too slow, like you're lingering.

It has to be the perfect balance.

You find your way inside the ballroom, and the first thought that pops into your head is how spacious it is. Marble columns line each wall, more for decor than actual structural integrity, while hints of off-whites and golds paint each surface. The room is illuminated by six grand chandeliers, each emitting a soft golden light with teardrops of crystals cascading around them. All pulled together with the glass vaulted ceiling; the moon and stars peaking through, a reminder of the night sky above.

Beautiful, breathtaking actually, but you've seen many rooms like this before. Each one of them filled with people who thought they were way more important than they actually were. None of them realizing how disposable they were.

A waiter holding a tray of champagne glasses nears your left side. You don't spare a passing glance as you grab one, continuing to make your prowl in the ballroom. It was one of your main rules of blending in: always have a prop.

Soft music plays, a pianist in the far corner of the room playing Clair de Lune as guests mingle. Your eyes shift as you analyze the scene in front of you. Deep inside, you know he's in here, and your gut is never wrong.

There’s a woman on the opposite side of the room, whispering angrily in, what you assume is, her husband’s ear. Not the man you’re looking for. Your gaze then travels to a bartender a few feet away from you, sweat already on his brow as he focuses on appeasing the long line at the bar. Not your target either.

Then, it hits you quickly in the corner of your eye. You spot something that feels so far off from what you were looking for that you knew it had to belong to the man you were hunting down, a missed detail.

What caught your attention was very simple: a small gleam. That's all it was.

Metal caught in the light, which reflected itself into your vision for a split second. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass, your stomach turning in knots when it hits you exactly who it is. You hoped you were wrong, but you knew you wouldn’t be.

When you turn to face the direction of the reflection, you're instantly greeted with the face of a man you had seen before. Twice, actually.

Once, the day before, in a blurry photo on your briefing sheet.

And once, six years earlier. In Belarus.

You were on one mission, he was on another. Two highly trained assassins at a benefit where there were black market auctions taking place, both there for different targets.

There were no words exchanged, there didn't need to be. You were both there for work. You happened to cross the room at the exact same time, your targets on the opposite ends of where you were standing. All it was, was a fleeting moment of eye contact as you passed each other. The world had stopped for a split second.

You never forgot that metal arm. It was different then, silver with a red star signaling to everyone who he was, what it stood for. He didn't try to hide it, he made his presence known. Now it was black, gold flecks filled in the cracks even near his hands — which were the only part exposed under his suit jacket and what had caught in the light; no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Now, he was a man begging to blend in.

There he was. Standing on the opposite side of the room.

Your target.

Bucky Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

Shit you think to yourself. Any plan of action that you formed in your head was quickly trashed. For decades, this man was the most dangerous, elusive assassin known in the field – probably still is. And here you were with a hit on his head.

You wanted to turn your mic back on and ask what the hell was wrong with your team for putting you in here with no proper warning. They had to have known. Either they were testing to see if you could actually do it, or this was a suicide mission. The latter seemed to be the answer you were gravitating towards.

You'd have to get him alone, and figure out a way to disarm him. Equal out the playing field. Most of your victims were usually packing in some capacity, but most of your victims didn't have a weapon of mass destruction for an arm.

Chugging down your drink and placing it on a random table, you square off your shoulders. Holding your chin up high, you begin to walk forward. You don't stop or falter, only reaching your arm out to grab another glass of champagne when you pass another waiter on your route.

You had to do this. There was no turning back now.

You stop yourself a few feet from where Bucky is standing, his body angled away from yours, swept up in a quiet conversation with a group. He's avoiding eye contact with them and is gripping his whiskey glass like his life depends on it. These people were strangers, and he was hating every second of it.

Your eyes drift ahead of you, needing to appear interested in anything but your target, so you examine the poster on the wall. It's an image of a man with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a jawline that made you believe he was serious. About what? You're not sure, he just seemed convincing. In his hand was a shield, and his body donned a navy blue suit with a white star in the middle.

Your guess? This was the honoree of the gala. Which would be confirmed with the bolded words on the poster that read:

IN TRIBUTE TO: STEVE ROGERSTHE FIRST AVENGER AND AMERICA'S MIGHTIEST HERO

Ah, yes. That's right, The Avengers. Not really your cup of tea. It wasn't that you weren't grateful for the whole saving the world thing, but in your work, there wasn't a line between friend and foe. You were hired. There was a target. End of story.

The whole moral compass thing made your job a bit harder.

You tune back into the conversation Bucky's having. It's hard to make out exactly what they're talking about, but you try your best. There's a few people speaking at once, and it takes you a second to comb through the voices to find his. 

He's soft spoken, you're not sure why, but this surprises you. This is a man who is a shadow in the night; his very existence was built on silence, but for such a large stature, you expected a booming voice. A man ready to command an army.

"Thanks," he says. "Yeah, Steve would have loved this."

You can see in your peripheral vision that he's lost all interest in this conversation. The hand that's not holding his glass is tugging on his tie to loosen it, as if it were getting tighter by the moment and would soon choke him. His eyes circle the room, looking for an out.

This is the best time to catch his attention, lure him away from the group, and get your chance with him.Turning your body in his direction, you take a slight step forward to be in his direct line of sight. You catch his eye instantly — like you did all those years ago. Except instead of a fleeting moment with two strangers on their own missions stepping past each other, your gazes stay locked.

Something flashes across his features. Recognition? You hoped not. This wasn't the time for tricky caveats. A few blinks later, and it's gone, but his brows are still threaded together as if he's trying to place you. Any remaining attention he had on the group in front of him had faded completely.

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky nods as the woman next to him speaks. He's clearly not listening because as she starts her next sentence, he cuts her off. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" She doesn't have time to respond. He exits, and heads straight for you.

Your eyes shift back to the poster in front of you, holding the champagne flute lazily in your hands. As if you were someone who was much more interested in Steve Rogers than your target, who was making your job easy and finding his way to you (which had to be a first).

Neither of you speaks as he takes his place next to you. The scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, amber and bergamot, wrapped in soft notes of vanilla. You can feel the warmth radiating from how close he's standing, but neither of you brushes against the other — keeping what little space you had left.

"Did you know Steve?" His question breaks the ice, both of your gazes locked ahead.

"I can't say I had the pleasure," you respond.

Bucky tucks his free hand in his pocket while the hand holding his whiskey glass shakes the ice around. He looks over his shoulder towards the group he had split from, looking back when he thinks they won't hear him.

"He would have hated this," he admits.

A chuckle passes your lips — his statement is a direct contrast to what you had overheard. Your heart races when you realize that you've slightly slipped up, because Bucky isn't supposed to know that you heard his conversation. Your head turns to gauge his reaction. Surprisingly, he's already looking at you, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth, as if he were waiting to catch your gaze.

He knows, you think to yourself. You have to play it cool.

"How come?"

"Steve didn't like making a big show of himself, even if others thought he did. He did everything because he wanted to, not because he wanted to be praised for it."

"Sounds like a smart man," you respond back. "Doing it for the good of the world."

"He was a good man," Bucky nods. "The best."

"Sounds like I missed out on meeting someone quite spectacular."

"You did. He would have hated me saying that too."

"For such a good guy, you're making it seem like he hated a lot of things."

Bucky lets out a dry laugh at the comment. His eyes shift over to the poster again as if he's studying Steve's face, but he's quick to look back over at you.

"No, he was surprisingly easy going. I think it made him uncomfortable to know what others thought of him."

You hum in response. You knew the feeling all too well, especially in your line of work. There was a reason you didn't keep friends or date; getting too close meant telling the truth. Telling the truth meant dealing with the judgment. It was easier to pretend that you were fine being alone than feel the crushing weight of disappointing someone you loved.

"I think we're all plagued by that,” you mutter.

Bucky nods. You don't want to think that he understands. That he was also plagued by the world. You had a job, and Bucky was your target, whether he knew it or not. You couldn't begin to humanize him.

"I didn't get your name."

His voice snaps you back into reality, and you realize you must have been staring into his eyes. A small blush forms on your cheeks, shaking your head to bring yourself back to reality. Answering his question, you tell him your name, Bucky repeats it back to himself as if he's saving it for later.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Bucky Barnes, one of Steve's friends."

"The pleasure's all mine, Bucky."

A smirk crosses his lips again, his eyes twinkling slightly in the light as his head tilts. He's trying to get a read on you, you know it. He may be trying to come across as this innocent man who attends galas in honor of his fallen friend, but you knew the truth. You remembered the stories of the Winter Soldier; you saw him with your own eyes.

"Do you normally come to these events in honor of men you don't know?" he asks.

"Only if it entails meeting someone as charming as yourself."

Bucky's eyebrows raise at your words. 

"It's funny you said that," he muses. "I have this nagging feeling that I know you from somewhere. Have we met before?"

There was that look again, like he remembered you, which was impossible. He had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of people over his time as the Winter Soldier.

"Maybe in a dream. I think I would have remembered meeting you before,” you tease.

"What a shame."

Bucky takes a step closer to you, his eyes move across your face, and down your neck. It's a shame you have to kill him, he is very attractive. The way his hair slightly falls over his eyes, and the hard angle of his jawline makes him feel all too real.

He would make a good lover, a great one even.

Too bad for Bucky, the art of seduction is only a pawn for you in this game.

"I hope you know I don't get myself entangled with strangers," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper. If he wanted to look at you like he wanted to ravish you, then you'd happily play along.

"Really?" Bucky questions. His hand moves until it's near your cheek, his fingers delicately tucking a lock of hair out of your face and behind your ear, gently grazing your cheek. "I was hoping by the end of the night we wouldn't be strangers anymore."

"Is that so?"

"Mm."

Your eyebrows raise as you bring your champagne glass up to your lips once more and take a long sip. Bucky copies your movement with his own whiskey glass.

"So, Bucky. Would you mind showing me around?" you ask once you've finished.

"It'd be my honor."

Straightening his shoulders, Bucky takes a step forward, vaguely motioning with his hand for you to follow. With the mental note of where your weapons are, you happily oblige. One step closer to the end of this mission.

"Where are you from?" Bucky asks. He's led you out of the ballroom and into the long hallway. If the walls could talk, you were sure the stories they had could fill many pages.

"Outside the city," you keep it vague. "Nowadays, it feels like I'm all over the place. You?"

"I get that," he agrees, then his nods at your question. "I'm from Brooklyn, not too sure I can call it home anymore."

“How come?”

Bucky’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip as the two of you round the corner to a more secluded part of the hallway. The pianist is still playing in the distance, and the music is now mingled with the sound of muted chatter. You're safely tucked away from prying eyes.

He thinks carefully of his answer as he stops in front of a doorway, head turning to look up at the ceiling. There's something in his posture that tells you he's not exactly sure why he's telling you this information, like he's questioning himself.

"Can you still call a place a home if you've never been back?"

Truer words had never been spoken, and unfortunately, you knew that pain all too well.

"I think it can be. Even if it’s too painful to think about."

There's a palpable silence, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. You've forgotten about your team that's waiting for you, or that you can hear static in your comms piece. For the first time in your career, you've forgotten about the mission. 

Why?

Because in the dim light of the hallway, Bucky looks beautiful. Tragically beautiful. Moments away from his end, his demise at your own hands, yet all you can focus on are his lips. How plush they look, you wonder how they'd feel against his skin. His eyes. How bright and full of life they are.

He may be your target, but right now he’s the object of your desires.

Fuck.

"You're interesting," Bucky breaks the silence. "You're a total stranger, yet I feel like you can read my mind. Like you know exactly what I'm thinking."

"Isn't that how it always works? The people who don't know us tend to see us for who we really are?"

"Maybe you're right," he muses, pursing his lips. "And who really are you?"

You raise your eyebrow. Even with the space between you and Bucky, you feel like he's backed you into a corner somehow. He knows, you think again to yourself. That nagging voice.

It doesn’t stop you from crossing the hallway until you’re standing an inch away from him. Bucky’s back resting on the door behind him. You can see in the corner of your eye as his hand snakes down to grip the doorknob, his knuckles white from how hard he's gripping it.

The two of you are almost chest to chest. His heart is beating calmly and steadily compared to yours, which might as well have been a ticking time bomb. There's something in the way you two look at each other that's hard to put into words. And now that you've seen him this close, you're not sure you want to see him from any other distance.

"Who do you think I am, Barnes?" Your voice is low, sultry even, as your hand raises to rest on his shoulder. Your finger traces down the side of his neck, eventually playing with the collar of his shirt. He swallows any doubt that he has, his eyes darkening as he watches you.

"Someone I'm not supposed to know," Bucky mutters. His strong hand finds its way to your side, slowly gliding down until he stops right at your thigh, inches from where your holster rests. He just misses touching it. 

You're on fire. Every single piece of you.

"Someone who shouldn't intrigue me." He draws circles into the skin of your thigh, a touch you suddenly can’t get enough of. Bucky leans in close, his lips next to your ear — you let out a shaky breath. "Yet, I can't help but want to know who you are, and why I can't seem to want to stay away from you."

Your eyes are closed, the hand that was resting on his shoulder has made its way behind Bucky's head, entangling your fingers with the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Buck."

You're not sure why the nickname whispers out of you so instinctively, but he lets out a soft whine in response. The hand that's holding your leg pulls you in tighter, closer.

"Say that again."

This was never supposed to happen.

"Buck."

"Fuck me," he whispers into your skin.

"Gladly."

It takes no time for his lips to find yours, a heated kiss that nearly sends you over the edge. You're both going at it like you’re starved, and you’ve never tasted anything so incredible before. Hands grabbing wherever they can, tongues brushing against one another. It's a mess. It's hot. It's insatiable.

The sound of the door opening perks your ears up, but you make no attempts to detach yourself from Bucky. He's holding your face now as he backs you into the room, using his foot to close the door once the two of you are inside.

The room is dark, the only light comes from the window on the adjacent wall. You're in some sort of storage room, most of the furniture is covered in a white sheet, and some boxes stack up in the corner. 

You don’t care, though. Your attention is elsewhere, not memorizing the layout of the room, not taking in the status of everything like you usually did on these missions. No, right now you’re focused on Bucky and primarily on the feel of his tongue against yours as he guides you through the room.

His hands fall from your face as he sheds his suit jacket, you kick off your shoes at the same time, adding some more inches to your height difference. Bucky cranes his neck down to keep his lips attached to yours. He wouldn’t dream of pulling away.

"Get this thing off of me," he mutters roughly, his hand slipping to where his tie is. One tug and it comes undone. Impressive.

You could feel it in your core how wrong this was, but you didn't want it to end. You couldn't think about the gun strapped to your thigh, the one he almost found, and the bullet you'd have to put through his head.

"I think," Bucky speaks again, his words muffled in between kisses. "Maybe I do have you figured out."

"Yeah?" you ask. "So quickly?"

"Mm," he hums in agreement. "I think so."

"Tell me."

Bucky gives your lips one last soft kiss before he stands, towering over you. His lips are puffy and red, and his eyes are kind, full of wonder; you're not sure how they're the same ones that belong to the Winter Soldier. 

To be fair, you're not even sure how you're the same person who came in here to kill him. That’s besides the point.

"I think you're smart," he says, his hand moving to wipe a piece of hair out of your face. "Smarter than anyone else in that room tonight. Observant, too. Like you knew exactly what everyone was doing at all times. I like that."

"Yeah? Smart and observant?"

"Very much."

You watch him through your lashes, you can see that boyish grin on his face.

"You want to know what else I think you are?"

"Tell me."

Bucky leans down until he's eye level with you, his hands on your shoulders, fingers digging deeply into your skin. He wants to keep you there, close to him. He wants you to hear every word he's about to say.

"I think you're a fucking traitor."

He knew.

A flip switches in your brain, but before you can brace for impact, Bucky pushes you. Your back hits the wall with a loud thud, a groan leaving your lips as the air is knocked out of your lungs momentarily. Your hand trying to find your gun. Your brain is frazzled from the kiss, and suddenly you don’t remember how to do anything. Fuck, fuck, fuck you think to yourself as you try to find it.

"Do you think I don't know what's going on here?" Bucky's voice hits your ears as his metal hand snakes its way up to grab your hair, pulling your head back tautly. You groan again as you see the anger flash in his eyes, the tips of your fingers grazing the handle. "Who sent you?"

"Like I'd tell you."

He scoffs, you can feel him reach for something at his side, but your mind is too focused on trying to grab your weapon. You don't register the sound of the switchblade opening, the little snap that gives itself away every time. You do feel it pressed against your neck, the razor-thin edge brushing your skin, ready to cut you open and leave you for dead.

"You know I'd hate to do this," he grits through his teeth. "I was really enjoying getting to know you."

"Come on, Barnes. Why does our fun have to end?"

Bucky lets out a dry chuckle before biting down on his lip, watching you with an intensity and anger that you're sure he only saves for his worst enemies.

"Who said I'm not having fun?"

"Yeah? Is this your idea of foreplay?" you ask, your tongue swiping over your bottom lip as you try to stay concentrated on reaching for the gun. Your fingers brush against the handle. Close, almost got it. "Because I'm incredibly turned on, if so."

"Considering you were going to fuck me either way, I'm not surprised, sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth. His hand pulls your hair even tighter, causing you to shrink down in pain. "You think I don't remember who you are? You think I didn't recognize those eyes? Give me a fucking break."

"How long?"

"Since the second I saw you."

"And you still played along."

"I figured if you were going to actually kill me, you'd put a little more effort into it," he nudges the blade against your skin, not deep enough to slice you open, just enough to give you a little warning. One drop of blood.

"Insulting my skills now, Barnes?"

"Considering I'm the one holding a knife to your throat, I'd say I'm a step ahead. Wouldn't you agree?"

You don't respond – instead, a wicked grin now spreads across your features. Bucky's snarling at you, showing his teeth like a rabid dog, that it takes him a moment to notice that you’ve snaked your hand up and the barrel of your gun was now pressed against his temple.

"Not really."

Even as your thumb toys with the hammer, ready to cock it at any second, there's something holding you back — in the same way it's holding Bucky back. You feel the knife press further into your neck. It’d just take one swipe.

"Do it," you egg him on. "Kill me."

"Aren't you the one who's supposed to kill me?" he barks back, his eyes feverishly searching yours. "I left that life a long time ago, sweetheart." That's the second time he's called you that, and if you were in a different setting, it would be endearing. "Maybe you should think about doing the same."

"Trying to make me see the light, Barnes? Tell me how it's so much better to be free."

"Free? You think you get freedom from this life?" he scoffs. "You're sorely mistaken. But, it's better to be a fucked up mess than a contracted killer."

"Bad news for you," you cock back the hammer on the gun. "I'm already both of those."

"Do it," Bucky turns the tables on you, egging you on. His jaw is clenched, waiting for the pop. "You've had plenty of chances. Do it."

You grit your teeth, a bead of sweat running down the side of your face. Bucky's forehead is pressed against yours, you're both breathing heavily, your chests rapidly rising and falling. You've done this hundreds of times before, you've never missed a shot, especially one so close to you.

For the first time in your career, you hesitate.

Your hand is trembling, the gun shaking with it as your brain works in overtime telling you to just fucking do it, but you can't bring yourself to. No matter how cocked the gun is, or the fact that your finger is right on the trigger — you can't do it.

Bucky notices the moment of hesitation and uses it to his advantage. His arm comes up to whack yours, sending the gun flying in the air, hearing it hit the floor and slide once it hits the ground.

You have enough awareness to get out of his grip while Bucky's arm isn't pressed as tightly against you. Your leg comes up to kick the side of his face at a perfect angle, the two of you beginning your fight.

If you weren't trying to kill each other, it would look more like a beautifully crafted ballet. Both of you moving in sync to dodge and hit, the sound of punches landing rippling in the empty room. At some point, you find your own knife that was tucked away to level the playing field. 

Bucky's managed to cut your cheek, and at some point, you bust his lip, pieces of clothes are ripped, and there's definitely blood dripping on the floor. Whose? Neither of you are entirely sure anymore.

"Can't say this isn't extremely hot," you tease as you dodge one of his hits, somersaulting out of the way.

"Do you always trying to fuck the guys you're there to kill?"

"Only the ones that make me work for it."

The two of you have managed to create some distance between each other, both twirling the knives in your hand as you side step to circle one another — waiting for the other to attack.

"Who sent you?" he repeats his earlier question

"Someone with a grudge against the Winter Soldier."

Bucky winces slightly at the name, at the mere reminder of who he once was.

"I've made my amends."

"You can keep telling yourself that," you snap. "And the world will keep turning, and there will still be a hit on your head."

"Yeah? And what about you, huh? You think this all goes away. You think one day you'll decide to stop, and it'll be enough. If I'm a wanted man, what does that make you?"

Your blood boils in your veins because you know he's not entirely wrong. This might be your life, but this isn't your forever. You'd either give it up completely or die in the field. You don't want to hear it though. This is the only life you've known.

"You're my mission, Barnes."

Bucky's eyes darken, your words striking a chord. He doesn't hesitate to cross the room, your feet planted firmly in the ground as he approaches you once more — towering over you. Your eyes travel over his face and down his neck, you can see where bruises are starting to form.

His eyes stay locked on you as he does something unexpected, he throws the knife in his hand onto the floor, now in a pile next to your gun that had been knocked out. Besides his arm, he was weaponless, a sign he wasn't fighting again.

Suddenly, your stomach was in knots, because it didn't matter if you had the upper hand now. It didn't matter if you were still clutching your knife, it didn't matter that he was giving himself up to you — because you couldn't do it.

You couldn't kill Bucky Barnes.

Bucky notices the shift in your demeanor, in the way your face drops and your hard edges soften. He's on you in a second, his hands moving to grab your face as he kisses you again.

This was supposed to be simple. A name on a briefing sheet. A single shot between the eyes. Now it was a mess, a tug of the heart, and a slip of your mask.

You hear the clank of your knife as it hits the floor, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kiss him back.

It's not as rushed as before. Bucky takes his time with you. His hands wander down to expose your shoulders, finally detaching his lips from yours so he can kiss your skin and hear those soft moans that follow.

Your head is spinning when Bucky picks you up, as if you were the weight of a feather. He carries you over to the desk, a white linen sheet draped over it to protect the dark wood. There's nothing to say as he lays you down on top of it, his hands working to get your clothes off as quickly as possible.

Your fingers tremble as you work to unbutton his shirt, the hands of a trained assassin now unsteady from just the touch of this man. Unbelievable.

"You're going to be the death of me," Bucky husks out, trailing his lips over your skin. He finds the spot where his knife was pressed against your neck. His lips ghost over it, sending a shiver down your spine, but he soon presses a soft, meaningful kiss there instead.

"That was the plan."

Bucky laughs as his hands find your thighs, teasingly snapping the band of your holster against your skin. You laugh at the absurdity of it. He rests his chin on your chest and looks up at you. Even bloodied and bruised, you're somehow still a vision.

"Enough talking, sweetheart."

He pulls himself back up to your face, capturing your lips in another kiss. If he's going to hear another sound out of your mouth, it better be the sounds of you moaning his name. Because in your failed attempt to kill Bucky Barnes, you've given him a new reason to live.

[skzficdump]

Corrupted Desire

paring: seungmin x 9thmember!fem reader x jeongin

gender: smut

word couting: 938

warning: threesome, humiliation, corruption kink (seungmin), unprotected sex (don't be stupid), oral sex (fem receiving), multiple orgasms,

request!

You find yourself in a luxurious hotel suite, the air thick with anticipation. Seungmin, with his signature smirk, is leaning against the wall, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and dominance. Jeongin, on the other hand, is on the bed, propped up on one elbow, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watches you with a mix of desire and curiosity.

Seungmin pushes off from the wall and saunters over to you. "You're ours for the night," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "And we're going to have so much fun corrupting you."

He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before tilting your head up to meet his gaze. "But first, let's have some fun with our little 9th member."

Jeongin chuckles from the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. "Come here," he beckons, patting the space beside him. You obey, feeling a thrill of excitement and nervousness as you crawl onto the bed.

Seungmin follows, his presence commanding and intense. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear. "Jeongin's going to take good care of you," he whispers. "But I want you to remember who's in charge."

With that, he straightens up and turns to Jeongin, a wicked glint in his eye. "Show her what you've got, Jeong."

Jeongin grins, his hands reaching for you. He pulls you close, his lips capturing yours in a soft, gentle kiss. You can feel his desire, but he takes his time, exploring your mouth with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with Seungmin's intensity.

Seungmin watches, his eyes dark with lust as he begins to undress, his movements slow and deliberate. He wants you to watch, to see the power and control he has over his own body.

Jeongin's hands roam your body, his touch light and teasing. He knows how to build anticipation, how to make you ache for more. You can feel his erection pressing against you, but he makes no move to rush, content to explore every inch of your skin.

Seungmin, now naked, joins you on the bed, his body pressing against your back. He leans down, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. "Such a good little slut, aren't you?" he murmurs. "Letting us use you like this."

You gasp as Jeongin's hand slips between your legs, his fingers finding your most sensitive spots. He knows exactly what he's doing, his touch precise and confident. Seungmin's hands are rougher, more demanding as they roam your body, marking you as his.

Jeongin pulls back, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I want to taste you," he says, his voice husky with desire. He moves down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Seungmin watches, his breathing heavy as he continues to explore your body with his hands.

You can feel the build-up, the tension coiling inside you as Jeongin's tongue finds your clit, his fingers slipping inside you. Seungmin leans down, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he whispers, "Come for him. Let him taste how much you want this."

Your orgasm hits you hard, your body convulsing as Jeongin's skilled tongue and fingers push you over the edge. Seungmin holds you, his body pressing against yours, his erection hard and insistent.

Jeongin moves up, a satisfied smile on his face. "Delicious," he murmurs, his lips capturing yours once more. Seungmin rolls you over, his body covering yours as he positions himself at your entrance.

"Ready for more?" he asks, his voice a low growl. You nod, your body already aching for more. He slips inside, his movements slow and deliberate, each thrust designed to build your pleasure.

Jeongin watches, his hand stroking himself as he takes in the sight of you and Seungmin together. "Fuck, you're hot," he murmurs, his voice hoarse with desire.

Seungmin increases his pace, his body slamming into yours as he chases his own release. "Such a good little slut," he grunts. "Taking my cock like a bitch in heat."

Your body responds, your hips meeting his thrusts as you climb towards another orgasm. Jeongin moves closer, his hand reaching out to tangle in your hair, his lips capturing yours in a fierce kiss.

Seungmin's orgasm hits him hard, his body tensing as he spills inside you. He collapses, his body pressing you into the mattress as he catches his breath.

Jeongin pulls back, a soft smile on his face. "My turn," he says, his voice a low purr. He rolls you over, his body covering yours as he positions himself at your entrance. "I want to feel you come again," he murmurs, his lips capturing yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

He slips inside, his movements slow and deliberate, each thrust designed to build your pleasure. You can feel the build-up, the tension coiling inside you as Jeongin's skilled body works yours.

Seungmin watches, a satisfied smile on his face as he lies beside you, his hand reaching out to tangle in your hair. "That's it," he murmurs. "Come for him. Let him feel how much you want this."

Your orgasm hits you hard, your body convulsing as Jeongin's skilled body pushes you over the edge. He follows soon after, his body tensing as he spills inside you.

They both collapse, their bodies pressing you into the mattress as they catch their breath. You lie there, sated and satisfied, your body aching in the best possible way.

Seungmin leans down, his lips capturing yours in a soft, gentle kiss. "Good girl," he murmurs. Jeongin echoes the sentiment, his hand reaching out to stroke your hair.

[marie-sworld]

Awn, it was so freaking cute! I love to read dad!husband!bucky, he deserves the best!

Plums & Pancakes

Pairing: Dad!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Wife!Reader

Summary: A quiet life wasn’t something Bucky Barnes ever imagined for himself , not after everything he’d endured. But then a blur of flying fruit and a love he never saw coming changed everything.

Word Count: 2.2k ish

Warning/Tags: TOOTH ROOTING FLUFF!

literally nothing but sweet cuteness comfort and loveee oh and did i mention fluff! maybe borderline suggestive but not really?

If i missed anything let me know!

Authors Note: okay guys dad bucky is my favorite thing to write everrrr so if you love it too lmk and ill write up some more for ya! hes a cutie pie in thissss anyways see ya on the next one bbys

REQUESTS / ASKS ALWAYS OPEN! 🌷MY MASTERLIST 💖 COMMENTS REBLOGS AND LIKES are loved and encouraged!

Bucky Barnes never believed the universe would be kind to him.

Not after the fall or Hydra. Not after the years he couldn’t even remember his own name. And not after the blip.

But sometimes , every once in a while—he was reminded that maybe… just maybe… he’d been wrong.

The biggest reminder , funny enough , came in the form of flying fruit.

It had been a warm September day , the kind that hinted at fall without the full commitment. 

The annual farmer’s market in upstate New York was crowded but now overbearing. 

Bucky had been reaching for a small basket of plums—his favorite , a habit from a lifetime ago when living alone in Romania when a blur of motion smacked right into him.

And suddenly , the plums were on the ground. So were three apples, a carton of strawberries ,  an entire paper bag that had clearly been packed to the brim with freshly baked bread, soaps , and jars of something that smelled like lavender.

“ooghf–oh my god, I’m so sorry!” you’d said, immediately dropping to your knees beside the wreckage tyring to scramble and pick everything up. “I wasn’t looking , I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

Bucky had just blinked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone move that fast while apologizing so much.

“I’m fine,” he’d managed, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

You looked up at him then—cheeks flushed, strands of hair stuck to your forehead from the heat, hands full of squashed plums—and laughed. A soft, kind laugh that didn’t match the chaotic scene at all.

“Guess that’s what I get for trying to carry half the stand in one go,” you said, brushing your hands on your jeans. “I try to help my dad with his stall every week. Still haven’t learned to make two trips I guess.”

He didn’t know why, but Bucky had smiled.

Maybe it was your warmth.

Maybe it was how pretty you were , big eyes filled with wonder.

Maybe it was the fact that it had been a very long time since someone looked at him like he wasn’t dangerous.

“I could, uh… buy you a coffee to make up for the plum mess?” you’d offered after he helped pick everything up.

And Bucky—James Buchanan Barnes, former assassin, hundred-year-old man with too many ghosts was too nervous to trust his voice , so he nodded.

And man did that feel like a lifetime ago.

Because now… now Bucky Barnes was married.

To you.

And the two of you had built quite a life. Settling down into a simple cottage tucked into an open field. Where you two were raising your now four-year-old daughter named Winnie , after his ma , and just recently welcomed your five-month-old son , Grant.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The sun was barely peeking above the horizon when the cries started.

Bucky stirred first. It was a reflex now—like breathing , like how he would hold his breath when he reached for a gun back in the day. 

Only now, he reached for his son instead.

Grant was fussing in the bassinet next to their bed, squirming with his tiny fists clenched tight face angry and red.

“I got him, doll,” Bucky whispered to you, voice thick with sleep as he rubbed his eyes. “You rest a little longer.”

But just as he was lifting Grant into his arms cooing to the baby, another voice rang out from the hallway.

“Mommy!”

You groaned ,  face squished into the pillow. 

“Mommyyyy, I want pancakes!” Winnie’s voice was full of energy and chipper. “With chocolate chips!”

“I’ll make ’em,” Bucky offered, already patting Grant’s back as the baby calmed in his arms. “After I change him , the little guy seems to have a present for me.” Bucky's face crinkled when he stood with the stinky babe.

You chuckled into your pillow now , stretching before rolling out of bed. “I’ll get her dressed. She’s probably already got on her princess boots and nothing else.”

It was true.

Winnie had exactly three obsessions at the moment: chocolate chip pancakes, braids, and her sparkly light-up boots that clomped across the hardwood with the grace of a baby elephant.

You managed to wrangle her into an outfit—jean overalls  and a cream flowy , long-sleeved shirt—and sat her down on the stool in the bathroom.

She chattered the entire time as you sectioned her long brown hair into three even parts. Fingers twisting with precision as you yawned, still shaking off the sleeplessness from Grant's eventful evening.

“Daddy said we’re going to the park. Can we bring snacks? I wanna feed the ducks and geese again. I bet they missed me. Do you think they did? Do ducks like pancakes? Because if they do, I’ll share.”

“You’re a generous soul and yes i think they missed you.,” you told her laughing at her innocent toddler mind. You tied off the braid with a glittery purple band and she jumped into your lap happy with the result.

Meanwhile, in the nursery Bucky had Grant tucked against his chest in a soft wrap. His giant hands moved gently, adjusting the wrap with practiced ease.

“Hey,” he called out as he stepped out of the nursery, “how do we look?”

You turned and—oh.

God help you.

Your husband stood there barefoot, in downy gray sweatpants and a blue soft t-shirt. 

Your baby was swaddled against his chest, all chubby cheeks and content, little fingers curled into Bucky’s chest.

The silver chain of his dog tags glinted just beneath the collar of his shirt.

He smiled, soft and sleepy. “Too much?”

You just blinked. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

He chuckled.

And screw it if he didn’t do the lopsided smirk that made you weak back when you first met.

“I’m just trying to get our kids to the park in one piece,” he said innocently. “If I look good doing it, that’s on you for marrying me.”

He said smiling, leaning down to your face and kissing you full of his love.

“Ugh,” Winnie groaned dramatically. “You guys are always kissing and flirting.”

Bucky ruffled her hair. “Get used to it, peanut cause every day i fall more in love with your mama.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The grocery run had been a blur of snack requests , impulse juice box purchases, and Bucky being stopped by a sweet older woman who insisted Grant looked “just like his daddy.”

 You had smiled politely while Bucky awkwardly thanked her, his face a little pink from the compliment, and then used the excuse of Grant needing to get home to escape.

But now it was time for your favorite part of the day.

The park.

A soft breeze drifted through the trees, the sun warm but not oppressive. 

Winnie ran ahead to the playground, her boots lighting up with every delighted stomp. Grant was now sound asleep against Bucky’s chest, full from his bottle he had between the store and here , his little mouth slack as he dozed in the wrap.

You settled onto the bench with a relieved sigh, one hand shading your eyes as you tracked Winnie’s every movement—up the ladder, across the bridge, back down the slide. 

Bucky dropped a kiss to your temple before walking off to toss a crumpled snack wrapper in the park bin. “Ill be right back just gonna throw this away” 

You looked down to see what he was holding and noticed the lack of his wedding band , tan lines still prominent but the metal was missing , probably forgotten after his shower you thought.

You were keeping your gaze still on Winnie as he walked away , when you heard a loud cackle.

You turned your head to the sound and saw a woman next to your husband.

Tall. Blonde. Designer sunglasses and a perfectly timed laugh.

She walked up closer to him, head tilted like she already knew how pretty she was.

You squinted. 

She was talking. And then laughing. Then her hand touched his chest.

His chest.

It wasn’t threatening, not really. But it wasn’t nothing.

You watched Bucky awkwardly smile , then nod , and finally excuse himself, walking back to you fast , his brows slightly furrowed.

“Well, that was strange,” he said as he sat beside you. “Why do people flirt like that in the middle of a public park? Like, thanks ma’am, but I’m holding my son right here.”

You smirked, turning your head toward him. “Well, women do love hot single dads.”

The look on his face was instant. 

His head snapped so fast you heard it crack.

“SINGLE??” he practically barked. It made Grant stir and whine at the disruptive sound ,  he immediately bounced gently, voice going soft again. “Sorry, buddy. You’re okay , I'm sorry.”

You shrugged, holding up his hand in front of his face. 

“Just saying. You’re out here ringless , looking like that , holding an adorable baby , how do you accept any girl not to jump on you?”

Bucky looked down at his hand like it had betrayed him. “Shit,” he muttered. “I took it off when I was washing the bottles  and didn’t put it back on. I knew I forgot something. I've felt off since we left. She probably thinks I’m trying to—God.”

You laughed, rubbing your hand along his thigh. “Relax. You didn’t do anything. And honestly? It was kind of fun watching someone else drool over you for a change .”

He gave you a pointed look.

 “Don’t say things like that when you know I’m going to spend the next hour trying to convince you you’re the only person I want to look at .”

You winked. “Convince away, Barnes…But the moment a woman's manicured claws touch either of my kids then we have a major problem and the winter soldier will be her last worry.” You said laying your head on his shoulder turning back to Winnie now picking flowers as you rubbed Grants back.

“Okay , okay easy there mama bear” He laughed through his nose.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Winnie went down first.

After a bubble bath with approximately twelve too many toys, two books, and a lullaby from both of you (because she claimed you both sang differently and she needed the duet), she finally dozed off.

Bucky had given her one last kiss on the forehead and whispered, “Sweet dreams, peanut,” before closing her door softly with a click.

Grant had been next—fed, changed, and now out cold in his crib with one arm over his head like a tiny drama king. He is his fathers son–

And now?

Now it was your turn.

You stood in front of your mirror, legs a little tired, back a little sore, but your heart full. 

You rubbed lotion on to your arms and shoulders slowly, the cool cream easing your muscles as the soft light of the bedroom cast everything in a dreamy golden hue.

Behind you, the bathroom door opened.

Bucky padded in barefoot, wearing those navy blue pajama pants you loved—low on his hips, soft from too many washes (thanks to lots of spit up) . His shirt was off, hair still damp from his shower. You caught him watching you in the mirror.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, smiling now brushing through your hair.

He didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, he walked to the bed and flopped down dramatically on his back with a groan. Like I said , father– like son.

“I’m exhausted,” he murmured, eyes closed. 

You laughed, turning around fully and crawling onto the bed beside him. 

You caressed his cheek , the pad of your thumb swiping his cheekbone and slowly moved to straddle his waist , your faces inches apart , when he suddenly held up his hand stopping your movement.

His wedding band back on and shining brightly.

“Sorry, doll face,” he drawled. “But I’m happily married.”

“Oh no. I was just about to ask for your number, too.”

He grinned, one of those rare, slow ones that started with the left side of his mouth and crept across. 

“You can have my number. But only if you kiss me first.”

You leaned in, planting a slow, warm kiss against his lips.

“Done deal,” you whispered.

He exhaled, threading his fingers through your hair as he kissed you again. Longer this time. Slower. A kiss that said thank you–

 I love you 

I love our kids

I love our life.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I still don’t believe this is real, sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “You. The kids. The quiet. All of it. It doesn’t feel like something I should’ve gotten to have.”

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You deserve every second of this, Bucky Barnes. Every messy , swee t, sleepy , pancake-filled second.”

He tilted his head and kissed your wrist. “Even when I forget my ring and get flirted with by random women in the park?”

You rolled your eyes. “Especially then. Because I get to be the one you come home to and reminded how lucky me and the kids are to call you ours.”

And you did. Every night.

He wrapped his arms around you as you settled into bed under the plush duvet.

 His hand splayed protectively over your stomach as you both listened to the quiet of the house—the hum and crackle of the baby monitor, the faint whistle of the wind outside, the creak of the old floors as they settled.

It was all love.

Not the kind that was loud or dramatic. Not the kind shouted over chaos or with empty meaning. But the kind that was built quietly, with chocolate chips , baby wraps, and whispered lullabies.

And this?

This was the kind of love Bucky Barnes had only ever dreamed of.

-end

[austinbutlerslovers]

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