Characters: Dick Grayson x Speedster!MALE Reader
Summary: Dick has been in love with his Best Friend for years, almost as long as they've been sharing beds. What happens when they share a bed, and said friend starts vibrating in his sleep?
Warnings: SMUT! Reader is 'asleep', accidental stimulation(?), vibrator on male genitals, humping, dry humping, grinding, cursing.
A/N: Yo, I had to look at a diagram of a penis for this AND class. #PreMed. That's lowkey kinda crazy...hehe...anyways have some dick with your Dick!
Maybe this was punishment for all the sinful thoughts Dick has been having lately.
It's filthy honestly, shameful.
You've been friends since the start of his orphan days -which ouch- before Bruce had even officially adopted him. You were Bolt, the bright eyed, bushy tailed protegee of Barry Allen at the time - right besides Wally West, his other Best Friend.
The two of you grew up together, the two of you ate together, the two of you trained together, the two of you even slept together in the same bed.
Dick had always snuck into the guest room after Alfred went to bed, giggling about how slick he was, about how Bruce would never know and about how he was the best sidekick ever - Bruce confirmed five years later that Dick, was indeed, not slick.
Sharing a bed was a ritual between the two of you, natural, just another day in life. He would sleep in the same bed with you on missions, so why does he want to sleep with you now.
Dick tries to hide it.
He really does.
But the way your muscles ripple under your shirt whenever you move, the way your lashes curtain your face just perfectly, the way your chest looks -all sweaty and glistening- when you lift up your shirt to wipe your face after training, the way you manhandle thugs so easily when they try and get the jump on you - because honestly, he wishes it was him you were throwing around. And have you ever seen a speedsters thighs? Holy shit, they're huge. Toned, and sexy, and- And fuck- fuck, the way you look at him when he pins you down to the training mat, all pouty looking when your pinned under him, panting, red faced, with your shirt ridden up.
One of your drunk ex's mentioned once that you broke their bed by accident and he completely just blanked out, Donna telling him later that he had accidentally crushed the red party cup in his hand.
Dick wants to bang his head against the wall.
He's loosing it.
He's loosing his focus.
He's loosing his other interests.
He's at risk at loosing you.
Especially right now.
Because your pressed against him -warm, pliant- your chest hugging his back, your legs threaded with his. Your thigh pressed between his. The warmth of your breathe tickling his neck, arm locked around his waist like an iron chain.
And fuck him, because you're vibrating.
Like some kind of dog having a dream where it's running, you must be doing the same; because he can barely contain the whimper his lips threaten to let fall out whilst your leg acts as a living, human, vibrator. Your thigh lining along the underside of his cock, stimulating every ridge and vein, from the base to the tip.
He can't move, he just can't.
Your arm in locked around him, tight, unyielding, and the way the weakness in his legs climbs throughout his body - he knows for sure he can't escape. His brain soon becoming as compliant as his muscles as he shifts, trying to save his dignity, only to make your thigh buzz right against the mound of his tip.
A shuddering breathe leaves him, and he has to stop his back from arching, stop himself from moaning out, stop himself from grinding back onto you like some fucking hormonal teenage boy. Every shift, every time he moved, every time he even tried to make it so his cock wasn't weeping sinfully into the inside of his boxers, sullying both him and his mind -it only makes it worse. And he has to stop his hips from bucking against you -riding your thigh- when you shift in your sleep. Because your thigh is rubbing perfectly against his painfully throbbing dick, like your body already knows his down to the sweet spot next to his frenulum.
Your sleepy grumble rouses him from his heated state to just how stupid he's being.
Yet, he can only take it, his fingers curling blissfully into the sheets as his eyes squeeze themselves shut. Like if he closes them, all of this will go away. Like if he closes them, everything will go back to normal. You'll be at home, he'll be alone, and this will all be a big, bad, dream-
Does he want it to be a dream...?
The way his teeth dig into the plump of his lip almost painful from how hard he's trying to keep himself quiet. Because if you wake up, wake up to him moaning and wailing out, wake up to him rutting his hips and grinding down on your -stupidly overtoned- thigh. You'll most definately feel his cock, harder than steal, pressed against you; his balls tight and threatening to unload.
And they do.
Because you flinch, thigh driving into the thick of his crotch and Dick -and his dick- fucking looses it. Your thigh is pressed against his cock oh so perfectly, vibrating against every ridge, against every single vein. Driving against him like its supposed to be there. And he looses it.
He can't stop his body from jerking, thighs clamping around yours as his hips start up hurriedly. Rutting against your thigh like he's some filthy feral animal who can't control itself. His head throws itself back as he barely contains himself from wailing out, teeth drawing blood, and he bites down hard. Your forehead grazes the back of his head, hairs tickling his neck as he rides his high. Thick ropes and evidence of his sinful release unloading thickly into his underwear, sullying them with a wet spot he wouldn't be able to fix until morning.
And your thigh doesn't stop buzzing until it's all said and over, like it knows. It knows how lewd and wanting he was. Like it knew what he would do and how he would do it. Like it knew he would take this opportunity as it was.
Dick's panting, moans and whimpers as filthy as the drool running down his chin before his hips finally stutter to a stop. Even the biting chill of the Gotham air isn't enough to soothe the burn of embarrassment and shame creeping up his face right now, consuming his brain; just under the dazing fuzz of what seemed to be his ever lasting high.
He just dry humped his best friends thigh.
He just dry humped his sleeping best friends thigh.
Your peaceful breathing brings him back to that reality. The reality of him burning up, the reality of him just laying there, stuck till morning. Stuck with the evidence seeping through his underwear and sullying his inner thighs.
He bites the inside of his cheek, because he really was just stuck there; your arms locked around him, unless you decided to let go of him in your everlasting sleep.
How would he explain the wetspot in the morning?
How would he look at you in the face after knowing what he's done?
How would he train with you? Pin you down as this night replayed over and over again in his head.
How would he ever see you use your speed again, knowing that he used it to satisfy his own lewd-
"A-Ah-"
A breathy moan leaves his lip, sneaking past as his body arched up -tensing in arousing surprise. You started up again, moving in a slow and quiet buzz - barely felt yet prominent.
Dick groans when his cock starts up again, the soft appendage quickly hardening and coming to life as you shift against him. Dick closes his eyes, trying to use every technique Batman has ever taught him to keep his cool.
Think about dead puppies, Dick. Think about dead puppies...
He whimpers as he feels his dick begin to painfully throb from overstimulation.
It was going to be a long night.
And Dick is too preoccupied to notice how a lazy grin stretches across your face, resuming your fake slumber.
——————————-
(A/N: This picture was lowkey on my mind the whole time, lmao 😭)
Summary: A bright, stubborn Hufflepuff refuses to stay away from the cold, guarded Mattheo Riddle.
Slow burn. Tension. Hidden softness.
9.9k words sheesh I don’t know when to stop :’)
—————————————————————————
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chaos, owls swooping low over tables, the clatter of silverware, and the low hum of gossip that never quite died down at Hogwarts.
Sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the Hufflepuff table where you sat, though your eyes were already drifting toward the Slytherin side.
Mattheo Riddle was there, as always, lounging in his seat like the hall belonged to him.
Dark curls slightly tousled, uniform tie loose in that deliberate way that screamed I don’t give a fuck, and an expression that could freeze fire.
He hadn’t looked your way once. He never did, not really.
You didn’t care.
Grabbing a fresh apple from the bowl, you wove through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times.
A few Hufflepuffs shot you curious glances, saying “again?” but you just smiled brightly and kept going. You weren’t afraid of him. Never had been. There was something beneath that cold exterior, something sharp and broken and real.
“Morning, Mattheo,” you said cheerfully, sliding into the empty seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. You placed the apple in front of him, perfectly polished. “They had the good ones today. Thought you might want it before Theo hogs them all.”
Mattheo didn’t even glance up from his plate. “Didn’t ask for it, Hufflepuff.”
His voice was low, edged with that familiar bite. Sharp tongued as ever.
Around you, his friends, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy exchanged looks. Theo smirked into his pumpkin juice.
You shrugged, undeterred, and reached for some toast. “You didn’t have to. You skipped dinner yesterday. Figured you might be hungry.”
He finally looked at you then, dark eyes narrowing. “Stalking my eating habits now? Cute.” The sarcasm dripped like venom, but you just beamed at him, biting into your own toast.
Across the table, Pansy snorted. “Merlin, she’s at it again. Give it a rest, sweetheart. He’s not going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming because you bring him fruit.”
“I’m not expecting charming,” you replied lightly, defending yourself with a small laugh. “Just making sure he doesn’t starve while plotting world domination or whatever it is you lot do before Potions.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Bold for a Puff. Most of your house would’ve run by now.”
You met his gaze steadily. “Most of my house doesn’t see the point in running from someone who hasn’t actually done anything to them.” Your eyes flicked back to Mattheo. “Besides, I like sitting here.”
Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the apple though after a long pause and bit into it with more force than necessary.
You counted that as a win.
This had become routine. Weeks, maybe months now, of you orbiting him like a persistent moon.
Good mornings in the corridors, even when he responded with nothing but a grunt or a cutting remark about your “annoying cheerfulness.”
Little things: fixing the strap on his bag when it broke during Transfiguration, saving him a seat in the library (which he ignored and sat somewhere else, only for you to move anyway), defending him when some Gryffindor idiot muttered “Death Eater spawn” loud enough for the hall to hear.
His friends had started teasing you mercilessly at first.
“Another lap around the Riddle fan club?” Blaise had drawled one evening in the Slytherin common room after you’d somehow ended up there (Theo had dragged you along, claiming you were “funny” and “harmless”).
“Careful, love,” Pansy had added with a wicked grin. “He bites.”
You’d just shrugged and settled onto the couch like you belonged. “I’m not scared of teeth.”
Over time, the teasing softened. You laughed at their jokes, bantered back, helped Theo with Charms homework, and even managed to get Draco to admit your taste in Quidditch teams wasn’t completely abysmal.
You became part of the group, almost by accident. They got used to your presence. Mattheo… tolerated it.
Or at least, that’s what he showed.
Lunch was more of the same. You slipped into the seat beside him again, ignoring the way Lorenzo Berkshire raised his eyebrows across the table.
“Saved you the last treacle tart,” you whispered, sliding the plate over. “I know they’re your favorite.”
Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose. “You keeping a bloody list or something?”
“Maybe.” You grinned, unbothered. “Someone has to notice these things.”
Theo kicked Mattheo under the table. “Mate, she’s literally handing you desserts on a silver platter and you’re acting like she hexed you.”
“Shut it, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, dangerous. But his hand closed around the fork anyway.
You chatted easily with the others, Pansy about the latest fashion disaster in the common room, Blaise about the upcoming match, Draco about some pureblood nonsense you mostly tuned out.
Every so often you’d glance at Mattheo, offering a comment or a small smile. He rarely responded with more than a grunt or a sarcastic jab.
He never spoke to you nicely. Not once.
Yet you kept showing up. After classes, in the corridors “How was Arithmancy?” even when he brushed past you with a muttered “Don’t you have badgers to hug?”
You sat with the Slytherins at dinner, laughing when they roasted each other, fitting in like a bright patch on dark fabric.
His friends noticed.
One evening in the Slytherin dungeons, after you’d left (having fixed a rip in Mattheo’s robes with a quick charm and a cheerful “See you tomorrow!”), Theo finally snapped.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Riddle.”
Mattheo leaned back in his chair by the fire, nursing a glass of firewhisky. “Problem?”
Blaise chuckled. “She does more for you in a day than half the girls throwing themselves at you ever have. Brings you food, defends your sorry arse, actually listens when you’re in one of your moods”
“I don’t have moods,” Mattheo cut in coldly.
Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “She’s just another girl hovering. They all do it eventually. Looking for the thrill of the ‘dark’ prince or whatever bollocks they tell themselves.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s not looking for thrill, you dense git. She likes you. Properly. And she’s not scared off by your award winning personality.”
“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Mattheo said dismissively, though his grip on the glass tightened. “Too soft. Too… good. She’ll get tired of it.”
Theo laughed. “She’s been at it for months. Sat through your worst days. Defended you to McGonagall when you got detention for that stunt with the Gryffindors. And you still treat her like dirt.”
He was possessive by nature, territorial. But admitting she mattered? That was weakness. And Mattheo Riddle didn’t do weakness.
“She’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and sharp. “Just background noise.”
His friends exchanged glances. They knew better. They saw the way his eyes followed her when she left the room, the subtle shift when she sat beside him. The hidden softness he buried under sarcasm and ice.
You, meanwhile, walked back toward the Hufflepuff basement with a small, satisfied smile. He’d eaten the tart. He’d let you sit there. Progress, in your book.
You weren’t naive. You knew he was cold, conflicted, carrying shadows most people couldn’t imagine. But you saw the good, buried, fighting to surface. You weren’t afraid. And you weren’t going anywhere.
Mattheo could pretend to tolerate you all he wanted.
You’d keep showing up until he couldn’t pretend anymore.
———
It was a rainy Thursday when things shifted, just a little.
You were waiting outside the Potions dungeon after class, two umbrellas tucked under your arm (one borrowed from the Hufflepuff common room because you knew he’d “forgotten” his again).
Students streamed past, giving you odd looks. A group of Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.
Mattheo emerged last, collar up, expression stormy. His eyes landed on you and narrowed.
“Don’t,” he said before you could speak, brushing past.
You fell into step beside him anyway, unfurling one umbrella and holding it over both of you. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch a cold and then complain about it for a week.”
“I don’t complain.” His voice was clipped. “And I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”
“Too bad. I’m self appointed.” You smiled up at him, rain pattering loudly against the fabric. He didn’t take the umbrella from you, but he also didn’t speed up to leave you behind. Small victories.
Theo and Blaise caught up, grinning like idiots.
“Look at that,” Theo drawled. “Domestic already. Riddle, you gonna let her carry your books next?”
Mattheo shot him a withering glare. “Fuck off.”
You laughed softly. “I already did his Arithmancy notes last week when he was… occupied.” You didn’t mention the detention he’d earned for hexing a seventh year who’d called him a monster in the corridor. You’d simply copied the notes in your neatest handwriting and left them on his usual spot in the library.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “See? She’s useful. Unlike you when you’re brooding.”
Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He said nothing the rest of the walk.
Dinner that evening brought new company.
A tall Gryffindor boy, Cedric’s old friend, Marcus something, had wandered over to the Slytherin table, apparently on some inter house project nonsense. He stopped right beside you, flashing a bright, easy smile.
“Hey, I’ve seen you around. You’re the Hufflepuff who talks to this lot without running. Impressive.” His eyes lingered. “We’re having a study group in the library tomorrow. Potions theory. You seem like you know your stuff. Want to join?”
You felt Mattheo stiffen beside you before you even answered.
“That’s sweet,” you said politely, “but I usually study with these guys. Thanks though.”
Marcus didn’t take the hint immediately. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Less… intense.” He glanced at Mattheo meaningfully.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Mattheo beat you to it.
“She said no.” His voice was low, dangerous, laced with that dark charisma that made people listen. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the temperature around the table seemed to drop. “Run along, Gryffindor.”
Marcus hesitated, then shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Alright, Riddle. Didn’t mean to step on toes.” He left.
Silence fell for half a second before Pansy cackled. “Territorial much?”
“I’m eating,” Mattheo muttered. “Don’t need distractions.”
You turned to him, heart doing a small flip at the possessiveness he’d just shown, even if it was wrapped in irritation. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”
“Clearly.” His sarcasm was sharp. “You were about to agree.”
“I wasn’t.” You poked his arm lightly. He didn’t pull away. “I like sitting with you lot. Even when you’re grumpy.”
Draco snorted into his goblet. “Grumpy. That’s one word for it.”
The real crack appeared two days later.
It was late evening in the Slytherin common room. You’d been dragged there again, this time by Pansy, who wanted your opinion on a dress for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.
You ended up staying, curled up on the couch with a book while the boys played a lazy game of Exploding Snap nearby.
Mattheo was in one of his moods. Silent, sharp edged, staring into the fire like it had personally offended him. You knew the signs by now something from his past, or a letter from home, or just the weight of his own name pressing down.
You stood up quietly and disappeared toward the dorms corridor (Pansy had shown you where the spare blankets were kept weeks ago). When you returned, you draped a slightly warmer one over his shoulders without a word.
He tensed. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“You looked cold.” You sat back down beside him, closer than usual. “And you always steal the good blanket when we’re down here.”
“I don’t steal…..” He stopped, exhaling through his nose. For once, he didn’t shrug the blanket off. His fingers curled into the fabric anyway.
Theo watched the exchange with open amusement. Later, when you stepped away to grab drinks for everyone, he leaned toward Mattheo.
“You know she’s in love with you, right? Properly. Not the silly crush shit.”
Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward your retreating figure. “She’s delusional.”
“Or you’re blind,” Blaise added quietly. “She defends you to teachers, to randoms in the hall, even to her own housemates who think she’s lost her mind. Brings you food, fixes your shit, sits with you even when you’re a complete bastard to her. And you still act like she’s nothing.”
“Because she is nothing,” Mattheo snapped, voice low and venomous. But his eyes betrayed him,they followed you as you laughed at something Pansy said across the room.
“She’ll wise up eventually. Get tired of playing saint to the villain.”
Draco shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. But the way you nearly hexed that Gryffindor for just talking to her? That wasn’t nothing.”
Mattheo didn’t reply. Inside, the conflict raged. You made things easier, yes. Mornings were less bleak with your stupid cheerful “good morning” and perfectly ripe apples. His robes didn’t fall apart. He hadn’t missed meals. And the way you looked at him… like he was worth saving… it terrified him. Because if he let you in, if he admitted how much he’d come to expect your presence, then you became leverage.
A weakness.
And people like him didn’t get to keep soft, bright things without breaking them.
He was possessive. The thought of you smiling at someone else like you smiled at him made magic crackle at his fingertips. Territorial. He wanted you close but he refused to give you anything back. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He just didn’t care.
Or so he told himself.
The next morning you were there again, sliding into your usual seat with a bright, “Good morning, Mattheo,” and placing a small vial beside his plate.
“Pepperup Potion,” you explained before he could sneer. “Just in case. You sounded a bit off last night.”
He stared at the vial, then at you. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, warm, annoying.
“You’re exhausting,” he said flatly. But he took the vial. Tucked it into his robe pocket like it was nothing.
You just grinned. “You’re welcome.”
Across the table, his friends shared knowing looks. They were done watching him self destruct in slow motion.
One of these days, Mattheo Riddle was going to have to face the fact that the persistent Hufflepuff had already wormed her way past every wall he’d built.
And when that happened… well. Even he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.
———
Slytherin party,
The common room pulsed with music and low green light, the party in full swing after Slytherin’s narrow win over Ravenclaw.
Music thrummed from enchanted speakers, firewhisky flowed freely, and clusters of students laughed too loudly, danced too close, and forgot for one night about OWLs, NEWTs, and the shadows hanging over the wizarding world.
You’d shown up with Pansy, who had insisted on you wearing a simple but flattering black dress she’d “borrowed” from somewhere.
“Blend in for once, Puff,” she’d teased. You’d laughed and gone along with it. By now, no one batted an eye when you appeared in Slytherin territory. You were one of them. Sort of.
Mattheo sat in his usual spot on the large leather couch near the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.
A glass of firewhisky dangled from his fingers. His expression was the same half bored, half dangerous mask he wore most days.
You had claimed the spot beside him earlier, but the crowd had shifted. Now a Slytherin girl, sixth year, long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and sharper ambition had taken your place.
Literally. She was practically in his lap, one hand trailing down his chest, laughing breathily at something he hadn’t even said.
“Mattheo,” she purred, loud enough for you to hear over the music, “you really are the most interesting one here. All that mystery… I bet I could make you smile if you let me try.”
She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear.
Mattheo didn’t push her away. He also didn’t pull her closer. He simply took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant, like she was background noise. No smirk, no flirtation, no interest. Just cold tolerance.
You stood a few feet away, watching for a moment. A small sigh escaped you, not dramatic, not heartbroken, just… tired.
You knew this game. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. The dark aura, the dangerous reputation, the undeniable charisma, he attracted them like moths to a cursed flame. And he usually let them hover until they got bored.
You turned away and spotted Theo leaning against a stone pillar, nursing his own drink and watching the scene with clear amusement.
“Hey, Theo,” you said brightly, walking over and bumping his shoulder. “Think we’ll see another Exploding Snap disaster tonight, or has Lorenzo learned his lesson?”
Theo grinned down at you, glad for the distraction. “Doubt it. He’s already three drinks in and eyeing that pack of cards like an idiot. You good?” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the couch.
You shrugged, leaning beside him. “I’m fine. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Think she’ll last longer than the last one who tried?”
Theo chuckled. “Nah. He’s not even pretending tonight. Look at his face, pure ice. Poor girl doesn’t realize she’s talking to a statue.”
You laughed softly, genuine and light. Talking with Theo was easy. He had become a real friend over the past weeks, someone who actually listened when you rambled about Herbology or the latest book you’d read.
“I was going to ask Mattheo if he wanted to dance later, but… maybe not. He looks like he’d rather hex the music.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, studying you. “You’re really not bothered by that?” He nodded toward the girl, who was now tracing patterns on Mattheo’s arm while he stared into the fire.
You took a sip of your butterbeer. “Bothered? A little. But I’m not going to compete by climbing all over him. That’s not me.” Your voice stayed calm, sweet but honest. “He knows I’m here. If he wants me to leave, he can say it. He never does.”
Theo shook his head, half laughing. “You’re something else, you know that? Most girls would be over there hexing her by now. Or crying in the corner.”
You smiled, eyes drifting back to Mattheo despite yourself. “I’m not scared of him, or of this.” You gestured vaguely at the party. “Besides, I like talking to you lot. Even when he’s being… himself.”
Mattheo’s gaze had found you.
Even from across the room, even while the dark-haired girl whispered something in his ear, his eyes locked onto you and Theo. His jaw tightened. The girl’s hand slid higher on his thigh and he shifted away just slightly but didn’t stop her. His fingers flexed around his glass until his knuckles paled.
He didn’t like it.
Not the girl. Her touch felt like nothing, irrelevant, annoying. But you standing there, laughing with Theo, looking perfectly at ease in his common room, in his world… that twisted something ugly and possessive in his chest.
You were supposed to be orbiting him. Not chatting and smiling at Nott like it was the most natural thing.
Yet he said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched, brooding.
Later, the girl finally gave up with a dramatic huff and stalked off to find easier prey. Mattheo didn’t even watch her leave.
You eventually wandered back, sliding onto the couch beside him now that the seat was free. Your shoulder brushed his.
“Enjoying the party?” you asked lightly, offering him a fresh drink you’d grabbed on the way.
Mattheo took it without thanks, setting his empty one aside. “It’s loud,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was searching for cracks. “You and Nott seemed cozy.”
There it was the sharp edge. Not quite jealousy admitted, but close.
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Theo’s funny. We were just talking about how terrible Lorenzo is at cards.” You paused, then added, “You could’ve joined us. Or told that girl to give you space if she was bothering you.”
He scoffed, leaning back. “Didn’t need to. Not interested.” His voice dropped, sarcastic and low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant attention to feel important, Hufflepuff.”
You didn’t flinch. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving her any competition.” You reached over and straightened his already loose tie with gentle fingers, a small habitual gesture.
“You looked bored. Thought maybe you’d want actual company instead of… whatever that was.”
Mattheo stared at your hands on his tie, then at your face. The conflict raged behind his eyes, wanting to snap at you, push you away, and simultaneously wanting to pull you closer so no one else could even look at you the wrong way. He settled for his usual defense.
“You’re too much,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away from your touch.
———
Weekend ends, and the new week already started badly for Mattheo.
A letter from his father’s old circle had arrived that morning cryptic, demanding, laced with expectations he wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t fully escape. Combined with a brutal detention from Snape and losing a Quidditch strategy argument to Draco, his mood was blacker than the dungeons.
The kind of day where the shadows around him felt heavier, and everyone with sense stayed out of his way.
Everyone except you.
You had noticed immediately during breakfast. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.
Still, you slid into your usual seat beside him with a gentle smile, placing a steaming cup of his favorite black coffee (extra strong) in front of him.
“Morning, Mattheo,” you said softly. “Rough night? I brought you….”
“Enough.”
His voice cracked like a whip. Louder and sharper than he’d ever been with you. The entire Slytherin table went quiet.
You blinked, hand still hovering near the cup. “I just thought….”
Mattheo turned to you fully, eyes blazing with barely contained fury and exhaustion. “You thought what? That your pathetic little acts of kindness would fix anything? That I want you here every single fucking day breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy?”
The words cut deep. His friends froze.
“Mattheo…” Theo started quietly.
“No.” Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on you, cold and unrelenting.
“I’m done with this. Done with you hovering, done with the apples and the notes and the stupid blankets and the defending me like I’m some broken charity case. Leave me and my group alone. Go back to your Hufflepuff flowers and mind your own business for once.”
The silence was suffocating.
You stared at him for a long second, heart twisting painfully in your chest. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here. Instead, you swallowed hard and stood up slowly.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice small but steady. “I’ll leave.”
You turned and walked away without another word, head high even as your hands trembled at your sides. The Great Hall felt endless. A few people whispered, but you didn’t look back.
Mattheo didn’t watch you go. He gripped his fork until it bent, then shoved his plate away and stormed out. His friends exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing to him. Not yet.
Three days passed.
You kept your word. No more good mornings in the corridor. No more saving seats. No more sitting at the Slytherin table.
You ate with your housemates, smiled politely when people asked what happened, and threw yourself into Herbology and helping in the kitchens, anything to stay busy.
You missed them. You missed him. But you respected his wishes. If he wanted space, you’d give it to him, even if it hurt.
The Slytherin group felt the absence immediately.
Lunch on day one was too quiet. No one to laugh at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes or argue Quidditch with Draco. No soft voice reminding them about upcoming assignments.
By day two, Pansy was scowling at everything. “This is ridiculous. The table feels empty.”
Theo kept glancing toward the Hufflepuff table where you sat, surrounded by your housemates but somehow looking… dimmer. Less bright.
Day three, Blaise finally said it out loud in the common room: “She’s makes this lot tolerable. Can we bring her back”
Mattheo was there, slouched in his usual chair by the fire, pretending not to listen.
He hadn’t spoken much in three days. His mood hadn’t improved, in fact, it had soured further. The little things you used to handle were piling up. His bag strap had broken again. He’d missed dinner once because no one reminded him. The common room felt colder without your occasional presence.
He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. No weaknesses.
His friends disagreed.
On the evening of the fourth day, the group made their move.
Pansy and Theo cornered you after Charms class, blocking your path to the Hufflepuff basement with determined expressions.
“You’re coming with us,” Pansy declared, linking her arm through yours.
You blinked in surprise. “Pansy, I can’t. He said…”
“He’s an idiot,” Theo cut in. “A miserable idiot. The common room has been dead without you. Draco’s even more unbearable. Lorenzo keeps losing at cards because no one’s betting against him properly. Come on. Just for a bit.”
You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t want to make things worse.”
Blaise appeared behind them, smirking. “Too late for that. Mattheo’s been brooding like the Dark Lord himself since you left. We miss you, love. Properly.”
After a few more minutes of gentle insistence (and Pansy threatening to drag you), you gave in. You let them lead you down to the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering the entire way.
And there, in his usual spot by the fireplace, sat Mattheo.
He looked up when the portrait hole opened. His eyes landed on you immediately, widening for half a second before the guarded mask slammed back into place. He said nothing.
The others moved casually, like this was normal. Pansy pulled you toward the couch. Theo dropped into the seat across from Mattheo with a pointed look.
“Look who we found,” Theo announced lightly. “Our favorite Hufflepuff.”
You stood awkwardly for a moment, offering a small, uncertain smile to the group. “Hi.”
Draco nodded at you, almost relieved. “About time. The silence was getting pathetic.”
You sat down carefully, not beside Mattheo this time, but on the opposite end of the large couch, giving him the space he’d demanded. Your hands twisted in your lap. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his stare burning into the side of your face.
The conversation started slowly, Pansy complaining about homework, Blaise teasing Lorenzo, but it gradually warmed up. You laughed softly at one of Theo’s jokes, the sound familiar and bright again. For the first time in days, the common room felt alive.
Mattheo remained silent, watching you from the shadows of his seat. His jaw was tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. The conflict was clear in his eyes, the same storm you’d always seen, only sharper now. He’d told you to leave. You had. And now that you were back (because of them), the relief mixing with his anger and possessiveness was making his chest feel too tight.
He still didn’t speak to you.
Laughter echoed off the stone walls as Lorenzo dramatically retold his latest failed attempt at asking out a Ravenclaw, complete with sound effects.
Pansy was curled up beside you on the couch, showing you fabric swatches for some upcoming event, while Theo kept sliding in clever quips that made everyone groan or laugh.
You smiled and participated. You really did. You complimented Pansy’s choices, teased Lorenzo right back, and even debated Quidditch tactics with Draco when he dragged you into it. It felt good to be back among them.
They had become real friends, and their obvious relief at having you there eased some of the ache in your chest.
But with Mattheo… it was different now.
You stayed on the far end of the couch. You didn’t slide closer like you used to. You didn’t offer him the fresh drink Blaise had passed around. You didn’t reach over to fix the cuff of his sleeve when it rode up.
Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you gave a small, polite nod and looked away again. Careful. Guarded. Not cold, you couldn’t quite manage that but no longer shining that bright, effortless warmth directly at him.
Mattheo noticed.
He sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, nursing the same glass of firewhisky he’d barely touched. His dark eyes followed your every movement. The way you laughed freely with Theo. The way you leaned into Pansy’s side comfortably. The way you existed in his space without orbiting him like before.
It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Pansy murmured to you at one point, low enough that only you could hear. Her eyes flicked toward Mattheo. “Still sore about what the idiot said?”
You shrugged lightly, tracing a pattern on the couch leather with your finger. “I’m here for you guys. Not… not to push anything. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want the extra stuff from me. I’m respecting that.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “He’s a dramatic prick. He didn’t mean half of it.”
“Maybe.” You offered her a small smile. “But I’m not risking it again. Not right now.”
Mattheo’s grip tightened on his glass. He’d heard enough.
When Theo stood up to grab more drinks and you naturally followed to help him carry them back, Mattheo’s voice cut through the air sharp, sarcastic, aimed straight at you.
“Careful, Hufflepuff. Wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself playing servant again.”
You paused, holding two glasses steadily. The group quieted a little. You met his gaze evenly this time, no flinch, but no smile either.
“I’m just helping a friend, Mattheo,” you said softly. Calm. Not defensive. “No big gestures. No hovering.”
You set the drinks down and returned to your spot without another word. No apple. No blanket. No gentle check in about his clearly still terrible mood.
The silence stretched for a beat too long.
Theo cleared his throat. “Smooth, mate. Really winning her back with that one.”
“Shut up, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, but his eyes stayed on you. That possessive streak was flaring hot under his skin. You were here, in his common room, surrounded by his friends, yet you were keeping him at arm’s length. It felt wrong.
The next few days followed the same careful pattern.
You sat with the group at meals again, but not directly beside Mattheo. You chose seats between Pansy and Blaise, or across from Theo.
You still defended the group when outsiders made snide comments, your Hufflepuff loyalty ran deep but you no longer singled Mattheo out.
No more personal good mornings whispered just to him. No more saving his favorite desserts. You were warm with everyone else, bright and kind like always.
With him, you were… polite.
“Pass the salt, please?” you’d asked at dinner the next evening, voice neutral when your eyes met his.
He’d slid it over without a word, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Later in the common room, when you’d laughed at one of Draco’s rare jokes and bumped knees with Theo accidentally, Mattheo had snapped at Lorenzo over nothing, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.
His friends saw it all.
“You’re an absolute bellend,” Blaise told him bluntly one night after you’d left for curfew (earlier than usual, another new habit). “She’s giving you exactly what you asked for and you look like you want to burn the castle down.”
Mattheo leaned back, staring at the dying fire. “She’s acting like I’m a stranger.”
Draco snorted. “You told her to leave you alone. Loudly. In front of the entire hall. What did you expect? Eternal devotion on command?”
“I expected….” Mattheo stopped himself, running a hand through his messy curls.
He didn’t know what he expected. He’d wanted space, wanted the annoying persistence gone. But now the absence of her specific light left everything feeling flat. The little comforts he’d pretended not to notice were glaringly missing. And worse, seeing her still smiling, still caring, but redirecting all of it away from him… it stirred something ugly and jealous and needy he refused to name.
He was emotionally conflicted on the best of days. This was torture.
A few nights later, the group was studying (or pretending to) in the common room. You were helping Pansy with her Transfiguration essay, heads bent together, your neat handwriting filling the page. Mattheo sat nearby, book open but unread.
You felt his stare again. Heavy. Burning.
When Pansy got up to fetch another book, leaving the two of you momentarily semi-alone, you glanced up. His eyes didn’t waver.
You offered a small, cautious smile. “Need help with anything? The essay’s brutal this week.”
Mattheo’s response was instinct sharp-tongued and defensive. “Don’t start that again.”
You closed your ink bottle slowly, expression softening but staying reserved. “I’m not starting anything. Just offering as a friend. Like I do for the others.”
The distinction stung more than he cared to admit.
He wanted to snap again. Push harder. But the words caught in his throat when he saw the careful walls behind your eyes the way you were protecting yourself now, even while sitting in his world.
You waited a beat longer, then turned back to your own work when he stayed silent.
Mattheo Riddle watched you, the same storm raging behind his guarded expression. He was possessive. Territorial. And right now, the girl who had always chosen him was choosing distance, even while staying close to everyone else.
It was driving him mad.
The common room was quieter tonight, the fire crackling softly as most students had retreated to dorms or the library for last minute revisions. Only the core group remained scattered across the couches and armchairs, Pansy flipping through a magazine, Theo and Blaise arguing over chess moves, Draco reading with a bored expression, and Lorenzo half asleep.
You had been sitting with Pansy again, but something had shifted in you. You’d watched Mattheo. Really watched him. The way his eyes tracked you when he thought no one noticed.
The tighter set of his jaw whenever you laughed with the others. The restless tapping of his fingers. He was regretting it. You could see it, the conflict, the stubborn pride warring with whatever softer thing lived under all that armor. He wanted you close again. He just didn’t know how to say it.
Time to test the theory.
You stood up casually, stretching, and moved across the room. Instead of your careful distance, you dropped down on the couch right beside Mattheo, close enough that your thigh pressed lightly against his. The same spot you used to claim every night before the blow up.
Mattheo tensed instantly, dark eyes snapping to you.
You didn’t look at him right away. You simply leaned forward, grabbing a spare quill from the low table and twirling it between your fingers like nothing had changed. “Theo, pass me that book on curses? I want to check something for Pansy’s essay.”
Theo raised an eyebrow but tossed it over with a knowing smirk.
As you settled back, your shoulder brushed Mattheo’s. You felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.
He lasted maybe thirty seconds.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than he probably intended, laced with that unwilling venom. “Decided to test how much shit I’ll take before I snap again, Hufflepuff?”
You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. There was no flinch in your eyes, only quiet understanding.
You saw it: the regret flickering behind the ice, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but refused to let himself.
“I’m just sitting here,” you said softly, voice even and sweet. “Like I used to. You haven’t told me to move.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. He tried again, the meanness spilling out despite himself, like a defense mechanism he couldn’t turn off.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Thought I made it clear you’re exhausting. Always there, always fixing things no one asked you to fix. Find someone else to play hero for.”
The words stung, but you saw straight through them. His eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on your hand resting near his leg. He wasn’t pushing you away physically. He wasn’t standing up.
He was just… lashing out, the same way a wounded animal snaps at the hand trying to help.
You smiled. Small. Knowing. “You don’t mean that.”
He scoffed, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”
But he still didn’t move.
Emboldened, you shifted even closer, tucking your legs under you so your knee rested against his thigh. You reached over and gently tugged the loose thread on his sleeve that had been bothering you for days, something you would’ve fixed without thinking weeks ago. He froze under your touch but didn’t pull back.
“Mattheo,” you murmured, low enough that the others pretended not to hear, “you can keep saying mean things if it makes you feel better. I’m not leaving this time unless you really want me to. And I don’t think you do.”
His breathing hitched. For a moment, the guarded mask cracked completely. Something raw and conflicted flashed across his face, possessiveness, relief, anger at himself, that hidden softness he buried so deep.
His hand lifted halfway, like he might touch your arm, then dropped back down.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharper, still failing at kindness “You’re going to regret sticking around when I inevitably ruin whatever this is.”
You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder for just a second, testing, pushing, offering. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”
He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t stand up. Didn’t tell the group to kick you out.
Instead, after a long, heavy silence, his body relaxed, just a fraction, against yours. His arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. Territorial. Close. Accepting.
Pansy caught your eye across the room and hid a triumphant grin behind her magazine. Theo didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he moved a chess piece.
Mattheo still hadn’t spoken to you nicely. Not really.
But he wasn’t pushing you away anymore.
Your theory had been right. He regretted it. He wanted you back in his orbit closer than before, even if his sharp tongue hadn’t caught up to that truth yet.
You’d rest your head against his shoulder for a moment here, brush his hand while passing a drink there. He tolerated it all with his usual gruff silence and occasional sharp remark, but the tension rolling off him was palpable.
His friends had had enough.
Pansy caught Theo’s eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod. The plan they made that morning was in motion.
“Truth or Dare,” Pansy announced suddenly, clapping her hands. “I’m bored out of my mind and someone needs to entertain me.”
Lorenzo perked up immediately. Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Blaise smirked like he already knew where this was going.
Mattheo narrowed his eyes but said nothing, he rarely backed down from a challenge, even a stupid one.
You smiled softly. “I’m in.”
The game started innocently enough. Lorenzo admitted to stealing Pansy’s favourite lipstick.
Draco chose dare and had to charm his eyebrows pink for the next ten minutes.
Theo got asked about his latest failed hookup and laughed it off.
Then Pansy turned her sharp gaze on you.
“Truth or Dare, darling?”
You felt the shift in the air. Mattheo’s posture stiffened beside you.
“Dare,” you said, because backing down in front of this group had never been your style.
Pansy’s smile turned wicked. “I dare you to kiss Theo. Proper kiss. Ten seconds.”
The room went still.
Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly in on it, but kept his expression playful. “Only if she wants to. I’m not above being used for a good cause.”
You glanced sideways at Mattheo. His hand had curled into a fist on the armrest, knuckles white. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked painful. Dark eyes burned holes into Theo, then flicked to you, possessive, stormy, conflicted.
Your theory had been right. He was cracking.
You leaned forward slowly, giving Mattheo every chance to say something. He didn’t. He just watched, breathing shallow.
You turned to Theo, cupped his cheek lightly, and pressed your lips to his. It was soft, brief, exactly ten seconds. Theo kissed back gently, more performative than anything, and pulled away with a dramatic sigh.
“Not bad, Puff,” he teased, winking.
You sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, heart racing for an entirely different reason. You didn’t look at Mattheo immediately.
The crack appeared.
Mattheo let out a low, dangerous sound, almost a growl. Magic crackled faintly around him, making the fire flare for a second.
“Enough,” he said sharply, voice dripping with venom. “This game is fucking stupid.”
Pansy feigned innocence. “Jealous, Riddle?”
“I’m not jealous of Nott getting pity kisses,” he snapped, the words unwilling and too quick.
His eyes finally met yours raw, territorial, and something deeper. “She can kiss whoever the hell she wants.”
But he looked like he wanted to hex Theo into next week.
You saw the tiny fracture in his restraint. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to pull you into his lap and erase what just happened. The hidden softness bleeding through the anger. He cared. Deeply. He just wouldn’t admit it yet.
The game continued awkwardly for a few more rounds before dying out.
As people started heading to bed or pretending to study, the group quietly regrouped near the fireplace once you’d stepped away to grab water.
“Close,” Theo muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Did you see his face? He nearly lost it.”
“Not enough,” Draco said. “He’s still too stubborn. One little kiss isn’t cracking that reinforced concrete he calls emotional walls.”
Pansy crossed her arms. “New plan then. We need to push harder. Something that forces him to choose publicly. Maybe Hogsmeade this weekend. We get her to ‘casually’ flirt with someone else. Or we set up a situation where she has to be alone with one of us and see how long it takes before he drags her back.”
Blaise chuckled darkly. “Or we make him think she’s actually moving on. He’s possessive as hell. If he believes he might lose her for real…”
Theo glanced over at Mattheo, who was now staring into the fire like it had personally betrayed him. “He’s already regretting everything. We just need one more push and that restraint of his is dead.”
They all looked toward you as you walked back, none the wiser to their scheming.
Mattheo’s eyes followed you the entire way, dark and intense. The crack was there. Now they just had to widen it until he had no choice but to admit what everyone else already knew.
———
The Hogsmeade weekend arrived under a crisp, clear sky the first proper snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar.
Students poured out of the castle gates in excited clusters, scarves wrapped high and pockets jingling with allowance money.
The Slytherin group had claimed their usual spot near the Shrieking Shack path for pre butterbeer strategy, but today their energy was sharper, purposeful.
The new plan was simple and ruthless : push Mattheo until his restraint shattered completely.
Pansy had looped her arm through yours as you all walked down the snowy path. “Stick close to me at first,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Then ‘accidentally’ wander off with Theo or Blaise when we reach the village. We’ll make it look natural.”
You glanced at her, then at Mattheo walking a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this?”
Theo fell into step beside you, grinning. “He needs it. The kiss barely made him twitch. Time to light a proper fire under his arse.”
You exhaled, a mix of nerves and reluctant amusement fluttering in your chest.
Part of you still felt the sting from his harsh words days ago, but another part, the one that saw every hidden crack in his armor, wanted him to finally admit what was so obvious to everyone else.
“Just… don’t go too far. I don’t actually want to hurt him.”
“Too late for that,” Blaise murmured from behind. “He’s been hurting himself plenty.”
Mattheo slowed slightly, eyes flicking back toward you. You offered him a small, neutral smile the same careful one you’d been giving him since returning to the group. He didn’t return it, but his gaze lingered.
The village was bustling. Honeydukes was packed, Zonko’s even louder. The group moved as one at first, weaving through the crowd.
You stayed near Mattheo out of habit, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow street. He didn’t pull away.
Inside the Three Broomsticks, you all claimed a large corner booth. Firewhisky for the boys, butterbeers for everyone. Conversation flowed easily until Pansy executed the first move.
“I need to check out that new robe shop,” she announced, standing up. “Come with me, Draco? I want a second opinion.”
Draco sighed but followed, shooting the rest of you a knowing look. Lorenzo tagged along “for snacks.” That left you, Mattheo, Theo, and Blaise.
You took a slow sip of butterbeer, then turned to Theo with a bright, deliberate smile. “Theo, didn’t you say there’s a new shipment of cursed artifacts at Dervish and Banges? I’ve been wanting to see that silver dagger you mentioned last week.”
Theo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Let’s go before the good stuff disappears.” He stood and offered you his hand.
You took it without hesitation, letting him help you out of the booth. Your fingers lingered in his just a second longer than necessary. “Mattheo, Blaise, we’ll be back soon,” you said casually, like it was nothing.
Mattheo’s entire body went rigid. His glass hit the table harder than needed. “Since when do you give a fuck about cursed artifacts?”
You shrugged, still holding Theo’s hand. “Since Theo told me they’re fascinating. You know I like shiny, dangerous things.” Your tone was light, playful the same sweetness you used to direct only at him.
Theo tugged you gently toward the door. “We won’t be long, mate.”
Blaise stayed behind, nursing his drink and watching Mattheo like a hawk.
The snow crunched under your boots as you and Theo walked down the high street.
You didn’t go straight to Dervish and Banges. Instead, Theo led you on a slow, meandering route stopping at a stall selling enchanted jewelry, laughing loudly at your jokes, standing a little too close when showing you a necklace with a tiny snake charm.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered, cheeks pink from the cold and the performance.
Theo grinned down at you. “It’s for the greater good. Look behind us, don’t turn too obviously.”
You risked a glance. Mattheo was stalking after you both, coat flapping open, expression thunderous. Blaise was a few paces behind him, failing to hide his amusement.
Your heart skipped. The plan was working.
Theo leaned in closer, pretending to examine the necklace around your neck, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Smile at me like you mean it,” he whispered.
You did, soft, warm, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for Mattheo’s rare good moments. Theo laughed like you’d said something brilliant.
That was when Mattheo snapped.
“Having fun?” His voice cut through the snowy street like a blade. He stopped right beside you, eyes locked on where Theo’s hand still rested near your shoulder. The possessiveness rolled off him in waves, dark and electric. “Didn’t realize you two were suddenly so fucking cozy.”
Theo raised an innocent eyebrow. “Just showing her the artifacts, like she asked. Problem?”
Mattheo’s jaw worked. He looked at you, really looked.
There was that storm again : jealousy burning hot, restraint fraying at the edges, the unwilling mean streak fighting against something deeper.
“You’re really doing this?” he said to you, voice low and sharp. “Parading around with Nott after everything? Thought you were supposed to be the one who saw ‘good’ in people. Not throwing yourself at the first idiot who smiles at you.”
The words stung, but you saw right through them again. His hands were clenched. He was one breath away from dragging you away from Theo. The crack from the truth or dare game had widened significantly.
You stepped just a little closer to Theo, testing. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone, Mattheo. I’m just… spending time with friends. Like you told me to do. Remember? Stop hovering. Stop fixing things for you.”
Mattheo’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a second you thought he might actually hex Theo. Instead, he grabbed your wrist not painfully, but firm enough to feel possessive.
“We’re going back to the group,” he growled. “Now.”
Theo smirked. “Whatever you say, Riddle.”
You let Mattheo pull you along, his grip staying locked around your wrist the entire walk back to the Three Broomsticks.
He didn’t let go even when you reached the booth. He sat down and tugged you into the seat directly beside him closer than you’d been in weeks. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like a silent claim.
He was still being an arse, muttering sarcastic comments under his breath and shooting Theo lethal glares, but he wasn’t pushing you away.
The plan had started. And it was already cracking him open.
Pansy and the others returned shortly after, taking in the scene with barely concealed triumph. Mattheo didn’t speak to you nicely. Not yet.
But the territorial hold on your wrist, the way his body angled toward yours like a shield, and the raw, conflicted heat in his eyes said more than his sharp tongue ever could.
The restraint was dying.
The rest of the Hogsmeade afternoon passed in a charged haze.
Mattheo didn’t release your wrist for a long time. Even after you all returned to the Three Broomsticks, his arm stayed slung possessively behind you on the booth, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your neck like a silent warning to everyone else.
He was still sharp tongued, snapping at Lorenzo for talking too loud, throwing barbed comments at Theo, but he kept you glued to his side.
The group wasn’t done yet.
As the sun began to dip and snow started falling heavier, they all gathered outside, Pansy with a calculated sigh “It’s getting late. We should head back, but some of us still need to pick up things from Honeydukes. Theo, you mentioned wanting more of that fizzing whizzbees?”
Theo caught on instantly. “Yeah, and I could use help carrying stuff.” He looked straight at you. “Come with me? You’ve got better taste in sweets than these lot.”
You felt Mattheo’s body coil like a spring beside you.
Before you could answer, you turned to him with that same soft, testing smile you’d been using. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”
His dark eyes flashed. The crack was widening dangerously. “Yes, I fucking mind,” he bit out, the words escaping before he could stop them. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”
They went quiet. Even Draco raised an eyebrow.
You tilted your head, pushing just a little more. “Why not? You’ve made it very clear I’m exhausting. That I should stop hovering around you. I’m just hanging out with friends, Mattheo. Like you wanted.”
That struck hard. Mattheo’s hand slid from the to your waist, gripping firmly. Territorial. Needy in a way he’d never allowed himself to show.
“You know that’s not ” He stopped, jaw clenching. The internal war was visible, the mean, guarded part of him fighting the part that had grown addicted to your presence, your care, your unwavering light.
Theo slowly, offering his hand again with an exaggerated grin. “Ready when you are, love.”
Pushing further Theo says “It’s just sweets, mate. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”
Mattheo’s eyes darkened. He pulled you flush against him in one sharp movement, right there on the snowy street in front of everyone. No grand speech. No soft vulnerability. Just raw, irritated truth wrapped in his usual barbed tone.
“Yeah. I’ve got a fucking problem with it.” He glared at Theo, then looked down at you, jaw tight. “You win, alright? Happy now?”
You tilted your head, staying close but testing him one last time. “Win what?”
Mattheo let out a sharp, sarcastic breath, his breath visible in the cold air.
“This. You. The constant hovering and fixing and defending my sorry arse like I’m worth the effort.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it became more territorial.
“I told you to fuck off because it was easier. Because you make shit… simpler. And I hate how much I’ve gotten used to it.”
He glanced at the group, who were all watching with barely hidden smirks, then back at you. His next words came out gruff, almost annoyed at himself for saying them.
“I don’t want you orbiting anyone else. Not Theo. Not some Gryffindor prick. No one. You’re annoying as hell and far too soft for someone like me, but I want you next to me. Where you’ve been. Stop with the careful polite bullshit you’ve been doing since I snapped at you. Just… be there again. Like before.”
It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t sweet. It was Mattheo, reluctant, possessive, laced with sarcasm and that dark charisma.
He leaned in closer, voice dropping so only you could hear the rest. “And if Nott tries to hold your hand again, I’ll break his fingers. Clear enough for you, Hufflepuff?”
You smiled softly, reaching up to fix the collar of his coat like you used to. He didn’t stop you.
“Crystal clear,” you murmured.
Mattheo huffed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slung his arm firmly over your shoulders and started walking back toward the castle, keeping you tucked tightly against his side. The others fell in behind you, Pansy looking victorious and Theo chuckling quietly.
“Fucking finally,” Blaise muttered.
Mattheo shot them all a sharp look. “Say another word and I’ll hex every single one of you.”
But his hand stayed on your shoulder the entire walk back. No more pushing you away. No more pretending he didn’t care. He still wasn’t nice, not really, but the walls had come down in the only way Mattheo Riddle knew how.
And you were right where he wanted you.
———
The castle was quiet by the time you slipped through the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering against your ribs.
It had been a long evening after Hogsmeade. Mattheo had kept you close the entire way back, but he hadn’t said much more after his gruff admission. The weight of everything still felt new and fragile.
You were nervous. Actually nervous, for the first time in months around him. Your fingers tightened around the rolled up essay you’d finished copying for him (Arithmancy, due tomorrow).
It was a small thing, an old habit, but it gave you an excuse to see him before bed.
You knocked softly on the door to his dorm. Theo and the others were still downstairs, giving the two of you space.
Mattheo opened it in a loose black shirt and trousers, hair messy like he’d already been running his hands through it. His dark eyes softened a fraction when they landed on you.
“Essay,” you mumbled, holding it out. “I know you hate this topic, so I made notes on the side.”
He took it without a word, stepping back to let you in.
The room smelled faintly of him, smoke, cedar, and that sharp edge of magic that always clung to him.
You lingered for half a second too long, then leaned in quickly, pressing a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before immediately turning to leave.
“Sorry, goodnight,” you whispered, cheeks burning as you tried to rush back out.
A flick of his wrist and the door slammed shut, locking with a sharp click.
You froze, back to him. “Mattheo, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to push, I just”
He was on you in two strides.
His hands came up on either side of your head, caging you against the door with his body. The wood was cool behind your back; he was burning hot in front.
That stern, smug look was fixed on his face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curved in that dangerous half smirk.
“Do it again,” he ordered, voice low and rough.
You blinked up at him, still flustered. “I… what?”
“Kiss me again,” he repeated, leaning closer until his breath brushed your lips. “Properly this time. Don’t run.”
Your heart stuttered. The nervousness melted under the intensity of his gaze. You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek once more, slower this time.
Then, gathering your courage, you turned your head and brushed your lips softly against his.
Mattheo made a low sound in his throat, half satisfaction, half relief. One hand left the door to slide into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, claiming your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to do it. Possessive. Hungry. But there was something almost gentle underneath the fire.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. The smug look had softened into something warmer, more private.
“You’re still an idiot for thinking I’d let you run after that,” he muttered, sharp tongued as ever, but his thumb stroked your cheek. “Told you earlier, you’re mine. That means you don’t get to kiss me and bolt, Hufflepuff.”
You laughed breathlessly, the last of the nerves dissolving. “I was scared you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”
Mattheo huffed, pulling you away from the door and toward his bed. He sat down and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
“I regret a lot of things,” he admitted gruffly. “But not this. Not you.” He pressed another kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly. “You make my life easier. Better. Even when I’m a moody bastard. So stay.”
You nestled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” His voice dropped, that dark charisma curling around the words. “Because I’m territorial as hell, and I’ve decided you’re stuck with me now.”
From outside the door, you both heard Theo’s muffled voice “Finally! Can we come in yet or are you two still snogging?”
Mattheo didn’t even look up. “Fuck off, Nott!” he called back, but there was no real heat in it.
You giggled against his neck. He squeezed you tighter, a rare, quiet chuckle rumbling through his chest.
For the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle looked… content.
Still guarded, still sarcastic, still carrying shadows, but with you curled in his arms, the weight seemed lighter.
You had seen the good in him from the start. Now he was finally letting himself believe it too.
And as the two of you stayed wrapped up together long into the night, talking in low voices between kisses, everything felt exactly right.
little blurb! lust potion, overstim, james potter x reader
“Ah—s-slow down, honey—” James’s face burned a deep, flushed crimson, his messy hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. His hazel eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, lashes fluttering as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Can’t, Jamie… it burns,” you whimpered, voice wrecked and desperate. But you didn’t slow. You couldn’t. Your hips slammed down harder, grinding your abused clit against the base of his cock in frantic, sloppy circles, sending sharp electric shocks up your spine. Thick globs of your mixed cum leaked obscenely from your puffy, wrecked pussy with every brutal bounce, coating his balls and the sheets in a slick, filthy mess.
His spent length twitched violently inside your tight, dripping cunt, hypersensitive and aching, yet still rock-hard thanks to the lingering effects of the lust potion. Whoever had slipped it into your drink had clearly never imagined you’d ride him raw all night like this—relentless, insatiable, milking him for every last drop.
Yet here you were still taking him, drop for drop, your greedy pussy clenching and fluttering around his throbbing cock as if you’d never stop.
Your full tits bounced wildly, nipples hard and glistening with sweat, while your pupils were completely blown, eyes black with potion-fueled lust. You looked feral. Possessed. “P-Please… help me. Need it—need your cock so bad, need more—”
James groaned, wrecked and helpless. He’d started the night furious, ready to murder whoever spiked your drink. Now he was just a panting, overused mess, his poor cock red, swollen, and hypersensitive after being milked dry multiple times. He didn’t think he had anything left.
But fuck… he could never deny you.
With a desperate, guttural sound, he thrust up weakly into your sloppy, cum-drenched cunt, the wet squelch loud and obscene as your greedy walls clenched around his thick length. Your eyes rolled back instantly, a broken, slutty moan ripping from your throat.
“Fuck take it,” he rasped, voice hoarse, gripping your hips with trembling hands and forcing you down onto every fat inch. “Fuckin’ milk me dry, honey. Use me till I’ve got nothing left.”
You rode him even harder, pussy fluttering and gushing around his twitching cock, lost in the endless, burning haze of the lust potion.
By the time the potion finally began to fade, James was a boneless, shuddering wreck beneath you his cock spent, voice gone, body covered in sweat and cum, while you collapsed onto his chest, still weakly grinding against him, whimpering for just one more.
A/N: I’d rather get fucked by Tom Riddle than fucked OVER on my finals so I present you this. It was actually supposed to be fluffy, if you’ll believe it.
Description: After studying long and hard in the library, you run into Tom Riddle in the kitchens late at night.
Word count and warnings: Smut (fingering, p in v) (MDNI 18+). Word count 2.8k
tom riddle masterlist
The lanterns flickered gently in the darkness, casting shifting mosaics of orange and gold light on the cobblestone floors. It was silent, save for the occasional snoring of portraits and the soft clicks of your shoes against the ground.
No one was supposed to be out, but you were, having just finished an exhausting multi-hour study session in the library. You’d been so focused on your work that you’d missed dinner, and now it was nearly midnight and you still hadn’t had anything to eat. The smart thing to do, you knew, would be to retire to your dormitory and have a restful night of sleep before your exam tomorrow.
But to be honest, you thought you’d earned yourself a pumpkin trifle or two.
Hurrying down the stairs into the long hallway where the kitchen’s entrance was located, you glanced around to make sure no other students were out before tickling the pear and waiting for the painting to swing inwards. As soon as it did, you scurried through the doorway and further into the deserted kitchen.
Well, almost deserted.
Leaning against a counter was none other than Tom Riddle, sipping a cup of tea like he hadn’t a care in the world.
You nearly groaned aloud at the sight. You and Riddle had been in a fierce rivalry for as long as you could remember, and had made a bet that you would score higher than the other and tomorrow’s Transfiguration exam. That was the main reason you’d been at the library so late. You’d studied until you couldn’t decipher the words on the page anymore.
For a second, you hesitated, because the last thing you wanted was to have any sort of interaction with him tonight. You were too tired and already too on-edge to even pretend to be civil. Unfortunately, you really wanted your pumpkin trifle.
Letting out a short sigh, you cleared your throat.
“Riddle.”
He glanced up in mild surprise, then frowned when he saw you.
“Oh. It’s you,” he said, looking bored.
“Don’t get too excited,” you grumbled, dropping your bag unceremoniously onto a table and stalking over to the cabinet where you knew extra desserts were stored by the house elves.
“What are you doing here so late?” he asked, still sipping his tea with a maddening leisure only he could ever seem to achieve.
“I could ask you the same question,” you countered, pulling out a small basket of handheld pumpkin trifles. They smelled of nutmeg and vanilla and were definitely worth enduring a conversation with Riddle.
He sighed. “Your discontent is hardly necessary,” he remarked dryly as you placed two trifles on a small plate. “I have done nothing to incur your wrath.”
You bit back a retort about the very long list of things he had done to do just that and instead selected a cauldron cake too.
“My question still stands,” Riddle said after a moment of irritable silence. Well, irritable on your part. He seemed utterly unfazed by your sudden appearance which was making you all the more annoyed.
“If you must know, I was hungry after studying and thought I’d get a snack before I went to bed.”
“Oh, that’s why you skipped dinner.”
You scoffed. “How do you know I skipped dinner?”
“Your usual spot was conspicuously unoccupied.”
“I can hardly study in the Great Hall during the dinner hour.”
“Obviously,” Riddle said, looking amused as you angrily munched on your trifle. “I take it that studying did not go well?”
“It went perfectly fine,” you said immediately, shoving the memories of how many questions you’d gotten wrong on your practice exam to the back of your mind. “I reckon I’ll get a perfect score tomorrow.”
“If you say so,” Riddle said, looking less than convinced. “Although you’re acting quite odd for your studying to have gone ‘perfectly well’.”
“Well, it did, and I’m acting like this because you’re here.”
“Oh, yes, I am the bane of your existence. I understand that quite well by now.” Riddle said in monotone as you picked up your cauldron cake.
“Glad to know we’re on the same page, then.”
Riddle sighed, his mouth tightening. “I am trying to hold a civil conversation with you, if you haven’t noticed. A little decorum on your part would be much appreciated.”
“I’m not so sure that you and civility go too well together, so I’m not sure how that’s working out for you.”
“Clearly not well,” he muttered, and you snorted a laugh, taking another bite of your cauldron cake.
“We’re never going to get along, Riddle,” you said with a sigh, wiping some chocolate from your lip and looking down at the dessert in your hands. “The sooner you stop trying, the better.”
The sudden clang of Riddle’s teacup being sat down on the counter startled you, and you looked up, surprised to see him charging over towards you with three long strides.
“Very well,” he said shortly, his tone sharp and eyes hard. “If you are so determined not to be friends with me, then I shall treat you as I would any other errant student out of bed past curfew.”
“It’s not even midnight!” you began, but Riddle was already pulling out a quill and notepad out of his cloak pocket.
“Out of bed late,” he said aloud as he wrote it on the paper, his handwriting neat and looping. “Two sessions of detention with her Head of House.”
“Detention?!” you exclaimed as he cleanly ripped off the detention slip and handed it to you without another word. “I’ve never gotten detention a day in life!”
“Consider this a first, then,” he said primly, replacing his quill and notepad and dusting off his robes.
“I most certainly will not!” you said harshly, moving to stuff the detention slip back into his hand. You succeeded, partially, but then he grabbed your hand before you could pull it away.
“You know, I am a prefect,” he said suddenly, eyes narrowing into slits as he leaned in so close you could feel his breath on your cheeks. “There are other forms of punishment I could give you instead, if you are so inclined.”
You spluttered, ignoring the way your stomach leapt at the prospect. “Absolutely not!” you cried, wrenching your hand away. You heard a tear as the detention slip was yanked away with you as well. “I– that’s– you–”
Riddle scoffed at your stammering, his mouth curling up in a smile.
“Oh dear, your face is all red,” he said casually. You pressed a hand to your flaming face, horrified at how easily your feelings were showing.
“It is not!” you gasped, chagrined and lying through your teeth.
“Oh, yes, it is,” Riddle countered, taking a step coser. “But whether it’s out of anger or out of lust at the idea of me fucking you remains to be seen.”
“It’s out of both!” you snapped before you could think better. Only after the words left your mouth did you realise your mistake.
“Ah, I see,” Riddle nodded wisely, putting his hands in his pockets and looking far too calm for the nature of this conversation. “So, would you like to exchange your detention for my cock in your–”
“You are astoundingly egotistical tonight, even for you!” you exclaimed angrily, conveniently not answering the question. Riddle, naturally, noticed.
“Evading an answer, are you?” he asked, feigning casual curiosity with a raise of his eyebrow. “I feel it is of utmost importance I inform you that you would be well and truly satisfied, if that is your concern.”
“That is not my concern,” you said weakly, images of just how satisfied he could make you flashing through your mind and making your hands shake. If the rumours were true, you would be more than satisfied, but that was not something you should be thinking of. Let alone considering.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you are quite aware of how pleased those who lie with me are. Have you imagined it?”
You nearly passed out from pure shock at the question. Never before had you expected Tom Riddle of all people to be asking you that. “Have I what?”
“Me, of course. My fingers in your cunt? My cock, inside of you? Your legs wrapped around me; your throat hoarse from screaming my name–”
“You– you are insufferable,” you choked out, finding it difficult to breathe. You had imagined all of that, actually, but you’d sooner die than admit it to Riddle.
“Is that a yes, then?”
“We can’t–” you started, but were cut short by Riddle pulling the detention slip out of your hand, his fingers brushing up against yours. The slight contact made your breath hitch, and your brain traitorously wonder how you would react to another sort of touch elsewhere on your body.
“I wouldn’t say we can’t,” he said conversationally, eyes focused on the skin of your cheeks as one of his hands tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Just that we shouldn’t.”
No, you definitely shouldn’t. Not if you were supposed to hate each other. Not if everyone in the school knew how much you hated each other. Not if you had sworn to yourself never to fall into the trap you knew Riddle to be, ensnaring women in it and crushing their hearts without so much as a second thought.
Not even if, at this moment, you wanted nothing more than Riddle to be buried deep inside of you, fucking you until you could barely remember your own name.
Riddle leaned in closer until his lips were a mere breadth from yours, his body against yours. You could feel his cock pressing hard into your stomach and you tried to find the resolve to step back before it was too late. No such willpower came.
“Riddle,” you breathed, your heart pounding and every single nerve alight with desire. You could feel your panties already soaking through, and a deep ache inside of you begging to be filled to the brim by him.
“Is that a refusal, or a plea?”
You let your eyes flutter closed, before whispering; “A plea.”
“As you wish,” he murmured, and then his lips were on yours.
His fingers found their way into your hair as his lips moved against yours, your hands holding him to you. He slid his tongue into your mouth, groaning into you until you could feel it vibrating down into your throat. You wrapped your arms around your neck, already trying to hitch a leg up around his waist.
He broke the kiss suddenly, but before you had time to protest, he had lifted you up into his arms and deposited you on the counter, hands going to the hem of your skirt. You gasped for air, chest heaving as his fingers found their way to the rim of your panties, pushing under before you could get a chance to process what was happening.
His fingers slid almost immediately towards your entrance as he used his other hand to pull down your panties. You gasped his name as one fingertip circled your entrance and his thumb pushed down on a spot that made you see stars.
“God, Riddle,” you choked out. “Tom.”
You’d never said his name before, but that was hardly what you were thinking as his finger inched its way inside, joined by a second one before starting up a slow pace that had you dying for more.
All too fast and not soon enough, Riddle was reaching for his belt, pulling his fingers away so he could undo the buckle more easily. You nearly cursed him when his fingers left you bereft, but then forgot how to speak as he finished with his belt and shoved his pants down.
He was hard and very obviously ready, but he still rubbed the length of him twice before lining himself up at your entrance. You braced yourself against the counter, trying very hard not to think about how you’d almost come alone from the sight of his head falling back when he’d readied his cock.
“Riddle,” you rasped as the head of him brushed you, pushing in slightly before pulling back out. “Please.”
“Back to Riddle already, are we?” he muttered, tracing a lazy circle in that same spot as before. You forced yourself to remain upright.
“Tom,” you gritted out, teeth clenching as he nodded in satisfaction.
“Much better,” he said, and then pushed in.
You slapped a hand over your mouth in case anyone wandering the halls could hear you. Still, you weren’t entirely able to muffle yourself as Riddle began a relentless pace, rutting his hips against yours as his fingers found their way to your wrist and pulled it away from your mouth, replacing your hand with his mouth.
You kissed him feverishly until you had to break for air, caught up in the feeling of him moving against you. It was everything you had imagined it to be and so much more, though you would never admit it to yourself. All too soon, you felt yourself start to rise towards your peak.
“Oh my God,” you gasped as his thrusts grew more erratic. Anyone could walk in and see you, despite how late at night it was. Your trifle sat to the side, forgotten, but you could hardly bring yourself to care as your breathing grew more shallow and white-hot pleasure burned through your veins.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you like this,” Riddle grunted out, and that was what finally sent you over the edge. You felt yourself falling, spinning away as you came and only heard Riddle’s choked curse before he came too, collapsing against you until the only thing you could hear was his ragged breathing.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed there. Two minutes, perhaps. Maybe more. You wouldn’t have been surprised if the sun had risen in the time you spent steadying your breath, Riddle’s head resting against your chest as your heartbeat slowly returned to normal.
Eventually, he lifted his head from you and straightened up, sliding out and tucking himself away. You tried not to focus on the suddenly empty feeling and instead tugged your panties up, slipping down from the counter on shaky legs.
As Riddle finished his cup of tea from before, you smoothed your skirt down and replaced the untouched cauldron cake in the cabinet. At least you’d already had one of the trifles. The other, you Vanished with a snap of your fingers.
“Well,” you began with a glance at a clock on the wall. “It’s past midnight now. I should be off.”
“As should I,” Riddle said, placing his tea cup in the sink. He looked mostly put back together, except for an errant strand of hair falling across his forehead. You decided not to say anything about it and simply nodded.
“Thank you. For… um…” You hesitated, but Riddle just shook his head, picking up his own bag from where it was on a chair.
“That is not necessary. I trust you were satisfied?”
Your face went red. “Yes.”
“Excellent,” he said, stepping forward and gesturing towards the door. “After you.”
With some trepidation, you left the kitchens with Riddle behind you, noticing how immediately he fell into step with you as you walked towards your common room.
The journey there was silent, but once you reached the door and threw him an awkward smile over your shoulder, he spoke.
“I wish you luck on the exam tomorrow,” he said, tone unreadable. “I am sure you will do well.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you said dryly, but he shook his head.
“I’m being serious. If anyone can get a perfect score on this exam, it is you.”
“Apart from you, of course.”
“Of course.”
You gave him an odd look. “Are you alright, Riddle? You’re acting quite…”
“Quite what?” He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to finish your sentence.
You shook your head. “Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow."
“Indeed,” Riddle agreed, moving to turn around before pausing at the sound of your voice.
“And about what happened in the kitchens…”
He waited expectantly, though for the life of you you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. After a moment, you just shrugged.
“Thanks for not giving me detention.”
“It was my pleasure,” Riddle replied courteously, and then he was gone.
You watched as he disappeared around the corner, fighting off a wave of sleepiness. He’d walked you back to your dorm and wished you luck on your test? Not to mention everything that had happened between you just twenty minutes ago. You hardly knew what to think of it, but if one thing was true, it was that you had a sneaking suspicion you’d certainly be finding your way to the kitchens late at night again.
As long as he was there.
A/N (again): I FINISHED MY EXAMS. Which means I am now free until I start work in a few weeks… so I can write more! I already have a few fics + requests in the works as well as my 500 follower special event which will likely be sometime in June (two months after the fact lmfao).
Taglist: @viperify @xgloomy-kittenx @sea-lit-stars @kenobi-baby @rvvencrux @beelzebzb @m-mally @s00ty-feet @sophiadauno @cherrytintedlens @lunxrstellx @peony-haze @h0eforjp @mintydew @voldemortcest (comment to be added/removed and please make sure your blog settings allow me to tag you!)
✧[Summary]✧ Reuniting with your childhood bestfriend Theodore Nott. Except, he grew up way faster than you did. Falling behind, you trust him with certain things that are undiscovered under your experience, which also means following and doing everything he asks of. He'll teach you, he says. You should trust him, shouldn't you?
✧[Content]✧ Mature Content, characters are 18+, childhood!bestfriend!theo, pervert!theo, pussydrunk!theo, down!bad!theo, fem!reader, loss of virginity (f), corruption kink, size difference, mentions of masturbation, unprotected p in v, slight overstimulation, oral f!receiving, swearing, praising, mock symphathy, smut with plot, fluff at the start, no usage of y/n, no voldemort universe, sweet theo but he's also a freak..
✧[A/N]✧ First time writing posting fan fics! (It may be shitty but atleast it's not ai!) I really hope you guys enjoy this and let me know what you guys think and what y'all want me to write next! If you end up liking this feel free to fill my inbox with requests as well (I can also write for any of the other slytherin boys) , thats all. Enjoy!! ♡
✧[WC]✧ 3.6k
Your since-birth bestfriend Theodore Nott has always been in contact through letters every day since you got separated. Doesn't matter if he's sick—no excuses, he promised. Even if it was a blank sheet with one word, just a silent reminder that he still remembers.
Its all a blur, really. A little before you two separated was when your parents decided to move out and you both got your letters to very different and distant wizardry schools.
He didn't talk to you for days, upset about the moment. Only a day before leaving each other was when he made that promise.
"I'll write a letter to you. Everyday. Until we meet again. It doesn't matter if you don't write back, I just don't want you to forget about me."
And you wrote back. Every single time. Because not only you love him to death, you wanted to make sure he knew, even if it wasn't the last time you see him again.
Now it's time.
The two of you had graduated just a few hours ago. Though that doesn't really matter, Theo is already rushing down the halls of Hogwarts to get to the slytherin dungeons as fast as he can. For what reason?
To write you a damn letter.
His last day at Hogwarts, spending it to write that letter. The whole day to write one letter? Not that you'd know, it's never visible on that piece of parchment—the effort. The time he takes to think of all the things he should say, what he wants to say, though he never got far. One time he was staring at the unfinished letter like it personally dislikes him, leading him to send it halfway done. You still ended up reading it though.
That was one time. He vowed himself to never send unfinished letters ever again.
This letter he's currently writing is special though. Why? He gets to give it in person. Somewhere in the middle of the same school year, you both agreed to make letters for when you meet up again; which was after the school year ends.
Every school break your parents declined to let you visit each other because distance isn't adjustable. Even if your families are great friends, they all just have to be so busy, until now. Appearantly, at the start of this last school year, Theo's parents gave yours a letter, indicating that a week after graduation, they'll pay a visit and spend a few days in your family's manor.
And that's what led you to this moment.
As Theo was hours into writing, his grip on the quill threatening to snap, mind all over the place, while muttering incoherent words, the feathered stick he held finally snapped, splattering ink more than it could write.
"Fuck!" He muttered under his breath, flinched. Any of his dorm mates would've given him a look, but fortunately he was alone.
He stood from his desk and took large hurried steps to grab a few tissues on his mate's desk. After cleaning up the inky mess on his hands, he mentally prepared himself before looking at the letter properly, hoping the ink didn't mess it up too much.
Thankfully it didn't do much that it could still be read. Except for a certain paragraph that whole heartily explains his feelings to be more than just a best friend to you.
..Yeah.
⏤͟͟͞͞☆
Heartbeat racing, shaky hands, brain malfunctioning, stomach in knots. You were geniunely so nervous. Confused, kind of. You shouldn't be so shaken up just because you were meeting your best friend in merely a few hours, but you were.
The manor is spotless, You had just finished preparing the dining table, ready for guests. The thought of knowing who the guests were.. Not for your weak self.
Busy with overthinking and clenching your teeth, you hadn't noticed your own mother waving a hand in your face, trying to bring you back from whatever alien is in your mind.
"Earth to my daughter?" She looked too concerned, it was almost laughable. Except you realized what was happening and wanted that alien to take you for real.
The door bell had rung.
"We don't want to keep them waiting, darling." She nudged you once before holding the sides of your shoulders with gentle, comforting hands. "What's wrong, my sweetie? Do the heels not fit? Is the dress too tight? I knew I should've took you to shopping instead of your father! He doesn't—"
"Mother, I'm okay! I promise. The dress and heels are perfect, thank you. I'm just.. Nervous? In a way that's also kind of excited, you know?" You rushed an explaination, now acknowledging the waiting guests probably still outside.
The door bell rang again.
She gave you a reassuring smile before taking hold of your hand and leading you to the front door. Her delicate fingers grasping the knob of the large detailed double doors, before twisting it and welcoming the guests.
So many things raise up in your head.
Does he still act like he did back then? Will he be awkward with me? What does he look like now? After seven years he surely has looked so much more different, all grown up. Does he still have those adorable teeth? Those luscious strands of brown hair you were always jealous of? And oh those eyes. Unreal, you always thought. Out of everything, you were sure he still had those.
And you were correct. His powerful brown eyes are very much real, as it burned to yours.
"Star." You heard him speak with a much more deeper voice than you remember. That nickname. He hadn't called you that in years, not even in letters—seven years to be exact. He gave it to you while star gazing, you rambling about how you wanted to be a star in the sky because they look so mesmerizing and shine so bright. He said you were his star.
"Teddy." Your voice almost cracked as the water pooled in your eyes—blurring vision.
Oh how his heart almost broke at the sight. It felt so good to hear your voice, especially with his nickname. You hadn't called him that in years either. The name was given while he was complaining at the absurd amount of stuffed animals you owned. Sweet little baby you, thinking he was just jealous, you said no amount of plushies could ever replace such a special teddy like him. He was your teddy.
Not a even a second more wasted before you two quite literally ran to each other with such short distance, meeting in the middle with the tightest hug ever. He was really tall, wearing a navy blue sweater (one you sent him) with the sleeves rolled up. Your arms wrapped around his neck while his hooked your back, your head buried against his shoulder. He then moved one of his hands to the back of your head as he pressed a firm kiss on the side of your head.
"Kids?" Your mother yelled, "Dinner's at the table, whenever you're ready." She continued as a guiding hand was gestured at Theodore's parents and led them to the dining area.
After a few more seconds of holding one other in each other's arms, you pulled Theo along and went to join the others to eat.
It was great. The food was phenomenal, everyone had a smile on their face. Theo's gaze burning all over you—he wasn't the only one who looked different since then. His knees brushed against yours every few seconds or so. Although, he insisted on sleeping in your room instead of the guest bedroom that's right across the hall, not that you'd mind.
Longing to catch up, Theo dragged you to rush with him to change into sleepwear—you decided on an oversized t-shirt given by none other than Theo himself (he insisted on you wearing it) and some tiny shorts that you refuse to replace because of its 'comfortability and stretchiness' despite it being almost identical to the size of regular underwear—you don't care. Theo just wore a shirt about the same as yours and sweatpants, how cute!
He sat on one side of your bed, facing you as your back rests on the headboard. "I rewrote it so it may look a bit terrible." Theo muttered nervously as he hands the enveloped letter to you.
"Oh come on! I didn't even recheck my letter before sealing it up." Liar. You so reread it a bunch of times. Which was worth it based on his reaction to your handwritten compliments and touching words that struck him like an arrow to the heart and made his face blush.
Your fingers gently opened the envelope, taking out a neatly folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, your eyebrows furrowed, taking in his written words, a small smile appearing every now and then, until...
"I love you? " You whispered softly, looking directly at his eyes, not meaning to embarrass him. But oh, he's embarrassed. His face quickly heats up and his eyes darted away to avoid your stare.
"Oh, teddy." You hook your arms around him, comforting as his hands almost immediately found your back.
"Star, I'm sorry I wasn't—"
"I love you too." You mumbled against his sweater. He tenses up.
"..What?" He pulled back, wanting to make sure he heard that right. "Say it again."
"Teddy, I love you. So much." You mean it. His eyes speak a lot more than what he has to say.
"Again."
"I love you, I love you, I love you." You really looked at him, clueless about the short distance between your faces.
His brain short circuited. Mesmerized by how your lips moved and let out words he adores with a voice he cherishes even better. He's completely oblivious to how he's shamelessly staring at your soft lips even after as they stopped moving.
"I love you too, star." Still staring until his gaze finally met yours. Your breath hitched. He looks so handsome, pretty under the dim light and faint orange shade of your candles.
He found himself in the same situation. His fixation everywhere on your face—mostly on your lips. To him, you define every word that serves as a compliment. Gorgeous, beautiful, pretty, stunning, breathtaking, enchanting, delightful, magnificent, otherworldly.
Not long before he leans in slowly. Calculated movement, knowing when to stop when he needs to and continue when given permission.
"Wait." You pause, so does he, then hesitantly, "I haven't done this before.."
"I can teach you, darling." He responds almost immediately with a calming smile that makes your brain melt.
Carefully, you lean in. Fluttering your eyelids closed, you feel his lips meet yours. Light, gentle, and welcoming. Slowly at first, as if he's teaching you, but making you lead. Then, his tongue grazed yours. Tugging at your waist, lifting and guiding you up to straddle his lap as his back leaned on the headboard along with the silk dressed pillows.
Your hands trembled, flat above his chest as he felt your soft breasts laid on it. You caught yourself in a deep, passionate make out session. Something you've never had before, never knew. Heat pools between your legs, it almost feels like its hurting? No, aching. You've never felt like this before—needy, slightly trembling. Lips still perfectly molded onto his, muffling your whines, a reaction to the unfamiliar feeling. Shifting a bit on Theo's lap, his grip tightened on your waist and thigh. He groaned into your mouth, the vibrations going straight to your desperate little cunt.
You can feel heartbeat racing, was it yours or his? You can't tell. Pulling back to catch some breath, his eyes captivating, wanting needing more. You weren't even sure if he could hear, "Theo, where did you learn this?"
"I know a lot more than just this, sweetheart." He softly chuckles at your cheeks turning into a faint shade of pink, "Don't you hear about it in school?"
You let your mind wander, "Everyone talks about it.. How it's addictive and feels really good."
"Then how come you're so clueless about this hm?" He rasps, following with "Aw, my poor angel. You really don't know how this works do you?"
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly, huffing, "Of course I know." Pants are on fire, not that you had one on. You've never ever put the context outside the text book. Nothing more than just scientific diagrams and pictures. Lowering your voice, "—I just don't know how to execute it." There you go, "Theo, you know I don't speak to anybody besides you. Everyone else is weird." You didn't mean for it to sound like he was the only man in your life, but judging by the forming smirk on his face, he wasn't complaining at all.
"That's the thing, star. It's not exactly something you do with everybody." He pauses for a bit, "It's considered as an act of love. I reckon that's what you feel for me, yeah?"
Its almost as if that sentence snapped you back to what you're actually doing. Warmth still radiating from your body, inner thighs slick with arousal, you instinctively try to close them together, only resulting to Theo gripping your hips down so they're unable to shift even slightly.
Heavy pants fill the room as you whimper and whine at the imprint of his hard length poking just right at your clothed clit.
He inhaled sharply, "I'll stop if you want me to, you know that right, darling?" The grip on your hips softened, holding himself back from just pinning you down and grind against your pretty cunt for some relief.
"Please—" You whimpered, don't even know what you're begging for. Looking for some sort of ease to it, you started to grind on him, slightly. Theo grunted before quieting himself by having a hand on the back of your neck and leaving kisses right below your ear.
Oh my gosh.
You closed your eyes. If you weren't in heaven then where else were you? Moans, whimpers, and heavy breathing could be heard. Thankfully, your room is at the end of the hall, or else you'd have to face the problem of having an unwanted audience at your little freak show.
You're so wet. You can almost hear it as it grinds against his dick. It feels so heavenly. Your stomach starts to knot, in a good way. You speed up your hips—afraid if you'll stop or slow down, it'll go away.
"Oh—fuck, baby don't do that." Theo breathed out, he clearly doesn't want this to end yet. He wants to relish it. With a swift movement, you were laid under him. You whine in protest before he captures your lips in a kiss.
"Are you so sure about this?" He asks one more time. He also hopes you have an idea that if you a agree, he will in fact finish what he started, maybe even more. A winner doesn't stop after winning one race.
"Yes, Theo please—" You choked out, so desperate for an angel. He kisses you again, you're an angel to him no matter what.
He took off his shirt and you couldn't help but stare. He flashes you a grin before helping you take off your shirt too. Being shy, you attempted to cover yourself but Theo's hands are way faster than yours and pulled them away.
"Don't that, baby, you're so beautiful." He kisses you forehead, takes a small glance at your breasts and then fully gawks at them. They look so soft and light pink nipples hardened at his gaze. He takes his time, giving experimental squeezes to get a reaction from you, slow licks, sucking, and kissing—making his way right above the waist band of your shorts.
Your soft moans encouraged him to take them off and reveal your underwear, probably with a wet patch on it. A surprised moan emerged from your throat as he pressed his nose directly on your clit, lips kissing just right below, thin fabric separated the two. You don't even wanna know what's on his mind right now, such perverse thoughts.
You looked down on him, his eyes? Right back at you. Sharp and fiercing gaze as if he wasn't right in between your legs.
"So wet for me, hm?" A sly smirk you can hear just from his voice. "Is that bad..?" Your voice lowered—how cute. Thinking it wasn't a good thing, you try to close your legs except Theo immediately pries them open.
"Of course not. Y'know how long I've been thinking 'bout this?" He mumbles through the thin cloth, vibrating against your heat. "This is s'much better than just jerking off to the thought." His eyes are closed, is he pussydrunk?
He then pressed a firm kiss on your clit before taking your underwear off completely. His lips touches yours once more, then mumbles into your mouth. "Wanna eat you—mmph—you gonna let me eat you, yeah?" His hungry eyes prey at your glistening cunt. You whimper impatiently, "Theo—"
You cut off into a moan as he licks a fat stripe up, then without lifting, he sucked at your clit. "Please—hmmpgh—Theo!" You moan loudly as he positioned his tongue to your opening and began to repeatedly lick the dripping arousal.
Dragging his tongue up to your clit again, he started to alternate between licking and flicking, gaining a new mouthful of whimpers and moans from you. Oh he was enjoying this—making you a moaning mess while thrusting his hips on the mattress, turned on by the filthiest sounds of both your pretty pussy and mouth.
He licked once more before sucking harshly on the overly sensitive bud. "OH MY—" Your vision blurred, eyes at the back of your head, mind starting to spin and melt.
"Mmhmph—tastes s'good, sweetheart." His words vibrate through the rest of your body as your legs start to tremble. "Cum f'me."
He keeps on attacking and abusing your poor sensitive clit until the knot building up inside you finally snapped. Your eyelids screwed shut, crying out his name. Legs shaking, involuntarily twitching.
He pulls back to relish your disheveled self—hair messy, small streaks of tears on your flush cheeks, you looked like a goddess, brows slightly pinched together, watery eyes looked up at him still so innocently. "So fucking beautiful." He goes back down and drags his tongue down to your opening up to firmly press against your pulsating bud. Your legs shook at that—an overstimulating sensation even when he's just pressing it against you. He rises up and pecks your lips. Still resting from your high, you felt poking on your thigh. You look down and—
Woah.
You did not know they can go that big. Your mouth goes slightly agape while your wide eyes moved to look at him. He laughs softly, "Worried?"
You pouted, "Theo.. Thats gonna hurt me.." He gives you a sympathetic look—though you know he's probably mocking you. As if he wasn't big enough, your small frame made it seem like hes a lot bigger. "Poor you. Too bad you're gonna have to take all of me, hm?" He flashes you another grin.
You whimper as he slides his tip up and down, collecting arousal. He slowly pushes in the tip, making you hiss at the burning sensation. It hurts definitely, but the way it turns into pleasure..
In between a sob and a moan, you clung onto Theo's back, digging your nails that earned a groan from him. You whimper and cry when he slides in inch by inch until he bottoms out—staying still for a few seconds, feeling the way your velvety walls swallow him whole. He starts to throw in lazy thrusts, making sure you adjust to his size. It burns. More soft thrusts before you vividly expressed that you're needing more. His thrusts getting harder—skin to skin contact heard within the room. His moaning and whimpering mixed with yours.
Phlap—phlap—phlap.
He felt you clench around him. "Please, please, please—" You choked out. "Just a little bit more for me, darling, please.." Theo panted, he held himself back, not wanting to come so quickly. He hooked your legs on his shoulders, kissing you like he'd crumble if he didn't. The new angle made you feel him in your throat. You sob in his mouth, "S'too deep..!"
Phlap—phlap—phlap.
"Doing so perfect for me, baby." He breathed. You clenched firmly around him again. "Shit—yeah keep doing that.." He leans in for another kiss but the pleasure was getting unbearable, making you two just moaning and groaning in each other's mouths. "Made just for me, yeah?"
Phlap—phlap—phlap.
You moan loudly, the now familiar knot in your stomach pulling to snap in every direction. So close. The way he perfectly grinds against your clit as he drills relentlessly into you, hands planting your hips to the mattress, your fingers grasping his hair, your thighs began to quiver. And then.. His sharp voice.
Phlap—phlap—
"Cum with me."
Phlap!
One last harsh and deep thrust. Loud moans surfaced your throat as he felt your walls ripple and cum on his cock before he stuffs your little cunt full with his warm sticky fluid.
You both stayed still for while. He then kissed your forehead, pulling out. You sighed, exhausted. After laying limp for a few minutes, Theo decided to clean you up with a bath—carrying your tired body to the bathtub, washing your hair, and letting you scrub your own body with soap while he was in the shower in the same bathroom.
After you freshened up (and dried your hair) Theo took space of the whole bed, your solution? Sleep on him. Hes sprawled all over your sheets while you lay on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat, "I love you, teddy." Thinking he was probably asleep already, you started to doze off yourself.
"I love you too, star."
I honestly think they're so cute I wanna make it into a thing (star!reader x teddy!theo) but I'm not sure if you guys would like it.. Let me know what you think! ♡
Work written by me. Some dividers aren't mine and credits go to those who owns them. Please do not copy, translate, or feed my work to AI.
[ SYNOPSIS ] — You try to be the "perfect" partner to Megumi by hiding your own needs and pain so you wouldn’t be a nuisance. This habit becomes dangerous when you get badly hurt on a mission and lie about it, leading to a tearful confrontation when he finds you bleeding in secret. w.c: 4.8k
[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x people pleaser!reader
[ TAGS ] — gn!reader, established relationship, canon compliant (?), hidden injury, blood, reassurance, hurt/comfort, use of [Name] once, megumi is a sweetheart as usual. Lmk if I missed anything!
"You wouldn't mind taking care of these mission reports for me, would you? You're a lifesaver!"
Satoru Gojo didn't even pause to wait for an answer, dropping a stack of heavily redacted, coffee-stained files onto your already cluttered desk. His iconic blindfold was pushed up, a devastatingly charming smile plastered across his face—the kind of smile that made it entirely impossible for anyone to refuse him.
Your head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed right behind your eyes, a souvenir from a consecutive string of sleepless nights. You had your own reports to file, a history exam to help Yuji study for, and Nobara had explicitly told you to be ready in twenty minutes to carry her bags through Shibuya. Your throat tightened, the word no forming perfectly on your tongue.
It was right there. All you had to do was push it past your teeth.
"Of course, Sensei," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding entirely detached from your own body. "I'll have them on Principal Yaga's desk by three."
"Knew I could count on you!" He gave you a cheerful salute and vanished in a blur of limitless space, leaving you staring at the mountain of paperwork. You swallowed the sigh building in your chest, picked up your pen, and started writing.
This was simply how you survived. You made yourself a skeleton key, filing down your own edges, your own needs, and your own exhaustion until you perfectly fit the lock of whatever anyone else required. If you were useful, if you were accommodating, if you smoothed out the friction in the lives of the people around you, they would never look at you and decide you were too much trouble to keep around, that's how it should be, right?
But nowhere was this exhausting performance more prevalent than in your relationship with Megumi Fushiguro.
Megumi with his quiet nature, Megumi with his storm-clouded eyes, Megumi who shouldered so much— with Tsumiki's curse, with the expectations of having a powerful cursed technique, Megumi who you were so so so afraid of losing.
You still have a hard time believing you two are dating. The way it happened was so casual it almost felt unreal.
It wasn’t a grand confession, just a quiet surrender to everything that made you fall for him. The hallway was still buzzing with leftover energy from Yuji’s and Nobara’s laughter, but at your door, the silence felt heavy. Megumi lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, before his fingers grazed your wrist as you were about open the door. When he leaned in, it was with the soft gentleness of someone who had finally found a place to let his guard down. The kiss was brief, but you both knew exactly where you stood in each other's lives.
Yet, being his partner did not cure your affliction; it magnified it even further. You treated your relationship like fragile glass sculpture you had to constantly balance on your fingertips. You altered your entire existence to fit the mold of what you assumed was his ideal, low-maintenance partner.
You drank your tea unsweetened because he preferred bitter things, forcing the astringent liquid down your throat every morning while secretly craving sugar. You slept rigidly on the absolute edge of his mattress, your muscles cramping by dawn, just to ensure he had the lion’s share of the blankets. When he was exhausted from a mission, you swallowed your own awful, lingering trauma from the day, hiding your bruises beneath long sleeves and painting a bright, serene smile on your face so you wouldn’t add to his mental load.
And Megumi knew.
He was incredibly perceptive, and the forced perfection of your behavior was beginning to wear on him like coarse grit against his skin. He saw the way your hands shook when you agreed to take a double patrol shift. He noticed the barely perceptible flinch when he absentmindedly turned the television to a channel you secretly hated, only for you to vehemently agree that it was a great program to watch. It frustrated him.
Megumi loved you, he loved you so much it pained him, but he felt like he was dating a shadow, only moving when he did. And he did not know how to bring it up without fearing for what you would do.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The mission was supposed to be a standard Grade 2 curse eradication in an abandoned subway terminal. It was a joint assignment for the two of you, a rare opportunity to work together. But the intelligence from the auxiliary managers was flawed, as it so often was. The curse was a Grade 1, a massive, grotesque amalgamation of rusted metal and rotting flesh that moved with terrifying speed.
The battle was chaotic in the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Dust choked the air, illuminated only by the flickering, dying fluorescent lights overhead. Megumi had summoned Nue to provide aerial attacks, the electrical discharge illuminating the grim determination on his face. You were covering his blind spots, your own cursed energy manifesting in sharp and precise strikes.
It happened in a fraction of a second. The curse, recognizing Megumi as the greater threat, lunged toward him with a massive, scythe-like appendage. Megumi was mid-incantation, his hands clasped together, momentarily vulnerable.
Your body moved before your conscious mind could register the decision. The ingrained instinct to protect, to serve, to sacrifice, propelled you forward. You shoved Megumi hard, knocking him out of the trajectory of the blade.
The impact was deafening. The rusted metal sliced through the air and tore into your left side, ripping through your uniform and biting deep into the flesh of your waist. The agony was instantaneous, a blinding flare of white-hot pain that stole the oxygen from your lungs. You hit the concrete floor hard, the taste of copper flooding your mouth.
"Nue!" Megumi roared, his voice cracking with a rare, raw panic. The shikigami descended in a blinding flash of lightning, obliterating the curse in a concussive shockwave of cursed energy.
The dust settled, heavy and silent.
Megumi was beside you in an instant, his breathing ragged, his hands hovering over you as if afraid that touching you would shatter you completely. "Are you alright? Where did it hit you?" His eyes were wide, the usual cold indifference entirely stripped away, revealing the terrified boy underneath.
The pain in your side was excruciating, a throbbing, burning sensation that suggested the curse’s rusted blade had been laced with some kind of venomous energy. Blood was already soaking the fabric of your shirt, hot and sticky against your skin. You needed Shoko. You needed a stretcher.
But as you looked up into Megumi’s panic-stricken eyes, the old, familiar terror clawed at your throat. You caused this panic. You are making him worry. You ruined the mission. You are a burden.
The people pleaser within you seized the reins of your vocal cords.
You forced the agony down, burying it beneath a mountain of sheer, desperate willpower. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, twisting your torso to hide the worst of the bleeding from his line of sight. You plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack your face in two.
"I'm fine," you lied, your voice painfully steady. "It just grazed me. I knocked the wind out of myself when I fell."
Megumi frowned, his dark brows knitting together in suspicion. He reached out to inspect your side, but you swiftly shifted away, standing up on shaking legs. The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in your peripheral vision, but you dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself.
"I swear, Megumi. I'm okay. Let's just report and go home. I'm exhausted." You kept your tone light, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry I got in your way. I should have been more careful."
The apology tasted vile. You had saved his life, yet you were apologizing for being in the way.
Megumi stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The tension radiating from him was evident, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew you were hiding something. He could smell the blood. But your adamant refusal to acknowledge the danger built a wall between you that he didn't know how to breach, yet he trusted your judgment, he trusted that you would tell him if the injury was serious.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with frustration and repressed anxiety. He recalled his shikigami, the shadows swallowing Nue whole. "Let's go."
The car ride back to the college was nothing less than silent torture. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, secretly applying pressure to the wound that was continuously oozing blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony up your spine, but you bit the inside of your cheek until it bled rather than make a single sound. Ijichi drove in stony silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, every now and then apologising for the mistake in the mission logs, and then expressing his relief at your well-being.
By the time you reached the dormitories, you were running purely on adrenaline and the need to lock yourself in your bathroom before you collapsed.
"I'm going to take a shower!" you announced the moment you stepped into his room, your voice breathy and strained. You didn't wait for a response, practically fleeing into the adjoining bathroom and closing the door behind you.
The moment it was locked, the facade crumbled. Your knees gave out, and you slumped against the cold tile door, an agonizing gasp escaping your lips. You peeled off your ruined jacket and the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. The wound was horrific. An angry tear across your oblique, the edges blackened with residual cursed energy. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently.
Tears of pain and exhaustion finally spilled over your eyelashes, tracing hot paths down your dust-streaked cheeks. You had to clean it. You had to wrap it. You couldn't bother Shoko this late; she had been pulling all-nighters all week. You couldn't bother Megumi; he was already mad at you.
You dragged yourself to the sink, turning on the faucet. You grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and pressed it against the wound.
A choked, pathetic sob tore from your throat. The pain was blinding, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling violently as you tried to scrub away the blackened, infected tissue.
Click.
You froze. The sound of the lock turning from the outside. You had forgotten Megumi kept a spare key on the upper frame of the door for emergencies.
The door swung open, revealing Megumi standing in the threshold. He had changed out of his uniform, wearing only a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted.
But whatever exhaustion he felt vanished the instant his eyes landed on you.
He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: your pale, shivering form hunched over the sink, the blood-soaked washcloth in your trembling hand, and the gruesome, gaping wound on your side that was currently dripping crimson onto the pristine white tiles.
The air in the bathroom seemed to drop ten degrees. The shadows in the corners of the room physically writhed, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his cursed energy.
"What," Megumi breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with the force of an earthquake, "is that."
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You scrambled to cover the wound with your arm, backing away from him like a cornered animal, your eyes wide and terrified.
"It's nothing!" you stammered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a desperate rush. "I was just cleaning it. It looks worse than it is, Megumi, I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll clean the floor, just—"
"Stop."
The command cracked through the air like a whip. Megumi stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes—his deep, beautiful, stormy eyes—were wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like devastation.
He crossed the small space in two strides, grabbing your wrists. His grip was firm, inescapable, but agonizingly gentle as he pulled your hands away from your side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he finally got a clear look at the injury.
"You call this a graze?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying, suppressed rage. "It's entirely infected with cursed energy. You need reverse cursed technique, immediately. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in the tunnel?"
Your chest heaved as you struggled to pull oxygen into your lungs. The panic was taking over, suffocating you. You were trapped. You had failed. You had made him angry. You had become the burden you fought so hard not to be.
"I—I didn't want to worry you," you choked out, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "You were already stressed about the mission being a Grade 1. I didn't want to slow us down. I'm sorry, Megumi. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't be mad. I can fix it, I'll go to Shoko right now, you don't have to deal with this—"
"Stop apologizing!" Megumi yelled.
You flinched violently, your shoulders instantly hiking up to your ears, your head bowing in an automatic posture of submission. The silence that followed his shout was deafening, broken only by your ragged, hyperventilating breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.
Megumi stared at your cowering form, the anger draining out of him in a rush, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in his chest. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that you were not flinching because of the pain of your wound. You were flinching because of him.
He dropped your wrists as if they burned him, taking a step back, his hands taking place behind his neck.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking, the anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why do you lie to me? Why do you let yourself bleed out in a bathroom rather than ask me for help? Am I that unapproachable? Am I that terrible of a boyfriend that you think I would be annoyed by you almost dying?"
"No!" you cried, your voice breaking, the absolute terror of him thinking he was at fault tearing at your heart. "No, Megumi, you're perfect. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. It's not you, it's me. I'm just… I'm just trying to be good. I'm trying to be easy. I don't want to be difficult."
"Easy?" Megumi repeated, the word sounding foreign and ugly in his mouth. He stepped forward again, crowding you against the edge of the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain on either side of your waist, trapping you in. He didn't touch you, but his presence was demanding your full attention.
"You think I want you to be 'easy'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours frantically, demanding an honesty you didn't know how to give. "I want you to be honest! I want you to tell me when you are hurt so I can take care of you!"
You shook your head furiously, the tears flowing freely now, hot and unrelenting. Your entire body was trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break. You were breaking apart, the foundation of your entire coping mechanism crumbling beneath his gaze.
"You say that now," you sobbed, the ugly, deeply buried truth finally clawing its way up your throat, bitter and raw. "You say that now, but you don't know. You already have so much on your plate, I don't want to make it worse. If I don't do it, you will hate me, I don't want you to hate me."
The confession hung in the humid air of the bathroom, heavy and devastating.
You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the agreement. Waiting for him to step back, to look at you with cold realization, and walk out the door. You had finally revealed the ugly, pathetic core of your soul. You were a coward, terrified of abandonment, buying love with servitude.
But the silence stretched. And then, you felt it.
The gentle, hesitant brush of his knuckles against your tear-soaked cheek.
Your eyes flew open. Megumi was looking at you with an expression that shattered your heart into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn't pity. It wasn't disgust, but heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he struggled to find words that could possibly combat the magnitude of your self-hatred.
Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, frightened animal, Megumi reached out. He didn't grab your wrists this time. He slid his arms around your waist, mindful of the gaping wound on your side, and pulled you flush against his chest.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.
"You are so stupid," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin, devoid of any malice, dripping only with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "You are an incredible person, so beautiful, so incredible, but stupid."
You stiffened, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified to ruin this moment. But Megumi just held you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield against the very demons inside your own head.
"Listen to me," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to force you to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place."Stop acting like your existence doesn't matter, it matters to me. You don't get to decide that you're expendable."
You let out a choked gasp, your hands finally, tentatively coming to rest against his chest, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it.
"I care about you, so much," Megumi continued, his voice dropping into that serious, unwavering tone he used when making vows. "I care about protecting the people who matter to me. And you… you are at the very top of that list. If you are hurt, my world stops. If you are in pain, I am in pain. Hiding your suffering from me doesn't protect me; it destroys me."
He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping away the steady stream of tears falling from your eyes. His touch was warm, grounding.
"You are not a burden," he said, enunciating each word with fierce, desperate clarity. "And I am begging you, please… let me take care of you. Let me be the one who carries the weight for a while. You don't have to earn your place beside me by bleeding in silence. In fact, you don't have to do anything but be here."
The dam broke.
You collapsed against him, your legs finally giving out, and he caught you effortlessly, sinking to the bathroom floor with you held securely in his arms.
You wept. You wailed. It was an ugly, guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore from the very depths of your soul. You buried your face in his chest, clutching at him desperately, crying for the pain in your side, crying for the exhaustion in your bones, crying for the terrified little child inside you who had spent their whole life terrified of being left behind.
Megumi didn't shush you. He didn't tell you to calm down. He sat on the cold tile floor amidst the blood and the discarded bandages, holding you. He rocked you slowly, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other resting firmly against your back. He let you fall apart completely, creating a safe, impenetrable fortress within his arms where you were finally allowed to be shattered, loud, and inconvenient.
Hours seemed to pass before the sobs finally subsided into heavy, exhausted hiccups. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen and burning. The adrenaline had completely left your system, leaving you weak and painfully aware of the throbbing agony in your side.
You shifted slightly in his lap, sniffing pathetically. Megumi immediately loosened his grip, looking down at you with a softness that made your chest ache.
"Are you done?" he asked quietly, a tiny, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You nodded numbly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I ruined your shirt," you rasped, noticing the dark stains of your tears and blood on the grey fabric.
"I don't care about the shirt," Megumi said softly. He gently shifted you off his lap, standing up and reaching down to help you to your feet. You swayed dangerously, the blood loss finally catching up to you. He caught you around the waist, easily supporting your weight.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentle but brook-no-argument firm. "We are going to Shoko. Right now."
The instinct to protest flared up instantly. It's 3 AM. She's sleeping. I can just bandage it tight. But as you looked up at Megumi, at the deep circles under his eyes and the lingering terror in his posture, the words died in your throat.
You swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign and incredibly heavy on your tongue.
"Okay."
Megumi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. He didn't say anything, but the relief in his eyes was blinding. He practically carried you down the silent, moonlit hallways to the infirmary.
Shoko was awake, smoking a cigarette out the window when Megumi kicked the infirmary door open. She took one look at Megumi’s pale face and the blood soaking your side and immediately crushed the cigarette, immediately tending to you.
The process of healing was agonizing. Shoko’s reverse cursed technique was a miracle, but extracting the foreign cursed energy from the wound before healing the flesh was a torturous sensation. You lay on the sterile white cot, your teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.
Through it all, Megumi sat beside the bed. He held your hand in both of his, his grip tight enough to bruise, grounding you in reality while the pain threatened to pull you under. He didn't look away, even when the wound looked its most gruesome. He stayed exactly where he promised he would be.
When it was finally over, and the flesh was knit cleanly together leaving only an angry pink scar, exhaustion hit you like a physical blow. Shoko handed you a clean t-shirt and kicked you both out, muttering something about needing sleep.
The walk back to Megumi’s dorm was slow. You leaned heavily against him, your body utterly drained. You felt hollowed out, incredibly fragile, like a glass blown too thin.
When you reached his room, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. He guided you gently to the bed, pulling back the heavy comforter. You crawled in automatically, immediately scooting to the absolute edge of the mattress, curling into a tight ball. It was muscle memory at this point.
Megumi stood at the edge of the bed, watching you in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his ruined shirt, and climbed into the bed.
But he didn't lie down on his side.
Instead, he moved to the center of the mattress. He reached out, grabbing you gently by the hips, and physically dragged you away from the edge, pulling you across the sheets until you were flush against him in the very middle of the bed.
You gasped softly in surprise, stiffening. "Megumi—"
"Stop," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. He tangled his legs with yours, pinning you to him, ensuring there was no physical way for you to retreat to the cold periphery. "You are exactly where you belong. Take up the whole bed if you want. Kick me out if you want. But stop going all the way there."
You lay rigid in his arms for a long moment, your brain struggling to process the sensation of being held so securely, of being allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. The warmth of his body seeped into your cold skin. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your back, a rhythmic, grounding lullaby.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you forced your muscles to uncoil. You let out a long, shaky breath, letting your weight sink fully into his embrace. You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. The sunlight streaming into the room felt unnervingly bright.
You sat up slowly, testing the newly healed skin on your side. It twinged slightly, a dull ache, but the agonizing burn was gone. You looked around the room. You were alone in the bed, the covers tangled around your waist. You were dead center in the mattress.
The door to the small kitchenette opened, and Megumi stepped in, carrying two mugs. He looked rested, his dark hair a chaotic mess, his eyes softer than you had seen them in months.
He walked over to the bed and handed you a mug.
"Morning," he mumbled quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress near your feet.
"Morning," you replied softly, your voice still gravelly from crying the night before. You wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug, seeking comfort in the heat. You brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip.
You immediately paused, your brow furrowing in confusion.
It wasn't black coffee. It wasn't the bitter, acidic brew he drank every morning. It was warm milk, steeped heavily with a sweet, floral chamomile tea, and generously laced with honey. It was incredibly sweet. It was exactly what you actually liked.
You lowered the mug, staring at the golden liquid, a sudden lump forming in your throat. You looked up at Megumi. He was watching you carefully, his dark eyes analyzing your reaction.
"You didn't make coffee," you whispered, stating the obvious.
Megumi looked down at his own mug, taking a sip of the black sludge he preferred. "I know you hate it," he said simply, not meeting your eyes. A faint, barely perceptible pink dusted the tips of his ears. "I noticed a while ago. You always grimace when you take the first sip. And you always buy that sweet stuff when we go to the convenience store, but you never drink it around me."
Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had known, and he had been waiting for you to say something.
He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your ankle over the blankets.
"I'm not asking you to change everything in one day," Megumi continued, his voice quiet, steady, and infinitely patient. "I know it's a habit. I know you're terrified. But I am asking you to try. With me. Just with me."
He paused, a tiny, teasing glint momentarily breaking through his stoic demeanor. "For example. I was thinking of making eggs for breakfast. But I know you like pancakes, even though you always say eggs are fine. So. What do you want for breakfast?"
It was a test. A small, seemingly insignificant question, but between the two of you, it carried the weight of the world.
The instinct rose up instantly. Eggs are easier for him to make. He likes eggs. Tell him eggs. The familiar panic fluttered in your chest, the fear of demanding too much, of being an inconvenience.
You opened your mouth, the word 'eggs' forming on your lips.
But you stopped. You looked down at the sweet, warm tea in your hands, the tea he had made specifically for you, acknowledging your preferences, honoring your comfort. You looked at the hand resting gently on your ankle, grounding you, keeping you safe. You remembered the desperate way he had held you on the bloody bathroom floor, demanding that you exist loudly.
You closed your mouth. You took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in your voice. You forced yourself to meet his gaze directly.
"I…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat, trying again. "I would really like pancakes, Megumi. If that's okay?"
The silence in the room stretched for a single, terrifying second. You braced yourself for a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a sign of annoyance that you had requested the more difficult option.
Instead, Megumi’s face broke into a smile. It wasn't his usual smirk, or a polite curve of the lips. It was a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile that reached his eyes, illuminating his features and making your heart stutter in your chest.
He stood up, taking his mug of bitter coffee with him.
"Pancakes it is," he said softly, turning back toward the kitchen. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes filled with a certain amount of serenity that was so rare for megumi.
"And [Name]?"
You looked up, your hands gripping the mug tightly. "Yeah?"
He's built himself into something impenetrable—all sharp edges and cold calculation, emotions locked behind walls of Occlumency that would make lesser wizards weep. He doesn't beg. Doesn't plead. Doesn't show weakness.
Until you.
"Please," he breathes against your neck, and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. Wrong. Like he's speaking a language he swore he'd never learn.
You're in his bed, in his space, unraveling him with patient hands and whispered praise. Every touch chips away at his carefully constructed armor, and he's losing the battle to remain unmoved.
"Look at me," you murmur.
He does—dark eyes glassy, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched like he's fighting himself. There's something desperate in his expression, vulnerable in a way that would horrify him if he weren't so far gone.
"Let go, Tom."
"I can't—" His voice catches, control slipping. "I don't—"
"You can." Your fingers thread through his hair, gentle but firm. "You're safe here."
That's what does it. The promise of safety, something he's never truly had. His breath hitches, and then—
The sound that escapes him is small, broken. Almost a whimper.
His eyes widen in mortification, shame flooding his features. He tries to pull away, to rebuild those walls, but you hold him closer.
"Don't," you say softly. "Don't hide from me."
"This is—" He can barely speak. "I'm not supposed to—"
"Be human?" You kiss his temple. "Feel things? Want things?"
Another shaky breath. He's trembling now, fighting years of conditioning that taught him vulnerability equals death.
when [name] didn’t think it couldn’t get weirder, it did. because the ship (?) that was huffing and puffing (?) over the water (?) continued on past them, the frog that they were chasing before simply stood in front of the train and then went flying when it eventually got hit.
“well…” [name]’s eyes followed the frog’s flying figure, blinking and lighting up when he saw that it was fine, “it lived!” he cheered.
“grandma!! there are pirates outside!”
a shrill girl’s voice was the next sound they heard, turning their heads to see a young lady and her grandmother come out from the lighthouse’s accompanying building. although it first seemed like the lady was going to end up calling the marines, in her drunken state, she had forgotten why she was even alerted of their presence anyway.
it didn’t take much to persuade her that they were no threat, a little bit of the paille that sanji prepared did the trick. they introduced themselves as chimney, gonbe, and kokoro. [name] blinked at the supposed cat, squinting at its odd shape.
“that’s definitely a bunny,” he whispers under his breath, “that little girl called it a cat.”
“maybe it’s a species of cat you’ve never seen before,” robin reasons.
usopp, nami, and luffy went off of merry to talk with them and the rest of the crew stood to watch the interaction unfold. they even got to learn more about the frog that was hit by the sea train. the crew’s demeanor completely lit up when they heard that their next stop was going to be water 7, a place with amazing shipwrights who no doubt could fix merry up as good as new.
[name]’s face remained stoic at the news, the smallest hint of a frown on his face.
“eh, that’s odd. you’re not screaming about an adventure,” sanji teases, nudging his shoulder with a lazy hand.
“hm,” was [name]’s only response before going to the kitchen and getting himself another cup of coffee. just as he finished pouring it into his cup, merry began sailing once more and he went back onto the deck.
“i want to talk about something before we reach water 7,” he announces, a rare look of seriousness on his face that made everyone on board halt their celebration of going to a new island.
“huh? what is it?” luffy’s head tilted to the side, like a confused puppy trying to understand, “you’re getting all serious and you never do that, [name].”
he walked down the stairs and stood in the middle of the deck, taking a seat on the wood.
“i want to talk about water 7 and aokiji…the whole thing that happened back on that island,” he speaks carefully, “i’m sure you guys are curious. honestly speaking, i don’t want to hide that side of me from you guys anymore — we are friends, a crew. the only person here who knows an inkling of anything is luffy. but, i care about you all so i want you guys to know as much about my situation as possible-”
“you don’t have to explain anything if you don't want to, [name]. whatever that guy was saying doesn't change the fact you're our crewmate,” nami interrupts, a worried look on her face.
“she’s right, don't feel the need to share anything you don't want to. we trust you more than that old fart! he doesn't know a thing about you and we do!” usopp joined in, an adorably determined look on his face. he even crouched down to me on eye level with [name].
the man blinked in surprise at their little outburst, laughing when be saw chopper in his peripheral aggressively nod his head in agreement. he lifted his hand and ruffled usopp’s hair.
“thanks for the sentiment guys, but really, for your guys’ safety i want to tell you.”
the smile on his face gradually fades and the crew is uncharacteristically silent, awaiting [name]’s speech.
“aokiji referred to me as government property. that’s because i was at one point. nobody was there on alabasta when it happened, but there was someone from the government sent to kill me,” nami covered her mouth in surprise. chopper and usopp’s jaws drop at the news. those were the most animated reactions. sanji’s eyebrows lifts up in surprise as zoro just continues listening in silence.
this was the first time any of them were hearing about it. the image of [name]’s figure doused in blood stands strong and clear in their memory, but they never got specific details on it. the stress of the situation distracting them from his then injured state.
“before i became a pirate and set sail, i was an experiment that the government poured a lot of resources into. we don’t have to get into the details of it since that is irrelevant to the reason i’m telling you this. but, to put it simply my powers are from experimentation, they’re not organic. it’s been carefully crafted into my dna and blood that i am this way.”
he motions to his entire body and takes another sip of his coffee.
“the scars on my body are from those experimentations. that is partially the reason why i am so sensitive to certain climates and abilities, it effects me on a molecular level, on a skeletal level. this necklace i am wearing,” he brings the silver chain to rest from his thumb, “is the one and only thing preventing the government from taking control of me all over again.
“i know water 7 by name and brief visitations. it’s incredibly close to a government headquarters. the reason i’m telling you this is because with our run in with aokiji, i wouldn’t be surprised if something were to happen to me or robin.”
the crew now looked worried, nami stepping foward first, “so what are we going to do? we have to go to water 7 for merry, but is the risk really that high they’re going to attack us while we are docked there?”
“most likely, i’m gonna guess at 90%. there’s going to be no way of preventing it. if the government wants me and robin that badly, they’ll find a way to us. that’s an issue to worry about in the future…anyhow!”
the crew deadpanned at his switch in attitude, his own face lighting up.
“doctor! i have a special request!” his thumb went to play with the metal of his necklace once more, “imbed this into my flesh!”
“what?!” the crew cried out.
“aokiji knows i have it which means everyone in the marines and government knows i have it as well. there will be a more permanent solution in the future, but for now-”
“what’s more permanent than surgical implementation?!” usopp cried out with alligator tears running down his face.
“but until then, i need to make it so they can’t actually rip it off of my neck as easy as that. i don’t plan on becoming a dog for them to command, ever again,” a solemn look is on his face, “so i need to make sure that this doesn’t leave my body. what better way than putting it below my skin and in my flesh!”
“morbid and extreme, but it would most definitely work…” robin breathes out, resting her chin in her hand.
“if that’s the measures he needs to take, we should fulfill them. especially if we are going to anticipate the government going after him, imagine what will happen if he goes off his own accord? us versus [name] is what they’ll set us up for,” zoro cuts in, being a voice of reason and taking [name]’s side, “no matter what, we can’t let that happen.”
the implication was clear. if the strawhats were forced to face [name] as an enemy, they wouldn’t be able to succeed. not only because he is their friend, of course, but also in terms of strength, the difference would be stark and the chances of the strawhats winning would be low. far too low for it to be a risk they could even take.
“if that’s the case, then do it immediately!” luffy agrees, crossing his arms over his chest, “i won’t let them take [name]’s freedom!”
“thanks captain, zoro,” [name] smiles softly, standing up from the floorboards, “well, chopper, you’re the doctor, so you get final say,”
“i’d never deny a patient their wishes!” chopper cries out, hooves shaking at his sides, “but, won’t it be dangerous — for you? any surgery on your body is a ginormous risk as it is, are you sure?”
“positive, i can take it. and i trust you, chopper,”
there is a silence on board that no one dares to break as they await chopper’s response. it doesn’t take long for him to agree, motioning for his doctor’s room, “let’s make sure they can’t find it.”
the crew watches the two go behind closed doors and they’re left in silence.
robin is the first to speak up, “how much do you guys know about [name]’s past, besides our captain?”
“that was the first time he’s ever talked about it,” nami replies, her eyes still trained on the doctor’s quarters.
“he’s withheld such important information from us by waiting this long to tell us. he should’ve told us in alabasta whenever he went against that guy,” zoro sighs, not in any particular tone of disrespect or distaste. his eyebrows were furrowed together and he looked to luffy, “what are we going to do if one day he isn’t in control of his body?”
luffy’s lips formed a thin line as he challenged zoro’s stare, “i won’t hurt [name], no matter what,”
“and what if the scenario calls for something to be done,” zoro continues on pushing, “we have to be coordinated should anything happen,”
”you’re sure jumping at the opportunity to hurt him, huh marimo? that’s low, even from you,” sanji joins the conversation, a grimace on his face as he steps forward.
“i don’t want to hurt him, that’s the entire point of me asking!” zoro snarls, “you think i want to fight him? obviously i don’t, shitty cook. quit being irrational and think logically about this,”
“irrational? me? you’re the one basically asking us to be okay with fighting him and what? kill him? as if that’s entirely your decision to be making! as if that’s a sound, sane thing to think and say out loud!”
the crew bristles at the harsh words. it was clear that the two were getting more and more heated, stepping forward with their posture rigid while glaring daggers at each other. it took luffy stepping in between them for the two to break out of their trance.
“[name]’s told me what he wants me to do if he ever loses control, when we were kids. he asked me to either restrain him or kill him. obviously, i told him he was stupid. he made me promise that i would and i did,” it was as if the crew held all held their breath at the confession, “obviously i don’t intend to keep that promise! that’s stupid! i crossed my fingers behind my back when we pinky-promised it, so that means the promise wasn’t actually made!” luffy’s serious expression turned comically stressed, scratching the back of his head.
“[name] is under the impression he’s always the strongest in the room, but he’s a big cry baby! he’s not stronger than me! i know i can stop him without hurting him. i refuse to hurt him ever.” luffy’s confident tone makes the crew go at ease, even if they didn’t whole heartedly believe his declarations. simply hearing the words “i refuse to hurt him ever” were enough to put them at ease.
“if there’s ever an instance where [name] isn’t in control of himself, you all have to agree you won’t hurt him. no matter what. those are captain’s orders.”
their captain’s usually joking tone is nowhere to be heard now. zoro’s eyes dart away from luffy when he sees his captain looking directly at him. everyone on board of the going merry nods in understanding. they wouldn’t want to turn against one of their own anyway, no matter the circumstances. so it wasn’t exactly a hard order to follow through with.
“i never meant to say we should hurt him!” he defends himself, feeling all their eyes stare at him, “c’mon, you guys know i didn’t mean it like that. i wouldn’t want to hurt him either,” his voice goes quieter at the end, feeling suddenly flustered at having to verbally prove himself to them. it doesn’t help that the entire crew is watching him with blank stares.
robin seems to break the tense mood with a giggle, “what would his reaction be to hear you care so much for him? i’ll be sure to fill him in on this conversation we’ve had after his surgery with chopper is over,”
zoro’s ears go red as do the apples of his cheeks as he picks up on her implication, “hey, woman! if you tell him this, then you better be clear about it! don’t tell lies on my name!”
“it just sounded like you were so concerned for his safety just now, that’s all i’m observing,” robin puts her hands up in surrender, a placid smile on her face.
“well, i am not! i just don’t want this stupid shit bugging my conscious! unlike you guys, i like to be prepared!”
“ahh, i see, zoro!” usopp says, knocking his fist to his open palm as if a lightbulb just lit up above his head, “since you love and care about [name] so much, you didn’t want the stress and worry of possibly hurting him in a fight to be something that would burden you! i see!”
“usopp, quit it,” zoro warns, but the redness of his face, now going down his neck, doesn’t make him all that intimidating.
“zoro, you’re such a softie,” nami hums, stretching her arms over her head, “at least we know more about [name] and how we can help him if we would need to,”
“for someone as lighthearted as him, you wouldn’t expect him to have such a dark secret,” usopp shivers, “i can’t imagine that. it sounds awful, no wonder he hates the government so much,”
“experimentation…one of the worst forms of torture, for it to go to what sounds like mind control as well. they truly are heartless,” robin adds on, reminding them of the current operation going on.
“do you think chopper would need any help?” nami thinks aloud.
“best not to interrupt him when he’s in his element — besides, there might not be much we could even do to help. i don’t know about you guys, but i don’t know a thing about a serious operation like that,” sanji says, lighting up the end of his cigarette, “[name]’s right, though. he’ll be just fine when he wakes up,”
“you’re right,” nami sighs, dejected at [name]’s health being compromised once again.
“huh? what was that, nami? sounds like you were caring a lot for [name] just then,” zoro teases, obviously wanting the heat to get off of his back from the fun everyone else was poking at him. unfortunately, he chose the worst target as nami was quick to snap back at him.
“don’t pretend like we don’t see you making your gushy heart eyes at him whenever you two work out together.” she calmly states, knowing she just lit another fuse in zoro’s mind. whether or not it was true was something only her and zoro would know…
“oi! that definitely does not happen, you evil bitch!” zoro shouts, utterly flabbergasted at the mere insinuation. “hey, are you listening to me?! i don’t do that shit!”
“whatever you say, zoro,” nami shrugs, turning her back on the swordsman with a victorious smirk on her face.
everyone around zoro disperses, all laughing at their teasing and jokes that obviously got under the usually stoic swordsman’s skin. the only one left to stand near him was sanji.
“if you ever think of suggesting stupid bullshit like that again, i’ll seriously beat you up and personally escort you to the afterlife, shitty swordsman,” sanji says through gritted teeth.
“how many times do i have to say it before it gets through your thick skull? i didn’t mean it like that, pervy cook. believe what you want, but i’d never hurt [name]…or any crewmate,” zoro scoffs walking past him and making sure to roughly bump his shoulder with the cook.
“we’re done!” chopper announced, opening the doors and holding them for [name].
“feeling brand new. we really have the best doctor ever!” [name] cheers, picking up chopper and squeezing him tight.
“how are you feeling, [name]? where was the incision?” nami is the first to bound over, eyes raking over [name]’s figure.
”riiight here,” he lifts his shirt up and points to his ribcage where the bandage is, “as close to my heart as chopper was comfortable with,”
“because you don’t seem to understand how impossible it is to do surgery on someone like you. no blood transfusions at all? that’s unheard of, don’t you get it?”
“why no blood transfusions? i’m sure someone on board has the same blood type as [name] does,” usopp asks, walking up and inspecting the bandage.
“nobody can give blood to [name], or vice versa,” chopper says, a sad look on his face.
“what?!” a majority of the crew screeches, disbelief clearly written on their face.
“now that i think about it, [name] never did get any whenever he was injured,” sanji thinks out loud, a puff of smoke following his words.
“since i have amazing regeneration abilities!” [name] proudly shouts, making nami next to him cover her ears.
“are you allergic to being normal after life threatening moments?!” she shouts, her voice louder than his and making him quiet down.
“eh, i’m not allergic to anything, nami, you know this…unless you count my utter disgust for sweets!” she just glares at him harder and curses under her breath at his inability to be serious.
“[name]’s blood is entirely unique…i’ve never seen any like it before. it’s as if you were to give a blood transfusion to someone that didn’t have the same type as you, except no one in the world — to my knowledge — has the same blood type as [name].” chopper explains for the man, making him nod beside the doctor, still grinning widely like a fool.
“well, you can thank the government for that as well!” [name] smiles, pointing to his arm, “they really want me to die! too bad i’m practically immortal!”
“no you aren’t, idiot,” usopp slaps the back of his head, side eyeing him, “you sure love acting like it though…” then the sniper blinks in realization, head snapping back and forth between chopper and [name], “wait what do you mean by that?!”
“i mean, my blood is like this because the government completely…hm, remade…me! i can’t produce normal blood cells since they made me like this!” he is still wearing that wide smile as if that wasn’t a tragedy in of itself.
“how…” robin blinks, seemingly being the only one to understand the severity of such a statement. besides chopper, of course. “does technology like that even exist in this world?”
“beats me, i can’t remember much from that process,” [name] shrugs, scratching the back of his head.
“to change your blood type completely? that sounds impossible,”
“it should be,” chopper nodded, eyebrows furrowing together as he explained to the crew, “blood cells are produced in your bone marrow, meanwhile your blood type is determined by your family lineage and genes. reworking the human body to the point of completely erasing your natural blood type and forcing your body to then produce a completely unheard of blood type instead? that was never even a theory in any of the textbooks i’ve read! i wouldn’t even know where one would start that process…”
“woah, that’s really…different,” usopp marvels, looking [name] up and down once more, “[name]…you’re even more incredible than i thought!” the man blinks at him in confusion and usopp continues on, “i mean, the reason why you’re different is terrible — absolutely horrific! but even under such circumstances, you charge into battle without fear! it’s amazing! there’s so much more at stake whenever you fight, but you don’t even care!”
a sad smile graces [name]’s features, understanding where usopp was coming from in his amazement.
“that’s what i’ve been telling you guys!” luffy’s voice shouts above everyone else’s. his arms stretch to grab ahold of [name]’s neck and the man simply braces his figure for the incoming captain. in the blink of an eye, luffy is now completely smothering [name] and rubbing his face in the crook of his neck, “[name]’s the strongest guy i know! he’s fearless and he never backs down despite all that! he’s the best!”
[name] chuckles at the praise, supporting luffy with his hand underneath his thigh as the other picks up the strawhat on his head to place on his own, “high compliments from my captain, i’m honored,”
luffy only continues on laughing like a giddy kid, squeezing [name] even harder, “hey, usopp, let me tell you some stories about [name] when we were kids! one time, he took down an entire group of guys and walked away completely fine! he’s always been tough since we were kids!”
“no way! tell me more, [name]! more!” usopp cheered, his loud voice winning over chopper who chased the three, eager to hear more stories as well.
“do either of them realize how tragic that all is?” nami thinks out loud, watching them carelessly run around the ship as [name] exchanges tales with them.
“who knows, maybe that’s exactly how [name] wants to talk about it. in stories that make those around him happy versus feeling pity towards him,” zoro hums, “besides, offering condolences won’t do much after all none of us on board were the ones to put him through such atrocities,”
“still…if luffy and [name] were talking about it as if it was known since their childhood…that means the government was doing that to him when he was merely a boy.”
nami’s eyes well up at the mere thought, lip quivering ever so slightly. she has to swallow down the lump in her throat for her to even begin calming down.
beside her, sanji bites hard into the filter of his cigarette. a shadow cascades over his face as he stomps it out on the ground, breaking away from the group and entering the kitchen. nobody follows after him, but their eyes do watch him and his reaction carefully.
“it’s sickening,” nami concludes, lifting her head up and staring straight forward. she puts on a hard stare, trying to get over her bout of nostalgia and overflow of emotions. “however! he’s been nothing but a worrying, stupid, trouble causing crewmate since he’s been on board this ship! so, i’m not gonna start treating him like he’s some fragile thing!”
“i’m sure he wouldn’t want us to treat him any different too. the normalcy of our dynamics may be odd, but it is still what is normal,” robin smiles, watching with a fond look in her eyes at the four that were now sitting on the deck. the three were so enraptured by [name]’s dramatic story telling they no longer were paying anyone else any mind.
“that’s right, he’s still a reckless idiot,” zoro yawns, rolling his eyes as he overhears the storytelling and going off somewhere else on the ship, still in ear shot of [name]’s voice.
meanwhile in the kitchen, sanji was preparing a cup of coffee and tea. a blank look was on his face as he went through the familiar task. he was practically moving on autopilot.
after a couple of seconds of waiting for the coffee to heat up underneath the fire, he slammed his hand down onto the counter. he curses under his breath, hoping no one from the crew went to check up on him due to the loud sound.
he grabs the collar of his shirt and presses it quickly to his eyes before moving through the motions once more. he even shakes his head to will his thoughts away.
on deck, [name] holds luffy in his lap by his heavy arm resting around the front of his waist, still using his hands to talk animatedly. he recounts more and more stories from luffy and his shared childhood while usopp and chopper listen with stars in their eyes.
behind him and over the horizon, directly straight ahead of merry’s path, the view of water 7 was finally starting to become visible.
[ .ᐟ ] feeling nervy publishing this because it is quite a stagnant chapter, but i love mc's lore and am excited to finally share bits of it here for you guys...please tell me if u hate it orlove it or want to explode it with your brain. comments really motivate me and also entertain me to death so if you comment, there is a chance you very easily could save my writing energy and recharge it completely. thank u guys sm for sticking along and i hope this update didn't completely disappoint you guys (since sometimes lore can be so boring to readers which i understand completely!!!) just thank u for even reading my BULLSHIT i love u guys very much
he absolutley adores SLOW kissing. any moment he's admiring you, you can tell by his eyes that he wants it, he'll grab your face and just kiss you so deeply and slowly, taking his time with you that it's impossible to pull away.
in big crowds he dosen't DARE ever leave you, he will always have either his hand in yours or both hands around your waist, guiding you.
anytime he can get the chance he WILL be putting his fingers in your mouth. and everytime he does, he just closes his eyes and tries not to make a sound.
he's very big on mock sympathy. anytime you're expressing dumb frustration over something small or stupid he'll hold your chin up with his finger and say something like, "oh yeah? aw baby, i'm so sorry" in the hottest mocking tone ever. (he's not mean about it, you both know you're frustrated over something dumb)
he curses your name under his breath everytime you kiss his neck, "fuck,___" is something that never fails to leave his mouth.
he loves it when you play with his hair. sometimes, while you're watching tv, he'll lay down in between your legs and let you play with his curls. he secretly finds it funny when you give him a bunch of tiny braids but he tries not to laugh just so you don't do it again, but that never works anyways.
for some reason, he always tells you never to be afraid to scratch him, he finds it so sexy to see the scratches on his back after you guys do it.
.✦ ݁˖ Tom always believed that love makes you weak and he was not wrong either. Cause whenever he was with you, he lost all the control he had just moments before.
ᝰ.ᐟ Smut, semi!public sex, handjob, sub!Tom, swearing, english is not authors first language.
𝓐ᥫ᭡. Perhaps.. 🤭
I can't decide if this is cringe, shitty or the best piece of literature i've ever written.
I had a fever writing this so please forgive me for any mistakes oops.. also have fun reading xx.
────୨ৎ────
— "Please, just put it down" Tom spoke, he didn't even recognize his own voice, low, strained, almost pleading.
You smiled, a michevious grin played on your face as your grip on the book tightened just a little. You flipped to the next page slowly, watching him the entire time.
Watching the way his eyes darkened as your gaze focused on the words written in cursive - his handwriting.
His jaw tightened, if it wasn't for the fact that you were the one snooping in his diary he would've snapped it from your hands long ago. He should. It was his private diary, not some silly book filled with things for you to read.
— "You know, you're really cute when you're flustered." You added, tilting your head. The dim light of the slytherin common room highlighted your eyes in the most perfect way.
Oh he hated when you gave him that look.
It was the one look that he couldn't refuse, the one that made his stomach twist, the one that made him want to pull you closer.
He never did this, he never let anyone in - he needed the control, over himself - over everyone else.
He built a wall, to protect himself. But you? You slipped through his defences as if they never were there.
It gave him a sense of panic, he had no idea how to stop you, he didn't want to use anger or violence - wasn't worth the risk of losing you. And in fact, anger and violence was his only way of scaring people away, the only way he knew atleast.
— "Just give it back, put it down" He said, voice quiet, not intimidating at all.
You laughed, a soft, cozy laugh that was so you in many ways. It curled around him like a spell he couldn't counter. — "Or what? Just let me read it Tom" you challenged, stepping closer until the diary pressed against his chest.
His gaze flicked down for a moment, your heart skipped a beat when your eyes met his. Your lips twitched just a little, but he noticed - and for a moment he even imagined kissing them, engaging with your tongue in ways he couldn't even describe.
His hand twitched at his side, but he didn't reach for the book. Instead, he exhaled, a deep sharp exhale before opening his mouth to speak. — "You're fucking insufferable, you know that?"
You grinned, tossing the diary onto the sofa beside you. — "Yeah, I know." You murmured, then, before he had the time to react, you closed the distance between the two of you.
Your hands slid up his chest to curl around the lapels of his robes. Your grip was firm, and he found himself leaning into it, his body and desire for you betraying him before his mind could catch up and stop him.
You pulled away from the kiss, just for a moment. — "But you like it" you whispered, sending shivers down his spine.
He knew in that moment that he should have pushed you away. That he should have reminded himself, that he didn't do this, that he didn't let anyone else close enough to unravel him.
But he failed every time, his love for you was too strong, and like he always said "Love makes you weak"
Perhaps he was right, there was no way in hell that he could say no to you. Not when your lips were inches from his, your breath warm against his skin.
The kiss wasn't gentle, it was claiming, hungry, and he melted into it with a soft sound that normally would mortify him, but not right now.
Not when he was with you.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, making his knees weak. He let you guide him backward until the back of his legs hit the edge of an armchair, and then he was sitting, you in his lap as if you belonged there.
His hands found your hips as they always did, gripping tight, as if ge could anchor himself to this moment, and never forget.
Because next time, he'd stop you.
Bullshit.
His breath hitched as your teeth grazed his lower lip. He wanted to resist, wanted to tell you to stop, yet here he was, arching into your touch like some desperate thing. Fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt, practically begging you to take it off.
Your hands slid from his hair down to his shoulders, pushing his robes open with impatient fingers.
He didn't even notice the cool air of the common room, too focused on the way you traced the line of his collarbone, the way your hips rolled against his in a slow, rhythm that made him swallow a moan.
His hands trembled as they touched you, his breathing came in short, uneven gasps. — "Tell me, tell me that you love me" you murmured against his mouth.
He groaned, fingers sliding beneath the crisp fabric of your shirt. You knew exactly what you were doing, asking him when he was the most vulnerable.
He rarely said the three magic words, still going by his belief that love made you weak. But you loved him, and you wanted to hear him say it, though you felt his love in different ways.
He hated how his body helplessly arched into your touch, his hips jerking forward. He swallowed, — "I love—" he begun, but he didn't finish the sentence, kissing you instead. His mind told him to stop, to twist this moment into something sharp, but he physically couldn't.
Your hand slipped lower, palming him through his pants, and all he could do was let a choked groan out.
You smiled at the sound, pulling back just enough to watch the flush spread across his cheeks. — "Look at you," you teased him, your voice low as a whisper. He hated how your voice made his pulse stutter. His grip tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer so that there was no space separating you.
— "You're fucking crazy" he growled, hips bucking shamelessly into your touch. You giggled, ans then your mouth was on his neck again, sucking gently on the hot skin. — "I'm the crazy one, and yet you're the one pulling me closer" you murmured.
His breath hitched as you finally undid his belt, the metallic 'clink' of it loud in the quiet room.
His hands landed on your wrists with no real force, his grip weak, trembling.
Your thumb brushed over the head of his already hard cock slowly, and his head fell back against the chair with a thud as he gasped.
His fingers twitched, as if he couldn't decide whether to stop you or beg for more - he didn't beg. Instead he swallowed, preparing himself to speak when the words dissolved into a sharp moan as your fingers curled around him with deliberate precision. His hips jerked forward, chasing the heat of your touch.
He was now trembling beneath you, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His usual composure cracked completely, his eyelids fluttered shut, he bit himself to stifle another sound.
His breath came in short ragged gasps. — "You're going to kill me.." he murmured between pants.
You laughed softly, pressing a kitten lick to the head as you continued working him, — "You love me" you spoke, moving up to kiss him.
He whined as your fingers tightened even more around him, stroking slowly. — "Please" he gasped, a word that usually was forbidden in his vocabulary.
Your free hand sneaked in beneath his shirt to trace his abs, — "You're such a begger" you teased, completely aware of what he thought of that term.
His cock twitched in your hand, he was close now. — "Please, ah" he moaned, hips jerking helplessly as ropes of cum leaked out all over your hand.
content jason todd x gn! reader, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, memory loss/involuntary forgetting, identity erasure, trauma from experimentation, kidnapping/captivity, medical experimentation, implied torture/non-consensual medical procedures, guns/weapons, jason points a gun at you repeatedly, blood/injury, violence, emotional distress, grief/abandonment themes, jason's resurrection trauma mentioned, guilt, mentions of jason's death
masterlist
wordcount 6.1k
you develop powers that make everyone forget you the moment they look away, leaving you lonely and erased from the world—even jason, your childhood best friend and unspoken love. jason keeps instinctively threatening you because he can’t remember who you are, but some part of him knows he’s missing someone vital.
Jason Todd started leaving space for someone he couldn’t remember.
It was the first thing he noticed.
Not because he was sentimental. He wasn’t. Not because he liked examining the empty rooms of himself for missing furniture. He didn’t. Jason Todd survived by ignoring the absence until it bled through the walls.
But there were two mugs in his sink. Always two.
One with a chipped handle that said World’s Okayest Criminal—a gift from Roy, probably, because Roy had no respect for subtlety or kitchenware. The other was plain blue, old, the glaze worn thin near the rim like someone had a habit of rubbing their thumb there.
Jason never used the blue one.
Jason always washed it anyway.
There was an extra blanket folded on the back of his couch. Not his. Too soft. Too carefully mended. There were two takeout containers in the fridge when he remembered ordering only one. His emergency medkit had a roll of purple bandages tucked behind the gauze, even though he would rather die twice than buy purple bandages.
And then there were the notes.
Not the mission notes. Not the threat maps. Not the case files in his awful, blocky handwriting.
These were smaller. Written on receipts. Napkins. The inside of his wrist. Once, scratched into the dust on his windowsill.
Don’t look away. Blue mug. You’re forgetting someone. Forget-me-not.
The last one bothered him most.
Not because he knew what it meant.
Because he didn’t.
And somehow, somehow, that felt worse.
You met Jason Todd when he was thirteen and hungry enough to bite the hand that helped him.
He had been trying to steal the tyres off a parked car behind the community centre. You had been sitting on the fire escape above him, eating the last half of a bruised apple and watching him work with the grim focus of a surgeon.
“You’re doing that wrong,” you said.
Jason jerked so hard he hit his head on the bumper.
“Shut up,” he snapped, looking up at you with a tyre iron in his hand and fury in his eyes.
You took another bite of the apple. “I’m just saying. If you loosen the lug nuts before jacking it up, it’s easier.”
His glare sharpened. “You a cop?”
“I’m thirteen.”
“So?”
That had been the first time you laughed at him.
Jason had scowled like you’d personally offended his bloodline, but he didn’t leave. He stayed under that fire escape while you climbed down. He pretended not to listen while you told him which cars had alarms and which didn’t. You pretended not to notice when he pocketed the apple core after you tossed it aside.
After that, Jason was everywhere.
The alley behind the centre. The library steps. The roof of the old laundromat, where the neon sign flickered all night like a dying star. You shared stolen sandwiches, stolen books, stolen hours. He read too fast and argued with every author as if they were personally wronging him.
He liked Austen and denied it with violence in his eyes. He liked Shakespeare but said Hamlet needed to “get over himself.”
He liked you. Not that either of you said it.
Back then, love was a luxury item locked behind glass. You had friendship, which was safer. Friendship meant stealing gloves for each other in winter. Friendship meant pretending not to be scared when sirens got close. Friendship meant Jason showing up at your window one night with split knuckles and saying, “Don’t ask,” and you letting him in anyway.
Then Bruce Wayne took him in. Then Robin happened. Then the Joker happened.
Then Jason died.
And you learned the hard way that some people could leave the world and still haunt every room in it.
For years, Jason was a grave you visited without flowers because flowers felt too soft for him. Too delicate. Jason had been fire and teeth and a laugh like a match struck in the dark.
Then he came back. Older. Broader. Angry in ways that had edges. Red helmet. Guns. Ghost-green rage burning behind his eyes.
The first time he saw you after his resurrection, he froze so completely you thought the world had glitched.
You were standing in the rain outside an all-night bodega, one hand around a bag of groceries, the other around your keys like a weapon. Gotham rain slicked his leather jacket black. The red helmet stared at you from across the sidewalk.
Then he took it off.
And there he was.
Jason Todd. Dead boy. Living man. Your impossible.
You dropped the groceries.
He said your name like it hurt him.
You punched him in the chest so hard your knuckles ached.
He let you. Then he pulled you into his arms, and for one impossible second, the years folded like paper. You were thirteen again. He smelled like rain and gunpowder and something warm under all the war.
“You died,” you said into his jacket.
“I got better,” he rasped.
You hit him again.
He laughed. You cried.
Neither of you talked about the fact that he held you like someone who had been buried with your name still in his mouth.
The powers came later. Not from a glowing meteor. Not from a dramatic curse. Not from some poetic bargain with the universe.
They came from a warehouse in the Bowery and a group of men who thought memory could be weaponised.
You weren’t supposed to be there. That was the stupidest part. The most Gotham part. You were walking home from a late shift when someone grabbed you off the street because you saw a van door open and a girl inside with tape over her mouth.
You remembered screaming. You remembered a needle. You remembered white rooms underground, men in masks, machines that hummed like insects behind your skull.
They called the project Mnemosyne. They called you Subject Nine. They said things like “retention instability” and “observer-dependent identity collapse” while you were strapped to a chair with blood drying behind your ear.
You broke out during an explosion. Or maybe someone broke you out. It got hazy after the alarms. Smoke. Red emergency lights. Your own heartbeat clawing up your throat.
You found the girl from the van. You got her out. You ran until your lungs shredded.
On the street, under the flicker of a broken lamppost, she turned to you with wide, terrified eyes.
“You saved me,” she said.
Then a car backfired. She looked away. When she looked back, her face emptied.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
At first, you thought it was shock.
Then the paramedics came. You tried to tell them your name. One looked down to write it.
When he lifted his eyes, he frowned. “Sorry, are you family?”
You backed away.
Police arrived. Someone put a blanket around your shoulders, then turned to answer a question, then forgot why the blanket was there.
By morning, every record from the warehouse was gone. Every witness forgot you existed the moment they stopped seeing you. Security footage blurred around your body like reality had rubbed you out with a thumb.
You ran to the only person you trusted.
Jason.
He lived in a safehouse above a closed pawn shop then. Third floor. Reinforced door. Two locks, one electronic keypad, one old-school deadbolt because Jason trusted steel more than software.
You still knew the code. You shouldn’t have.
You entered shaking, half-starved, wearing a stolen hoodie and shoes that didn’t fit. Jason was in the kitchen cleaning a gun.
He looked up. For one second, he was your Jason.
His eyes widened. “Hey—what the hell happened to you?”
You nearly collapsed from relief. “Jay,” you choked.
He crossed the room fast, gun abandoned on the counter. His hands hovered over you like he wanted to check for injuries but didn’t know where to start.
“Talk to me,” he said, voice going low and urgent. “Who did this?”
You tried. You told him about the warehouse. The machines. The girl. The paramedics. The way people’s memories slid off you like rain off glass.
Jason listened. Jason believed you. Of course he did. Jason had crawled out of his own grave. Gotham had taught both of you that impossible was usually just Tuesday wearing a fake moustache.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. We figure it out. Babs can look into missing footage. I’ll call—”
He turned toward the counter for his phone.
You felt it happen.
Not saw it. Not heard it.
Felt it. Like a hook in your chest going slack.
“Jason,” you said quickly.
He stopped. His shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he reached for the gun.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
The room dropped out from under you. “Jay.”
He spun, weapon raised.
The barrel pointed at your chest.
You forgot how to breathe.
“Don’t call me that,” he said. His voice was ice over panic. “How did you get in here?”
“Jason, please. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“No, I mean—don’t look away.”
His grip tightened. His eyes were sharp, scanning you like a threat map. “Answer the question.”
“You know me.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Your voice broke. “You do, Jason. We grew up together. You stole tyres behind the community centre. You loved Pride and Prejudice and threatened to burn my shoes if I told anyone. You came to my window after Willis—”
“Shut up.”
“You died and came back and found me outside the bodega. I punched you. You said you got better.”
His face changed. It was tiny. A crack in the armour. A twitch near his mouth. His eyes searched yours like something in him had heard a song through a wall.
“I don’t know you,” he said, but the words had lost their teeth.
“You do.”
His breathing got rough. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
For a second, you thought you had him. For a second, Jason lowered the gun.
Then something clattered in the hallway outside.
His gaze snapped to the door.
When he looked back—
Nothing. Blankness. Threat.
Gun up.
“Last chance,” he said. “Who are you?”
That was the first time Jason Todd forgot you.
It was not the last.
Loneliness became logistical.
That was the cruel joke of it. Everyone imagined loneliness as candlelight and rain on windows and tragic music swelling in the distance. Very cinematic. Very marketable. Total scam.
Real loneliness was trying to rent a room from someone who forgot you halfway through handing over the keys. It was ordering food and watching the cashier blink at you because they’d turned to grab your drink. It was the doctors forgetting why you were in the exam room. Bus drivers demanding fare twice. Landlords calling the cops on “an intruder” inside the apartment you had paid for with cash they no longer remembered receiving.
It was learning not to cry in public because strangers would panic at the sight of tears on a face they couldn’t place.
You became a ghost with a pulse.
Worse, actually. Ghosts were remembered.
You tried recording yourself. The video showed you clearly until anyone else watched it. Then their eyes slipped away from the screen. Later, they couldn’t recall what they’d seen.
You tried writing notes. People could read them. They could understand the words. But the moment they looked away from the paper, the context dissolved.
You know me, you wrote once on Jason’s door.
He opened it, read the note, frowned, and looked down the hall.
You were standing right there.
He raised his gun before you could say hello.
Again. And again. And again.
The third time, he had a bruise on his jaw and blood on his collar. You had come because you’d heard gunfire from three blocks away and still knew his patrol routes like a prayer you’d never stopped saying.
You slipped in through the window.
“Behind you,” you said softly.
Jason turned, pistol already in hand.
You didn’t flinch fast enough. The gun pressed under your chin.
His eyes were green-blue violence. “You’ve got five seconds.”
You stared at him. Jason stared back.
Something inside him trembled.
Not his hand. Jason’s hands were steady. Always steady.
But his face. His face did something devastating.
It softened with confusion.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because you keep forgetting me.”
His finger shifted away from the trigger. “Do I know you?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed. “I feel like I do.”
That hurt worse than the gun.
You almost laughed. It came out broken. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s the problem.”
You gave him facts.
You learned to weaponise intimacy. Not the pretty kind. The surgical kind. Details sharp enough to cut through the fog.
“You hate peas but pretend it’s ideological.” A blink. “You read the ending of books first when you’re scared the dog dies.” His jaw tightened. “You called me after your first nightmare when you came back. You didn’t say anything for eight minutes. I stayed on the line.”
His hand lowered.
“You remember?” you asked.
“No.” His voice sounded scraped raw. “But I believe you.”
Then he looked down at the gun in his hand.
Gone.
His expression hardened.
“Don’t move.”
You moved.
Not toward him.
Away. Out the window. Across the roof. Into the night.
Jason shouted after you, but you knew by the time he reached the fire escape, he would not remember why he was running.
Jason started hunting a ghost.
He didn’t know that was what he was doing. He called it a case because that made sense. Cases had suspects, evidence, motive. Cases could be solved with enough pressure, enough blood, enough stubborn refusal to sleep.
There was someone in his safehouses. Someone who knew his codes. Someone who cleaned his wounds when he passed out bleeding on his bathroom floor, because he woke up bandaged in purple wrap and furious about the tenderness of it. Someone who kept leaving food. Someone who had patched a bullet hole in his jacket by hand.
Someone who knew him. Someone he kept forgetting.
It made him meaner than usual, which was honestly saying something.
“Maybe it’s a stalker,” Tim said one night over comms.
Jason was crouched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go sideways in the alley below. “Thanks, Replacement. Stellar detective work. You crack that case with your enormous brain, or did the coffee tell you?”
“Your emotional repression is showing.”
“Your face is showing.”
“My camera’s off.”
“I can sense it.”
Oracle cut in. “Children.”
“He started it,” Jason said.
“I’m an adult,” Tim said.
“Emotionally? Twelve.”
Oracle sighed. “Jason, about your ghost.”
“Not a ghost.”
“You have described them as appearing, disappearing, bypassing security, and leaving cryptic notes. That is at least ghost-adjacent.”
Jason hated that she sounded amused.
“They’re a person,” he said.
The words came out too fast. Silence hit comms.
Then Dick, because apparently everyone was on this channel now, said, “You sound sure.”
Jason aimed down his rifle scope. “I am sure.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know. Because sometimes he woke up with grief in his throat and a name already gone from his tongue. Because he caught himself buying your favourite candy and had no memory of learning you liked it.
Because once, half-asleep and feverish, he had reached across his bed like someone belonged there.
Because every time he found one of those notes, something in him whispered, Don’t lose them again.
Again.
That was the word that haunted him.
Again.
You watched him from a distance because love made you stupid.
That was the ugly truth.
You should have left Gotham. You tried, once. Got as far as Blüdhaven before realising the city forgot you, too, only with worse parking.
You came back.
For Jason. Because he was reckless. Because he bled too much. Because he left windows unlocked without meaning to.
Because some part of you still belonged to the boy under the fire escape, the one who took your advice and pretended he hadn’t, the one who looked at you like you were something worth surviving for.
You were in love with him. You had been for years, probably.
Maybe since the laundromat roof. Maybe since he read aloud to you from Persuasion and claimed it was “for the bit.” Maybe since he came back from the dead and said your name like it was the one thing the grave hadn’t taken.
You loved him. And Jason kept aiming guns at you.
Honestly? This is how Gotham did romance. Absolute trash fire. Zero stars. Would still haunt again.
The worst time happened in his apartment.
Not a safehouse. His actual apartment. The one with books stacked everywhere and a couch too ugly to be ironic. The one place you had never entered without permission.
But he had been hurt. Badly.
You found him by following blood drops up the stairwell. His door was ajar. His helmet lay cracked near the entryway.
Jason was on the floor. Unconscious.
For one terrible second, he looked dead again.
You made a sound you didn’t recognise.
Then you moved.
You stitched the knife wound in his side with shaking hands. Cleaned blood from his ribs. Checked his pupils. Sat beside him for hours, terrified that if you looked away from him, you would forget yourself too.
At dawn, he woke with a gasp.
His hand shot under the pillow.
You caught his wrist. “Jay, it’s me.”
His eyes focused.
He froze. His body knew you before his mind did. You felt it in the way his wrist slackened under your fingers. The way his breathing changed. The way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back up again with the stunned, aching recognition of someone seeing sunrise after years underground.
“You,” he whispered.
Hope was cruel.
You should have known better.
“Yeah,” you said.
His brows pulled together. “I was dreaming about you.”
Your heart cracked open. “What did you dream?”
His eyes didn’t leave your face. “Rain. A bodega. You were mad at me.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
“You died.”
A faint, pained smile touched his mouth. “Sounds like me.”
You laughed through the tears before you could stop yourself.
Jason stared at you like the sound had punched him.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“What?”
“Laugh like I should know it.”
You looked down. His fingers shifted under yours. Not pulling away. Holding on.
“I’m trying,” he said.
“I know.”
“No.” His voice dropped, rough and desperate. “You don’t. I keep finding—things. Notes. Food. Bandages. I keep waking up feeling like somebody carved out half my chest and didn’t leave a scar.” His hand tightened around yours. “I don’t know you, but I miss you.”
You stopped breathing.
Jason’s eyes burned. “How the hell do I miss someone I don’t know?”
“Because you did know me.”
He stared.
“You were my best friend,” you said. “Before Bruce. Before Robin. Before the grave. Before all this.”
His expression shattered so quietly you almost missed it.
“Best friend,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
Something unbearably soft moved across his face.
“And now?”
The question hung between you.
Now, you thought, I love you so much it’s ruining me.
Now, you thought, I would let you forget me forever if it meant you stayed alive.
Now, you thought, I am so tired.
You opened your mouth.
A crash sounded from the fire escape.
Jason turned. Just a glance. Just instinct.
Just enough.
When he looked back, he ripped his hand from yours like he’d been burned.
Gun out. Pointed at your heart.
You stood slowly.
His stitches pulled. He hissed.
“Stay back,” he snapped.
“Jason.”
“Who are you?”
Your whole body went cold.
Not because he had forgotten.
You were used to that by now.
Because this time, you had almost told him. This time, he had almost asked. This time, the universe had yanked the leash before either of you could cross the line.
You raised your hands.
Jason’s eyes flickered to the blood on your fingers.
His blood.
Your hands.
His gun.
“Did you do this to me?” he demanded.
That one broke you.
You left without answering.
After that, you stopped going to him. For three weeks, you did the closest thing to healing you knew how to do.
You disappeared on purpose.
No rooftops. No safehouses. No slipping through Jason’s window to check if he was sleeping. No leaving food. No purple bandages. No notes.
You found an abandoned greenhouse behind an old school in Burnley and made it yours. The glass roof was cracked, but enough panes remained to catch the winter light. Wild vines had claimed the walls. Broken pots littered the floor. In the back, under a rusted table, you found a tray of dead seedlings with faded labels.
Basil. Thyme. Forget-me-not.
The last one made you sit down hard.
Of course. Gotham had a sense of humour, and it was evil.
You stole soil. Seeds. Bottled water. A blanket. Cans of soup. You built a life out of scraps because that was what you had always done.
Then you practised.
At first, you didn’t know what practising meant. How did you control being forgotten? How did you command absence? How did you hold your own shape inside other people’s minds when your power made you slippery as smoke?
So you started with objects.
You put a cracked mirror on the table and stared at yourself.
“My name is…” You said your name.
The mirror held you.
You looked away.
Looked back.
Still there.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Great. Congrats. Object permanence, but traumatic.”
You laughed. It sounded awful.
Next, you tried with birds.
Pigeons nested in the rafters. They remembered food, at least. Or maybe they remembered patterns. You put seeds in the same place every morning. They flew away when you moved, then came back.
They did not know you. But they trusted the shape of your kindness.
That became the first lesson.
Memory was not just a face.
It was pattern. It was feeling. It was the body recognising safety before the mind could name it.
Jason’s body had known you. That meant something.
So you practised being more than sight. You recorded your voice and listened until you could hold yourself steady through the playback.
You wrote your name on your skin.
You held your own gaze in the mirror and said, “I am here,” until the words stopped feeling like a plea and started feeling like an order.
The power fought you. It wanted collapse. It wanted erasure. It wanted to fold you into the blind spot of the world.
You fought back.
Some days, you lost. Some days, you lay on the greenhouse floor with dirt under your nails and cried so hard your ribs ached.
Some days, you hated Jason for forgetting. Then you hated yourself for hating him. Then you hated the men who had done this.
Then you hated the world because it kept spinning, rude and bright and busy, while you became a rumour no one could keep.
But slowly, slowly, something changed.
A pigeon looked away from you. Looked back.
Didn’t startle.
You sobbed over that bird like it had handed you the moon.
The next week, a stray cat remembered where your hand was.
Then an old woman at a corner store frowned at you after turning away to count change and said, “Didn’t you already pay?”
You almost kissed her.
You didn’t, because boundaries. Also, she had a broom.
Control came like sunrise through fog.
Not all at once. Not enough.
But real.
You learned that fear made the forgetting worse. Panic scattered you. Shame erased your edges.
Calm helped. Touch helped. Names helped.
Love—
Love did something strange.
You didn’t know how to test that.
Not without Jason.
Jason did not handle your absence well.
He would have denied that under oath, threat, torture, and probably alien mind probe.
But he was falling apart in practical, masculine, deeply embarrassing ways.
He stopped sleeping. He stopped cooking. He started tearing apart old case files from the Bowery, hunting for Mnemosyne, Subject Nine, memory tech, missing witnesses, anything.
He found nothing.
That was impossible. Nothing in Gotham left nothing behind.
So he dug deeper. Black Mask whispers. Penguin shipments. Old Cadmus shell companies. Court of Owls banking ghosts. He kicked down doors and broke fingers and followed the absence like it was blood.
Every trail ended in static.
Except one.
A flower. Pressed between the pages of a book he did not remember buying.
A tiny blue forget-me-not.
Beside it, in handwriting he recognised as his own:
They loved these.
Jason stared at the note until the words blurred.
A person. His person.
The thought slammed through him so hard he had to sit down.
His person.
He didn’t remember your face. He didn’t remember your name.
But grief had weight. Love had gravity. Whatever had been taken from him had left a crater.
Jason touched the dried flower with one finger.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to someone he couldn’t remember.
The apartment stayed quiet.
No answer. No laugh. No soft footsteps behind him.
For reasons he could not explain, that was when he broke.
Not loudly. Jason did not break like glass. He broke like a building condemned quietly from the inside.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.
And cried.
You returned because Jason found the warehouse.
Of course he did.
You heard about it from two men in an alley who forgot you while you were standing between them. They were nervous. Talking too much. Red Hood had been asking questions. Red Hood had found the old Mnemosyne site. Red Hood was going to get himself killed because subtlety had never met that man and lived.
You went cold all over.
The warehouse was not empty.
They had rebuilt underneath it. New locks. New guards. New machines humming beneath the concrete.
And Jason had walked right in.
By the time you arrived, the place was already burning. Gunfire cracked below. Alarms shrieked. Smoke rolled through the stairwell.
You moved through it like a ghost, because that was what they had made you. Men looked away and lost you. Cameras blurred. Guards shouted at shadows.
Then you heard Jason scream.
Not in fear.
In rage.
That was worse.
You found him in the central lab, chained to a metal chair under a halo of white lights. His helmet was gone. Blood ran from his temple. Electrodes clung to his skin.
A man in a lab coat stood beside a console.
“You are fascinating,” he said to Jason. “Repeated exposure to the anomaly has created subconscious retention pathways. Emotional memory without declarative recall. Remarkable.”
Jason spat blood on the floor. “You talk like a Wikipedia page grew legs and got bullied.”
God, you loved him.
The scientist sighed.
“You keep searching for them,” he said. “Even when you cannot remember who they are. The attachment survives erasure. We need to know why.”
Jason’s head lifted. Something terrible moved through his face.
“Them,” he said.
The scientist smiled.
“Ah,” he said. “There it is.”
You stepped into the room.
The scientist turned. His eyes landed on you.
Recognition flared—not of you, but of his experiment.
“Subject Nine,” he breathed.
Jason looked at you.
Everything stopped.
He stared like a starving man seeing food. Like an injured animal seeing home. Like a boy under a fire escape looking up at someone who knew which cars had alarms.
“You,” he whispered.
You held his gaze. “Hi, Jay.”
His breathing shook.
The scientist reached for a switch.
You moved first.
You were not a vigilante. Not really. You didn’t have armour or training from assassins or a dramatic cape. But you had survived Gotham. You had survived being erased. You had survived Jason Todd’s gun pointed at your heart more times than anyone should.
So you picked up a metal tray and hit the scientist in the face with it.
He dropped like a sack of bad decisions.
Jason blinked.
You froze.
No. No, not now.
His eyes closed for half a second from blood loss and pain.
When they opened, panic flickered there.
Not blankness.
Panic.
“Don’t go,” he said.
You nearly dropped the tray. “You remember?”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Yes. I don’t—stay where I can see you.”
You rushed to him and started working on the restraints.
His hands were shaking. Jason Todd’s hands were shaking.
“Look at me,” you said.
“I am.”
“Keep looking.”
“Not a hardship,” he rasped.
“Jason.”
“What? You’re pretty. I’m concussed. Let me have this.”
You laughed, breathless and wrecked. His eyes filled with something like wonder.
“I know that laugh,” he whispered.
Your hands stilled.
“I know it.”
The restraints snapped open. Jason sagged forward. You caught him. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and for one impossible second, he simply breathed you in.
Then the door opened.
Three guards rushed in.
Jason’s instincts took over.
He turned.
“No!” you shouted.
The forgetting hit like a wave.
You felt it tearing at the room, at him, at the fragile thread between your mind and his.
Not again.
Not again.
Something in you rose up.
Not fear. Not grief.
Fury.
You were tired of being stolen.
You grabbed Jason’s face between both hands and forced him back toward you.
“Remember me,” you said.
The lights flickered. The air bent. Jason’s pupils blew wide.
You felt the power twist, searching for absence, searching for the old path out.
You refused it.
“I am here,” you said, voice shaking. “I am real. You know me. You loved me before you had words for it. You found me in the rain. You forgot me with a gun in your hand, and I still came back because I am apparently an idiot with catastrophic taste in men.”
Jason made a strangled sound.
The guards shouted.
You did not look away.
“You are Jason Peter Todd,” you said through tears. “You hate peas. You love books. You died and came back wrong and still tried to be good even when you didn’t believe you were. You were my best friend. You are the love of my life. And I am done being erased.”
The room went silent.
Not actually. The alarms still screamed. The guards still moved. Fire still ate through the walls.
But inside the circle of Jason’s gaze, silence bloomed.
Blue and bright. Forget-me-not.
Jason stared at you.
Then, slowly, impossibly, he said your name.
You broke.
Jason caught you with one arm and raised his gun with the other.
He did not point it at you.
He pointed it past you.
“Hey,” he said to the guards, voice low and murderously calm. “You interrupted something important.”
The fight lasted forty-seven seconds. Jason was injured, half-electrocuted, and running on spite, which, unfortunately for everyone else, was his most renewable energy source. You helped by making yourself difficult to track, appearing in blind spots, knocking guns aside, and turning absence into a weapon instead of a wound.
When it was over, Jason leaned against the console, breathing hard.
You stood in front of him.
He looked at you. Then, deliberately, he turned his head away.
Your heart stopped.
“Jason—”
He looked back.
His face crumpled.
Still there. Still seeing you. Still knowing.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Jason laughed once, broken and disbelieving.
Then he reached for you.
You met him halfway.
The kiss was not graceful. There was blood on his mouth and smoke in your lungs. His hand shook against the back of your neck. You were crying too hard to breathe properly. It was a terrible first kiss, technically speaking.
It was also perfect.
Jason kissed you like a memory returning to a body. Like a vow. Like a wound finally closing.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I forgot you,” he said.
“Not on purpose.”
“I pointed guns at you.”
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “We’re going to unpack that. Emotionally. Extensively. Possibly with yelling.”
His mouth twitched. “Fair.”
“You scared me.”
His face went hollow with guilt. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” You touched his jaw. “But you will.”
Jason nodded. No defense. No deflection. No joke sharp enough to hide behind.
Just Jason.
Your Jason.
“I’ll remember,” he said.
The words trembled.
You believed him.
Recovery was not pretty. It did not arrive in one cinematic montage where sunlight poured through windows and everything healed because love had entered the chat.
Love helped.
Love was not a cure.
There were still bad days.
Some mornings, Jason woke up reaching for a gun because you were in his kitchen and his brain stuttered before recognition landed. He never pointed it at you again, but the reach was enough to make you go quiet.
He hated himself for that. You hated the flinch.
You both learned to survive the aftermath.
He started sleeping with his weapons locked away when you stayed over. You started announcing yourself before entering rooms.
He put your name in his phone with a blue heart beside it and stared at it so often you threatened to change it to Emotional Support Cryptid.
He said, “Do it, and I’ll make yours Haunting Me Professionally.”
You changed it immediately.
Jason laughed for a full minute.
The first time he left the room and remembered you when he came back, he cried in the hallway before opening the door.
You pretended not to notice. He knew you noticed.
He loved you for pretending.
The Bats took it with varying levels of grace.
Dick hugged you, forgot you when he turned to yell for Bruce, then turned back and screamed. Tim started wearing a body camera and taking notes with alarming intensity.
Damian narrowed his eyes and said, “Your condition is inconvenient.”
You said, “So is your personality, but here we are.”
Jason laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Damian remembered you after that. Pure spite, apparently, was also a memory anchor.
Bruce was the hardest.
Not because he forgot.
Because he looked at Jason after remembering enough and said, quietly, “You’ve been grieving someone.”
Jason’s face closed.
You reached for his hand. Jason let you.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was.”
Bruce looked at your joined hands. Then at you.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And maybe he forgot the exact shape of you when he looked away.
But he remembered Jason holding on.
That was enough for now.
Months later, the greenhouse bloomed.
You brought Jason there on a Sunday morning, when Gotham was pretending to be gentle.
The forget-me-nots had grown wild in the back, tiny blue flowers spilling from cracked pots, stubborn and bright against the ruin.
Jason stood under the broken glass roof with his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Subtle,” he said.
You nudged him. “Shut up.”
He looked down at the flowers. Then at you.
He did that a lot now. Looked at you.
Not out of fear. Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to. Because every glance was proof.
“You know,” he said, “I used to think I was haunted.”
“You were.”
“Rude.”
“You left notes to yourself about me. That’s haunting behaviour.”
“I was being investigative.”
“You wrote ‘blue mug’ on your arm.”
“Important clue.”
“You cried over a flower.”
Jason pointed at you. “That information was shared in confidence.”
You smiled.
His expression softened.
“I missed you,” he said.
The air changed.
You looked at him.
Jason swallowed, but he didn’t look away.
“I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your face. But I missed you all the time.” His voice roughened. “There was this… space. Everywhere. In my apartment. In my bed. In my head. Like my life had been built around someone, and then the world took them out but left the shape behind.”
Your eyes burned. “Jay.”
“I think some part of me knew,” he said. “Even when I forgot. Even when I was scared. Even when I—” His jaw tightened. “Even when I hurt you.”
You stepped closer.
“You didn’t stop loving me,” you said softly. “You just couldn’t remember where the love was supposed to go.”
Jason’s face broke open.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
You took his hand. He held on carefully, like you were both precious and real.
“I love you,” he said.
You had imagined those words so many times that they should have felt familiar.
They didn’t. They felt new. They felt like sun through cracked glass.
“I love you too,” you said.
Jason smiled. Small. Shy. Devastating.
Then he turned away.
Only for a second. Only to look at the flowers.
When he looked back, his smile was still there.
So was recognition. So was love.
You exhaled.
Jason squeezed your hand.
“Still here,” he said.
You leaned into him, shoulder against his arm, and looked at the forget-me-nots blooming in the ruins.
Warnings: toxic dynamics, possessiveness, jealousy, argument, violence, hurtful words
Summary: After hearing that Mattheo hexed another student for speaking badly about her, Y/N waits for him at the Astronomy Tower, furious that he keeps using violence in her name. What starts as an argument quickly turns raw and personal, with Mattheo accusing her of being ashamed of him and Y/N admitting she’s terrified of what his love and anger are turning him into. Beneath the jealousy, possessiveness, and cruel words they don’t fully mean, the truth still remains the same: they love each other too much to walk away. Under the stars, after nearly tearing each other apart, they find their way back to each other.
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────
I was already angry by the time I reached the Astronomy Tower.
Not the kind of anger that burned hot and vanished fast. This was worse. This sat under my skin and stayed there, sharp and ugly, feeding on every step I took up the stone staircase. My chest felt tight, my hands cold despite how hard I was gripping the railing, and with every second that passed, I only got more certain that if Mattheo looked at me and tried to justify what he’d done, I might actually scream.
The tower was almost empty at this hour.
The last of the evening had fallen away, leaving the castle wrapped in that strange hush that only came at night. The sky above was black velvet, endless and deep, scattered with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch. Wind curled across the open tower, cold and biting, slipping through my sleeves and lifting strands of my hair across my face. Usually I loved it up here. Usually it felt like stepping outside the world, like nothing ugly could reach this high.
Tonight it felt exposed.
Tonight it felt like a battlefield.
He wasn’t there yet.
Of course he wasn’t.
I folded my arms over my chest and paced the width of the tower, fury making me restless. My footsteps echoed against the stone. I tried not to think about what I’d heard, because every time I did, I saw it too clearly.
Another student. Another fight. Another hex.
Because someone had said something about me.
I should’ve been used to it by now. That was the worst part. I wasn’t even shocked. Just tired. Tired and furious and so deeply, horribly afraid of the person he was becoming that I could hardly stand it.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy. Familiar.
I stopped pacing immediately, every muscle in my body going rigid.
Mattheo appeared a second later, one hand brushing the stone archway as he stepped onto the tower. His tie was loose, his dark hair wind-tossed like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times, and there was still something volatile clinging to him, something unsettled and dangerous. His expression shifted the moment he saw me.
For half a second, just half a second, there was relief in his eyes.
Then he saw my face.
His jaw tightened.
"You’re here," he said.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Brilliant observation."
He stared at me for a beat, already reading the storm in my voice. "Who told you?"
That made my anger sharpen so fast it nearly took my breath.
"That’s your first question?"
His eyes narrowed. "Who told you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why? So you can hex them too?"
His expression darkened at once. "Don’t start."
I actually laughed then, full of disbelief. "Don’t start? Mattheo, are you insane? You attacked someone again."
"He deserved it."
"That’s not the point."
"It is the point." He stepped farther into the tower, his voice already rising. "If he kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened."
"So now you get to decide who gets hurt based on whether they annoy you?"
"He didn’t annoy me." Mattheo’s eyes flashed. "He was talking about you."
"I know he was talking about me," I snapped. "That doesn’t mean you get to curse every person who says something cruel."
"Why not?"
For a second I just stared at him.
The wind rushed between us, cold and loud in the silence that followed. He looked completely serious. Completely certain.
"Because you are not everyone’s executioner," I said, my voice lower now, trembling at the edges. "Because not every problem is solved by pain. Because I am so tired of hearing what you’ve done and wondering when it’s going to be too much, when someone’s finally going to retaliate, when you’re finally going to cross a line you can’t come back from."
His face changed at that.
Not softer. Worse.
It went blank in that dangerous way it did when something hit him exactly where it hurt.
"So that’s what this is," he said quietly.
I frowned. "What?"
"You’re embarrassed."
I blinked at him. "What?"
He gave a bitter laugh, looking away for a second before dragging a hand over his mouth. "You’re standing there acting horrified because I defended you, but what you really mean is that I make you look bad."
"That is not what I said."
"You didn’t have to say it." His voice hardened again. "I can hear it anyway."
I stared at him, stunned by how quickly he’d twisted it. "Mattheo, this is not about appearances."
"Then what is it about?"
"It’s about you losing yourself every time someone says my name the wrong way."
"Losing myself?" he repeated, almost laughing. "I know exactly who I am."
"That’s what scares me."
The words came out before I could stop them.
The moment they did, I wished I could drag them back into my mouth.
Mattheo went still.
Not the kind of stillness that meant calm. The kind that came just before something shattered.
His eyes locked on mine, dark and unreadable.
"I scare you," he said.
I swallowed. "Mattheo."
"No, go on." His voice was cold now, cold enough to freeze the air between us. "Say it properly. Since we’re being honest."
"I didn’t mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Because I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t know how to make him understand that the thing frightening me wasn’t him, not really, but what rage did to him. What love did to him. How quickly his devotion turned feral. How every time someone hurt me, he answered like the world had personally declared war.
And maybe some horrible part of me did understand it.
Maybe that was what made it so unbearable.
He took my silence as an answer.
I could see the hurt settle into him, deeper than anger, deeper than pride. It flickered across his face before he buried it, but not before I saw it.
"Right," he said.
"Don’t do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut down and act like I’m the villain because I don’t want you hurting people for me."
He looked back at me sharply. "For you? You think I do this as some sort of favor?"
"Then why do you do it?"
His laugh this time was low and disbelieving, and it made my stomach knot.
"Because I can’t stand it," he said. "Because I can’t stand hearing people speak about you like they know you. Like they get to reduce you to whatever pathetic rumor they’ve come up with that week. Because every time someone looks at you too long or says your name with that tone, I want to break something."
My breath caught.
He was breathing hard now, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
"You think I enjoy this?" he continued. "You think I like feeling like I’m two seconds away from ripping apart anyone who thinks they can touch what’s mine?"
The words slammed into me.
What’s mine.
Heat and anger and something far more dangerous twisted together in my chest.
"I’m not yours," I said, even though my voice came out weaker than I wanted.
His expression changed instantly. Not softer, exactly. More wounded.
"That’s not what I meant."
"It sounded exactly like what you meant."
"You know me better than that."
"Do I?"
He flinched.
It was small, barely visible, but I saw it.
And for one awful second I hated myself.
But I was too upset, too raw, too deep in it now to stop.
"Sometimes I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore," I whispered. "Sometimes I look at you and all I can think is that one day you’re going to go too far, and I won’t be able to pull you back."
He stared at me like I’d struck him.
Then his face hardened all over again.
"Pull me back," he repeated. "Is that what you think this is? You saving me from myself?"
"That’s not what I said."
"No, it’s worse. You stand there looking at me like I’m something to manage. Something to be afraid of. Something to apologize for when people ask what the hell is wrong with me."
"I have never apologized for you."
"You don’t have to. You just look at me like you want to."
"That’s not fair."
"Fair?" He took a step closer, and the force of him filled the space instantly. "You want to talk to me about fair? I hear the things they say about you. I see the way they look at you. I watch boys think they can hover around you long enough and you’ll eventually smile at them, and I’m supposed to be calm about it? I’m supposed to stand there and do nothing while people pick you apart?"
I stared at him, pulse hammering.
There it was.
Not just anger. Not just protectiveness.
Jealousy. Possessiveness. That ugly, desperate ache in him that only ever seemed to show itself when it came to me.
"This wasn’t about some boy looking at me," I said.
"Isn’t it always?" he snapped.
"No."
"Funny, because every time someone gets too close to you, suddenly I’m the problem."
I took a sharp breath. "You are not listening to me."
"And you’re not listening to me either." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Do you have any idea what it does to me when people talk about you? When they act like they know what you want, who you’ll choose, who you should be with?"
He was close enough now that I could see the strain in his face. The anger, yes, but underneath it something worse. Something cracked open and bleeding.
"They don’t get to have an opinion on you," he said. "They don’t get to touch you with their eyes and their mouths and their filthy little guesses."
"Mattheo."
"No, because you act like I’m mad for it, but I see them. I see all of them. I see the way they wait for you to laugh, the way they lean toward you, the way they think if they’re patient enough they’ll get some part of you I don’t have."
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
"And you think that gives you the right to curse people?"
"I think it gives me the right to make them regret it."
"You cannot keep doing this."
"Why? Because it makes me look monstrous?"
"Because it is monstrous!"
The second the words left my mouth, the entire tower seemed to fall silent.
Even the wind felt quieter.
Mattheo stepped back like I’d physically shoved him.
I saw it happen in real time.
The fury in his face vanished, replaced by something blank and terrible. Something so hurt that it didn’t even know how to defend itself.
My stomach dropped.
"Mattheo," I said, my voice breaking. "I didn’t mean that."
He looked at me for a long moment.
When he spoke, his voice was eerily calm.
"Didn’t you?"
"No. I was angry."
"So was I."
I had no answer to that.
He turned away from me then, walking to the far edge of the tower. He braced both hands on the stone ledge and looked out at the grounds below, his shoulders rigid. The distance between us felt immediate and unbearable.
I didn’t move.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The stars hung above us in brutal, perfect silence.
I could hear my own breathing. The rustle of my robes in the wind. Somewhere far below, faint voices carried from the courtyard, distant enough to feel like they belonged to another life entirely.
I looked at him across the tower and felt sick with it.
Because I knew him.
I knew the tension in his shoulders meant he was holding himself together by force. I knew the stillness in him wasn’t indifference, it was damage. I knew he was replaying every word I’d said, cutting himself open on each one. And worse, I knew he thought I meant them.
Maybe part of me had.
That was the part I hated.
I wrapped my arms around myself tighter and stared at the floor for a second before forcing myself to look at him again.
"He didn’t deserve that," I said quietly.
Mattheo didn’t turn around. "You think I care about him?"
"No. I think you care too much about me."
That made him go still in a different way.
I took a breath.
"That’s the problem," I whispered. "You care so much that you stop thinking. You hear someone say something cruel and you go for blood before you even stop to ask if I need you to."
"I don’t need permission to protect you."
"I’m not asking for protection like that."
He laughed once, bitter and low, still facing away. "Right. Because heaven forbid anyone think you’re with someone like me."
My eyes stung.
"That is not fair," I said again, and this time the words came out shakier. "You know that isn’t what this is."
"Do I?"
The echo of my own earlier words hit me like a curse.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, he still hadn’t moved.
I hated the distance. I hated that he was standing so far away, like if he came any closer one of us would say something even worse. I hated that in a single conversation we had managed to drag every hidden fear into the open and leave them there between us.
And beneath all of it, beneath the anger and the pride and the fear, there was love. Terrible, constant, inescapable love.
It was in everything.
In the way he’d come when I asked him to.
In the way I’d waited.
In the way every insult about me felt like a blade in his hands.
In the way every bruise on his soul somehow ended up bruising mine too.
I swallowed hard.
"I’m not ashamed of you," I said into the quiet.
No response.
I took a few steps forward. Slowly, carefully, as if approaching something wounded enough to bite.
"Mattheo."
His fingers tightened against the stone ledge.
"Look at me."
"I’d rather not."
The words should’ve made me angry again. Instead they just hurt.
"Please."
For a long second, I thought he wouldn’t.
Then he turned.
His face nearly undid me.
He wasn’t crying. Mattheo almost never cried. But his eyes were bright with restrained fury and hurt, his mouth pulled tight like he was holding back far more than he’d ever let me see. He looked beautiful and ruined and so heartbreakingly young that my anger faltered completely.
"I’m not ashamed of you," I repeated, softer now. "I’m not."
He held my gaze without speaking.
I stepped closer.
"I’m angry because I love you," I said. "And because I know what happens when you let that anger make your choices for you. I know you think you’re protecting me, but sometimes it feels like you’re destroying yourself in front of me and expecting me to call it devotion."
Something in his expression shifted.
Just slightly.
I kept going before I lost my nerve.
"And yes, sometimes I get scared. Not of you. Never of you." My voice trembled. "But of what this place, this world, all this hatred keeps turning you into. Of how quickly you decide that pain is the only language anyone understands. Of how easy it is for you to hurt someone when you’re angry, and how impossible it is for me to pretend that doesn’t matter."
His throat moved as he swallowed.
I was standing close enough now to see the wind tugging at the ends of his hair, close enough to feel the heat of him in the cold night air.
"You don’t get it," he said finally, and the anger in his voice was gone. What replaced it was quieter, rougher, almost exhausted. "I hear them talk about you and it feels like something in me snaps. I know you can handle yourself. I know you don’t need saving. But that doesn’t stop it."
"I know."
"No, you don’t." He gave a small shake of his head, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder before returning to mine. "You don’t know what it’s like to want someone so badly it turns ugly. To love them so much that every person around them feels like a threat."
I stared at him.
My heart ached.
"Mattheo."
"I hate it," he admitted, almost in a whisper. "I hate the way I get when it comes to you. I hate how one stupid comment can make me see red. I hate how jealous I am all the time. Every time someone makes you laugh, every time some idiot stands too close, every time I think maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much, I feel like I’m losing my mind."
The raw honesty of it stole the breath from my lungs.
He looked away for a moment, ashamed now, and somehow that was worse than the anger.
"And then you looked at me tonight like you regretted me," he said.
"I don’t."
"It felt like you did."
I moved without thinking.
I crossed the last bit of space between us and took his face in both my hands.
He went still instantly.
His breath caught. So did mine.
"Listen to me," I said, forcing him to hold my gaze. "I do not regret you. I could never regret you. You make me furious, you make me insane, you terrify me when you act like you’re invincible, but I do not regret you. Not for a second."
Something broke in his expression.
His hands came to my waist almost reflexively, firm and warm, like even hurt and angry he couldn’t stop himself from touching me when I was this close. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to say there you are, there you are, there you are.
"Then don’t look at me like that," he murmured.
I blinked. "Like what?"
"Like I’m already gone."
That hurt so much I almost kissed him just to make it stop.
Instead I let my thumbs brush over his cheeks and said, "Then don’t give me reasons to think I might lose you."
His eyes searched mine.
The night stretched around us, wind sighing through the tower, stars glittering cold and distant overhead.
"I don’t know how to be calm about you," he admitted.
I laughed weakly, tears burning behind my eyes. "I’ve noticed."
The corner of his mouth twitched, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"I mean it," he said. "When it comes to you, something is wrong with me."
"Something is wrong with both of us," I whispered.
That got the smallest real smile out of him.
It wrecked me.
I let out a shaky breath. "You cannot keep hexing people every time they say something awful about me."
His hands slid slightly at my waist. "What if they deserve it?"
"Mattheo."
"Fine," he muttered, though it was not remotely convincing.
I narrowed my eyes. "I’m serious."
"So am I." His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then lifted again. "But I’ll try."
From anyone else, it would’ve sounded meaningless.
From him, it sounded like blood and effort and a promise dragged out of somewhere deep.
"Try harder," I said.
"Bossy."
"Violent."
"Only for you."
I sighed, but I couldn’t stop the tiny smile that pulled at my lips.
His expression softened at the sight of it, like he’d been starving for it. Then his forehead dropped gently against mine, his eyes falling shut.
For a moment neither of us moved.
I could feel his breathing, still slightly uneven. Feel the tension that hadn’t fully left him. Feel the way he held me like letting go was not an option he was willing to consider.
"I hated hearing you say you were scared," he said quietly.
"I hated saying it."
"Were you telling the truth?"
I hesitated.
He must have felt it, because his hands tightened again.
"About what you’re becoming sometimes," I said softly, choosing each word carefully, "yes. But not because I think you’re a monster. Because I think you’re hurt. Because I think you love too hard and fight too hard and sometimes you don’t know where to put all of it."
He was quiet.
"You always see too much," he murmured.
"Someone has to."
His head lifted. His eyes were dark again, but not with anger this time. With that aching intensity that always made me feel like the only person in the world.
"And you still love me anyway?"
I let out the softest laugh, disbelieving he even had to ask. "Idiot. That’s the problem. I love you enough to stay and argue with you on top of a freezing tower when I should’ve gone to bed an hour ago."
That made him smile properly.
Small, but real.
It changed his whole face.
"You do love me," he said, and there was something boyish in it now, something almost unbearably tender beneath all the ruin.
"Unfortunately."
"Say it properly."
I rolled my eyes. "You’re impossible."
"Say it."
Even now, even after all of it, there was that possessive note in his voice. Less cruel than before. More vulnerable. Like he needed to hear it and hated needing anything.
So I gave in.
"I love you," I said softly.
His eyes closed for one brief second, like the words hit him somewhere deep.
When he opened them again, he looked wrecked by me.
"Say it again."
I smiled despite myself. "You’re obscene."
"And jealous, violent, deeply damaged. We’ve covered that. Say it again."
I laughed then, the sound unsteady but real, and something in the tower finally eased.
"I love you," I repeated.
This time he kissed me.
Like he’d been holding it back for too long.
It wasn’t gentle at first. It was relief and apology and leftover anger with nowhere else to go. One of his hands slid from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, holding me carefully but possessively, like he needed me closer even when there was no space left between us. I kissed him back just as hard, because I was still angry too, still hurt, still in love with him in that awful way that never let me keep my distance for long.
The cold wind cut around us, but his body was warm, solid, familiar.
When he finally pulled back, both of us breathing unevenly, he kept his forehead against mine and said, very quietly, "I did hate that boy, by the way."
I let out a tired laugh. "Which one?"
"The one from today."
"Because he insulted me?"
Mattheo’s mouth brushed the corner of mine. "That too."
I drew back just enough to look at him. "Mattheo."
He looked almost unapologetic. "He was looking at you."
"People look at me all the time."
"I know," he said darkly.
I shook my head, half exasperated, half helplessly fond. "You are unbelievable."
"And yet," he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips again, "you’re still here."
I should’ve had a better answer than that.
Instead I touched his face and whispered, "Yeah. I’m still here."
Something vulnerable flickered across his features.
He kissed me once, softer this time.
Then he pulled me into him properly, arms wrapping around me until I was tucked against his chest, my cheek pressed to the front of his shirt, his chin resting lightly on my head. The embrace felt less like victory and more like surrender. Like after all the sharp words and wounded pride, this was the truest thing left.
I slid my arms around his waist and held him back just as tightly.
Above us, the stars kept moving.
Slowly. Quietly. Indifferently.
The whole world carried on while we stood there in the middle of our mess, holding each other like we were trying to make up for every terrible thing we’d said.
"I’m sorry," I mumbled into his chest.
He was silent for a moment.
"Me too," he said at last.
I pulled back just enough to look up at him. "You are apologizing? Mark the calendar."
"Don’t make me take it back."
"Tempting."
His thumb brushed under my eye, and only then did I realize there’d been tears there.
His face tightened. "Did I make you cry?"
"A little."
"I’ll kill myself."
I gave him a flat look. "That is not how apologies work."
He huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed soft, full of remorse and affection and that same endless intensity I didn’t know what to do with except love.
"Come here," he murmured.
I was already there, but I let him pull me closer anyway.
We stayed like that for a long time.
No more shouting. No more accusations. Just the quiet scrape of his fingers against my back, the steady rise and fall of his chest under my cheek, the night air all around us. The silence wasn’t angry now. It was tired. Tender. Full of everything we hadn’t managed to say right.
And maybe that was us.
Not easy. Not gentle. Not simple.
Just two people loving each other so much it turned catastrophic around the edges.
Two people saying the wrong things when it mattered most and still finding their way back.
Eventually I tilted my head up and asked, "Did you hurt him badly?"
Mattheo looked down at me.
"No," he said.
I raised a brow.
He sighed. "Not permanently."
"Mattheo."
"I said I’d try harder, not become a saint overnight."
I groaned and pressed my face back into his chest while he laughed softly above me.
Then his hand slid into my hair, gentle now, soothing, and he kissed the top of my head.
"I do mean it," he said. "I’ll try. For you."
I closed my eyes.
"For yourself too," I murmured.
He didn’t answer right away.
When he finally did, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it.
"I’m better when you’re with me."
My throat tightened.
I held him a little closer.
"Then stay better," I whispered.
His arms tightened around me in answer.
And under the shifting stars, in the cold on top of the tower where we’d nearly torn each other to pieces, we stood tangled together and loved each other in the only way we knew how.
✧[Summary]✧ You have an enormous crush on Mattheo Riddle. Although, you're way too busy pushing your nose into books and being an angel for such a popular guy to look your way. That never stopped you though, your little 'harmless' ways to stalk him around hogwarts has gotten way more ridiculous than ever, as if your eyes lingering on him for way too long wasn't enough. But as time passes by, you slowly notice his figure disappearing within your sight. That's when you realize.. With how frequent you observe his presence in front of you, you never acknowledged watching behind you.
✧[Content]✧ Mature Content, nerd!reader, stalker!reader, fem!reader, stalker!mattheo, obsessive!mattheo, jealous!mattheo, pervert!mattheo, size difference, masturbation, oral sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praising, swearing, teasing, smut with plot, no use of y/n, mattheo loves to tease you because you're always such a goody two shoes, but little does he know what he's about to find out..
✧[A/N]✧ Y'all need to speak up my inbox feeling real lonely 😔 Anyways, my second fic with a different guest, I hope it hits all the right buttons in your complicated brains. Luvlubs, cherubs!
✧[WC]✧ 4.4k
"He looks so ethereal." A random girl practically moaned out 'whispering' to her friends in the quiet library while pointing a long manicured nail at Mattheo Riddle leaning at a bookshelf laughing with his friends. Fuck these girls, why is he so damn popular?
Not that you don't agree with them. Ethereal? Hell yeah he is. He was carved by the finest sculptor of all time, it seems. His effect being on level with the past, present, and future. The image of him lingering with failed restraint and the presence of his name fluttering your heart, but the thoughts of Riddle scattering the inner walls of your brain was expertly masked by a sharp minded perfectionist every academic achiever fears.
Ironed uniform, ends of the white button up neatly tucked underneath your dark pleated skirt, tie securely wrapped below the collar, black robes folded somewhere in your dorm—the summer heat really got to every student, including him, seeing as you weren't the only one without it. Riddle had his black robes off long before he strode in the library—the fabric hanging on his shoulder. His tie loose, top few buttons were undone, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, both hands in his pockets, looking fine as ever.
You didn't bother to lower your shameless stare as you sat a few tables before him, books stacked left and right, a couple laid opened in front. To be fair, you were actually studying, but that was until he had to disturb your peaceful study session and decided to walk in. Why is he here anyway? Especially around this hour when he just chatters and jokes around with his group of friends. The hallways are dead silent, why not be there like he always does?
Whatever—you study at this specific table daily right after classes, surely it's fine if you finish a little early and take a break. And when you mean break, you mean staring a little more. You know his whole week schedule like the back of your hand, as if it was yours, but lately he's been missing a few classes, rarely shows up at the great hall to eat, and doesn't go on little smoking trips at night that much anymore. You hate how you notice—it's ridiculous. Your eyes trail as he takes a look at the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist and exits the room—perfect. The clock near the doorway signals that it was time for his quidditch practice (and when your study session ends).
When you arrive at the quidditch stands, there's no greater thing to have than a good guy friend that plays quidditch in the same team as Riddle—Graham Montague, whom you were partnered with once in class. Which also meant you get to watch them especially Riddle every single practice at fridays. It was known by everyone that Graham obviously had interest in you, but being too much of a 'goody two shoes', you were too oblivious to see and ended up pushing him into friend zone more than a couple of times. He was a known heart breaker anyways, he doesn't have any right to deserve you in any way, but you were always too nice to everybody, unknowingly spiked his hopes up with your kindness.
You sat with a book and two water bottles beside you—one for you and one for Graham. He always insists you bring it to him after the practice, but you bring it during just in case anyway. Being the good friend that you are, you occasionally give the sweetest smile man has seen and wave your hands at Graham every time you make eye contact—missing the way Riddle's stare flickering between you and your little friend who is smiling back a little too happily for his liking. His glare was firm, yet behind it, he couldn't hide the jealous storm rumbling within.
"Montague!" He yelled out from a distance, broom flying closer—your eyes switch from Graham's to his. "I chose you to be on this team to play, not to magnet attention. Back on track, c'mon." He patted Graham's back, leaving behind slightly before flashing you a grin with teeth before trailing back to the team. Your heart stuttered violently, thankfully you were sitting down because your knees weakened, as if coordination itself abandoned you.
It went on for couple minutes, and while sipping on your water, you couldn't help but glance more than just a few times at Riddle's focused face as they practice. His brows slightly furrowed, sweat slicked skin, and messy hair. You also noticed him being a little rougher when it comes to giving Montague directions.
Right after the last whistle at sunset—which indicates that their time on the pitch was done, you stood up and rushed down the creaky stairs to give Graham his water that was still ice cold (thanks to magic).
"Thanks, I really owe you one." Graham smiles while panting before he chugs his water down in seconds, some dripping on the sides of his mouth to his neck. You respond with a small smile back, "It's no problem really—"
"May I?" Riddle signals to your bottle that's half full, breathing heavily. Your eyes widened slightly, eyebrows lifting. "Uh—sure!" You squeeked out, blood rushing to your face—he thinks it's absolutely adorable.
"Thank you, sweetheart." He grins at your reaction at the nickname—thighs visibly clenched together. He takes it and twists off the bottle cap, the veins in his hands slightly flexing. You gulp as you quietly observe him tilting his head back, adam's apple bobbing as he drinks the given water, your bottle seeming a lot smaller squeezed in his large hand. After he was done, he licked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, handing you back the empty bottle—fingers brushing a little longer than intended.
To be honest, your neck ached a little looking up at him, but anything for that eye contact. His gaze moving up and down to your small frame. "Hey beautiful," Graham jumped in, causing you to take one tiny step backwards. You hummed in response, completely different to how Riddle reacted—his demeanor seemed like he wanted to rip the guy in half—kind of scary, oh well. "Come with me." Graham continued before capturing your wrist and dragging you with him to the changing rooms.
You struggled to keep up with his long strides and was in the process of protesting before you two came to a sudden stop. "Wait for me, okay?" He pants, sitting you down on one of the benches right outside the showers before entering in one of the shower stalls. Oh. It's this again. Dragging you all the way here just to make you wait for him to shower. He only did this once before when Riddle was in detention and couldn't monitor, now twice. You had no clue why, but considering you weren't familiar with his infatuation with you, it was no wonder you keep up with this shit.
He does it so you can see his bare torso, with just a towel wrapped around his waist. It honestly isn't even worth it. It takes him about an hour to shower, probably doing everything but taking a proper shower. Fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and ignoring a few other teammates other than Riddle roaming around, half an hour passed—only Graham's shower stall still running water. You hear a snicker and looked up, seeing Riddle leaning against the doorway. Shirtless. He only had a pair of grey sweatpants on, hanging low right where his v line ends, hair still damp from showering. Muscles flexed as his arms were crossed. Your cheeks burned at the way his eyes playfully narrowed at you as he caught your eyes wandering a little too low—he didn't mind at all.
He stepped closer, leaning down until you could feel his minty breath on your face. You tried to scoot backwards in your seat—heart beating faster when your back meets the wall and his face gets even more closer. Just when he's only centimeters away is when he stays still—eyes forcefully burning into yours, down all the way to your thighs that are clenched shut, then back to your flushed face, to which you can see that his pupils had dilated.
"What's a such good girl like you doing in the men's changing rooms, hm?" He spoke lowly, but clear enough so you could hear. You parted your lips to respond, but he cut you off, "Or maybe you're troublesome unlike what everyone portrays you to be." He teases, smirking.
"I'm just waiting for Graham." You huff, voice betraying strength. "Well, Graham can wait for himself." He knew Montague's tricks all too well—it wasn't the first time he's used it on someone. He softly grabbed your wrist, bringing you outside.
As soon as your face hit fresh night air, you sighed, relieved. "See what I mean?" He chuckles softly, "Montague isn't worth your time."
You give him a cheeky smile—cute. Moments of comfortable silence and occasional jokes and giggles passed before you both hear Montague's distant voice.
"Guys?"
⏤͟͟͞͞☆
After you both separated at the dorms, offering each other goodnights and doing your before sleep routine, your mind went crazy and your heart threatened to jump out of your chest as soon as your back hit the bed. Although your brain is absolutely about to burst out of excitement, your body can't help but slump against the bed as it's exhausted. It's Friday, understandable. You flutter your eyes closed, sending you to dream world where all dreams happen.
Next thing you know it's morning. Despite it being summer, you've been met with the very cold morning breeze. Rubbing your eyes, it regains focus specifically on a window that's ajar. So that's where the cold wind came from. You stretch for a good second before standing up to shut the window properly—your owl out of sight, it probably escaped, wasn't the first time that happened. Checking the small clock on your nightstand, you should probably dress for—
Oh.
It's Saturday. Damn it. Whatever, you always go to hogsmeade on Saturdays anyway. Whether its to buy clothes, food, read books on a really cold or really hot metal bench, or just walk around, it's basically a part of your weekly shit.
Rummaging through your clothes, you couldn't find single pair of one of your favorite underwear. You swear the number of it is decreasing by day. Finally deciding on a good pair with decent clothes, you took a quick shower, brushed your teeth, changed, and went out for breakfast.
As you passed by the great hall doors, you took some steps back for a sneak peek to check if Riddle was at breakfast.
Dang it—he's not there.
You wonder where he might be during his times of disappearing. Actually, you didn't have to as you walk in a straight line to smash your face right against his chest—thump!
You almost fell, but the image of embarrassing yourself this early in the morning makes you mentally retort and immediately take small steps backwards to balance.
"Looking for someone?" Riddle smirks down at you, "You should at least know by now that Montague sleeps in at Saturday breakfast, no?" His smirk fades away, blinking when he realized that you were probably checking up on your friend after leaving him unresponded yesterday.
"I wasn't—" You closed your lips shut, if you had said that you were totally not peeking through to check up on Graham, all your efforts of being 'sneaky' down the drain. "Mhm, yeah right." Riddle mutters and walks right past you like he never said a word.
What's his problem?
One minute he's taking long heavy strides down the halls, then leaning against a wall smoking a cigarette. He stills for a bit, thinking, you were on your way to hogsmeade by now. Maybe if he runs fast enough he could catch up like he always failed to do.
He shakes his head as if saying no to the voices in his mind. He thinks it's ridiculous, but really he shouldn't be saying anything when he stole a handful of underwear right next to your sleeping self and shoved it down his pockets last night. He shuts his eyes at the thought. He should really give those back, but he didn't—actually he found doing that pathetic, you're not getting those back.
He couldn't care less as he jerked himself off with it. He was absolutely fond of the idea of your underwear covering your cunt all day, the way the fabric fits in all the right places. His dirty fantasies doesn't stop there. Just a glimpse of your big curious eyes looking up at him has him crazily aroused. Oh and that smart mouth of yours has him wondering what other stuff it can do other than speak about complicated potion recipes, how warm your soft lips probably feels when it wraps around his—okay maybe he should stop there. He snaps himself awake from his little imaginations and walks straight to his dorm before he gets caught red handed with a boner.
Later that evening you had a hard time sleeping than usual. Just flipping and tossing around in your bed, eventually giving up and laying limp with your eyes focused on the ceiling. Tomorrow's Sunday, then after that it's Monday, then Tues—ugh—time flies fast. Since sleep neglected you now, you reach out deep into your thoughts looking for something that might help the boredom.
Ah, perfect—Mattheo Riddle.
You remember the way he stared in a specific way at you in potions, the way you made eye contact with him during his practices, the way his veiny hands were buckling his belt when you were peeking in his window while he was getting ready for school, the way his face was so close to yours yesterday at the shower rooms—what if you just leaned in?
His soft lips against yours, that would've felt heavenly. You sigh, this wasn't really the worst thing you've done, so why not? You decide as your hand reaches down to your clothed heat and pressing down on the sensitive area.
You push off your shorts and panties in one go, fingers dragging the dripping arousal right on your little bundle of nerves. Hair disheveled, eyes closed, lips parted as soft moans and whimpers escape, your fingers deliberately circling on your clit. Despite your perverse doings, you looked like a fucking angel.
That's exactly what Riddle thinks—as he shamelessly watches you masturbate and occasionally whisper moan his name through that same window he came in and out of last night.
Fucking hell—his mouth literally waters at the sight. He never knew such a sweetheart like you could ever be touching herself to someone that he thought you had no interest in.
Such a naughty girl, fuck—the way you squirm under your own touch. Such a cute little pussy too, just like how he imagined. Who knew his night could turn around like this just because he wanted to return your stolen underwear while you were—what he thought was sleeping.
As much as how badly he wanted to climb in and help, knowing he's exactly your target, it was wrong of him to do so. That doesn't mean it won't happen, now that he found this little secret of yours, it won't be the last time he gets to see you like this.
While your eyes were shut, desperate to chase that coiling feeling at the pit of your core, Riddle took a ripped piece of paper from your desk with the use of magic and burnt it with the tip of his wand to write on it. With a precise flick of his wand, the stolen relic was returned, neatly placed on your bedside drawer along with the paper.
Although his initial task was done, he didn't leave. From all the way over here, he could tell you were close. He also wishes you would call him Mattheo more often. Maybe then he'll remember this valuable piece of memory as if he would ever forget about it.
Staring intently into your fingers that had graduately sped up, he keeps on watching until at you reach your high and at the brink of gaining consciousness, he's already walking outside like he never passed by.
Fluttering your eyes open and breathing heavily, you cleaned yourself up in the bathroom and came back with a lingering sense that something changed.
Gaze darting across the room until it lands sharply on the bedside drawer. Isn't that your underwear?
How considerate—Riddle had the courage to give you one of the four panties that he stole.
"Where have you been hiding, hm?" You inspect the garment, it seems clean. As you picked it up, something slipped from the drawer and onto the floor. A paper. You picked it up.
Troublesome and naughty too? Who would've thought..? Other than me ;)
Oh fuck.
You read it for about a hundred times before throwing it across the room. You lay slump on your bed, palms covering your eyes. You just wanna fucking sleep, but how can you do that when you know there was definitely someone that saw you masturbating to someone you definitely shouldn't have been masturbating to?
Whatever this shit was, it was a dream. Yeah, a dream.
...
Please fucking wake up right now.
You didn't wake up.
Fuck fuckity fuck.
You curled up in a ball and hid under the covers. Eventually you did fell asleep, but not without having to stress yourself to death. Whoever saw you did what you did, you'll deal with it tomorrow.
Minutes later.. You found yourself wide awake under the moon. Staring at the ceiling. Troublesome? Sounds quite familiar, no? There was only one person who could've gave you that paper—and the missing underwear.
Mattheo fuckass Riddle.
What in the actual fuck was he doing in your room? And more importantly, why the fuck did he steal your stuff? Your heart thumping, you soon realized that you eventually have to confront him, now that he knows it's his name you're moaning when you touch yourself.
But at the same time, it kind of excites you. He literally stole your undergarment(s). What else did he do with them?
Only one way to find out.
After getting ready and changing into appropriate (or not) clothes, you hesitantly went down to the corridor leading straight into an ongoing party, if there was one thing to know about Riddle, it's that he never misses one.
Music blaring in your ears as you enter, glancing from person to person right until one of those eyes were staring right back at you. He gets closer till he was standing in front of you, ears blurred out the music, filling it with the quickening beat of your heart.
"That was you?" Your voice confronting, yet weak as he stepped even closer. He narrows at you, "Knew you're a smart girl, wasn't expecting you to figure it out so easily, huh?" He thinks for a bit, "Don't you think you shouldn't be the only one doing the confronting?" He smirks.
"Riddle." You gulp while looking up at him.
"It's Mattheo." He counters.
"Mattheo." You respond, the name tastes familiar on your tongue, but you never used it to actually address him.
His vision lowered down to your attire. You didn't think much of it as it was rushed, but clearly it made him think a lot more than just a short dress that barely covers anything. You never wore it out before, oh but it hugged your figure perfectly, showing the flesh of your thighs and cleavage that you swore to cover. He audibly groaned at the sight, hands finding the curve of your waist.
Even with all the bright party lights in his eyes, you knew in that moment, whatever he wanted, his eyes told you it was real.
And then it happened. Before any thought could resurface, before restrained unleashed, his lips found yours.
Raw, aching, and claiming. Both hearts thundered, a kiss that burned and drowned in chaos. It took strength to pull away, even to breathe. And once you did, it left you gasping.
His glare was harmless, but it meant something—desperate. His heavy grip, unfaltering, not ready to let go just yet. But then, he loosened his hold.
Instead, his fingers wrapped around your wrist in one swift move and leads you straight to his dorm. Except, he halted right at the door.
"I want you to tell me you need this as much as I do." He breathes, gaze softening.
"I want you." You didn't hesitate one bit.
His palms slide under your thighs and carries you into his dorm as his lips captures yours once more. You gasp into his mouth in surprise when he closes his door by pinning your back onto it.
Fingers grasping and curling against his scalp earns you a groan into your mouth that sends jolts to your core. His lips fierce, but his fingers were gently as it's securely under your thighs supporting your whole weight. He can feel warmth radiating from your body.
Still deep into the kiss, he walks you over to the bed and sits you on his lap. Removing his shirt, it cuts off the kiss. While your at it, you kneeled down on the ground in level to the unmistakable tent in his pants.
His eyes widened, "Darling, you don't have to—" You cut him off with a peck.
"I want to taste you, please..?" You beg and give your best puppy eyes, though you didn't have to, you on your knees for him was already more enough.
"Fuck, baby.." How could he ever resist you?
You watch him unbuckle his belt in full view, in all honesty, it just makes you pool even more. You impatiently pull down his pants and boxers at the same time.
He chuckles while you gawk at his size before reaching down to the ends of your dress and pulls it off as well, leaving you bare with just in a bra and panties. Slowly, your hand reaches to wrap around his length.
My goodness.
Your thumb does not reach the rest of your fingers around him. You mentally prepare your jaw before spitting to lubricate, then wrapping your warm soft lips around it. He groans, perfect.
You lower at least halfway in and do the rest of the job with your both of your hands.
"So good f'me." He rasps.
He slightly jolts in pleasure and whimpers as you swirl your tongue around his tip before bobbing your head up and down again.
You look up at him while he tilts his head back, eyes shut. He's undeniably close, but he hasn't even fucked you yet. Once you pull away to breathe, he takes his chance and throws you onto the bed.
While kissing and trailing hickeys on your neck, he slides a hand under and unclips your bra. A whine escapes past your lips as he latches a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking and doing the same to the other.
He gradually moves down while the tip of his nose is firmly dragging tingling sensations all over your lower half. He halts right above your pulsating cunt and takes off the final piece of undergarment.
Your breath hitches as his tongue goes contact to your entrance and drags up to your clit, wasting no time. It was his dirtiest fantasy coming to life. His cock throbbing to replace his tongue, a competition, a test to Mattheo's resistance. Although his greediness won over in an instant, as he already planned out to do both.
The pulsating bud begging for air under his tongue makes him no less hungry. "Mmgh—Mattheo!" Your voice struggling to keep up with how much he's lapping you up.
One last lick before his warm lips suck on your clit. "Oh—shit..!!" You tremble as a tight rope inside you just snapped. Warmth gushing your lower half, Mattheo never stopped.
Your mind burns into flames as your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Hands gripped onto his hair, not knowing whether to pull him closer or push him away. Vision blurring, he eventually stops.
He claims your lips in a kiss and positions his tip right to your soaked entrance, collecting arousal. His head drops to your shoulder, placing light kisses as he sinks in. The stretch burning so satisfyingly.
"So perfect 'round me.." He holds your head to his chest when he bottoms out, groaning.
"Yeah—please, mhhm." You choke out eagerly, your pussy swallowing him whole.
"I know, baby.." He groans, holding his high so he can make you feel good first. The first few thrusts had you moaning so heavenly for him. He wasn't quiet either—moans so pornographic it should be illegal.
Speeding up, his cock flush deep inside, skin slapping. He supports his weight on one arm above your head, the other had a soothing thumb grinding deliciously right on your sensitive clit.
Tears brimmed, you looked at him with all your might. His eyes glued at the way his dick slides in and out of your greedy pussy that's securely around him, then up to your teary eyes.
"Yeah that's it, baby. You're doing so good." He forces his words out of his throat. You cry out his name, his steady pace getting harder each thrust.
The tight rope that broke earlier had tied itself, tighter and tighter, until it snapped, hard. Your walls rippled around him, clenching while your legs quivered.
His thrusts finally had it's moment and stutters. He groans and splutters his warm cum inside you, filling you up to the brim. Panting, he pulls out. In awe of his cum dripping out of your pussy.
"No one else ever gets to see you like this ever again." He was tired, but his words were sharp and sure.
"What does that even mean?" You pout, unsure if he's gonna keep you in the dark to have you to himself or well, nothing else.
"You'll find out."
What have you put yourself into?
Although you can't really hide that a part of you doesn't give a flying shit as long as you're in his hands.
I wonder how Graham would feel after finding out his captain fucked his girl(in reservation) 😛
Work written by me. Some dividers aren't mine and credits go to those who owns them. Please do not copy, translate, or feed my work to AI.
SUMMARY. You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?
WORD COUNT. 17.5K
WARNINGS. college au, lowk enemies to lovers, enemies-with-benefits but with like so many feelings, MDNI, both reader and bucky are toxic, extremely messy, they hurt each other repeatedly, sometimes deliberately, verbal degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, romanogers on the side (i like them together, sue me), intoxication, caretaking, reader gets sick (hangover, a fever), acts of service as love language, smut, brat taming, unprotected pnv, oral (f receiving), fingering, public-ish sex (bar bathroom, an alley), public risk, pussy pronouns, pussy slapping, pussy inspection, slight overstim, slight edging, choking, nipple tugging, hair tugging, hate-fucking, dom!bucky, mean!bucky, no use of y/n.
NOTES. that was long. no, seriously, please read the warnings before you interact. these guys are messy. college students acting like college students, and who better to tell you than someone who got fucked over so many times in college? heh.
I am incapable of not ending on a happy note, so there’s obviously a happy ending. Like I’ve truly tried my best to actually redeem them both, but if you don’t like it… please don’t complain 😭
Inspired by this fic by @smorgaswhored ! thank you 🥹
READ ON AO3
Steve and Natasha are dating, which is fine. Great, even. They're stupidly perfect together. What's decidedly not fine is Bucky Barnes tagging along everywhere like some sort of gorgeous, infuriating barnacle you can't scrape off.
The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one.
Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.
It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know — because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words — was that he'd made the same decision.
So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.
He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.
What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.
The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."
You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"
"Steve's sick. We're leaving."
The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.
"Bucky —" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.
The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"
"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."
"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"
"Looked like more than a conversation to me."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"
Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."
"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."
"I'm not drunk."
"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to —"
"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.
"Fuck off, Barnes."
You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.
The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.
The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.
"What are you —"
His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.
"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.
"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.
"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"
God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky —"
"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."
You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.
"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"
"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.
"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."
He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.
"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."
"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."
"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.
"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"
"Yes — fuck — yes —"
"Who's making you feel good? Say it."
"You — Bucky — oh my god —" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good
"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."
You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please — please — I need —"
"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.
"Fuck — fuck —" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."
True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.
Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.
Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."
When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"
He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."
It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight.
Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.
He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.
"Fine."
"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."
Now, he’s sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.
Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.
"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.
"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."
It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate.
Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you.
"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."
You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?
Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.
Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.
An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent.
The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.
"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.
"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."
"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want —"
"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.
Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.
You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.
The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Go away, Steve."
"It's not Steve."
Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"
Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath.
"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."
He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."
"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."
"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."
"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."
"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"
He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know — I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I —"
"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"
Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.
"I didn't —"
"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."
Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like it’s trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."
"That an offer?"
"You're such a prick."
"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"
Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."
His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"
"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.
"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"
Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until you’re reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."
"You can't —"
"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."
That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."
"Don't —"
He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."
"You're —"
His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."
Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky —"
"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."
His??
"It's not—"
"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"
"That doesn't mean — oh fuck —"
"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."
What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.
"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"
Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."
Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my god—"
"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him.
"Shut up and — fuck — keep doing that —"
He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"
"Bucky, please —"
"Please what? Use your words."
"Make me cum, you asshole —"
"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.
"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect.
"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"
You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."
"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.
He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.
"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.
"Right. This again."
If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was — this was the last time."
"You said that two days ago."
"Well, I mean it now."
For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."
"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't — I don't want —"
"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."
On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Bucky—"
"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you.
Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are — someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.
This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.
Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now.
The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.
Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.
It's infuriating.
Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.
You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.
Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.
You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading.
What the actual fuck.
"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.
He hands it over without looking at you.
There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.
Bucky doesn't say anything. Again.
You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.
At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.
'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.
"Thanks." The word is saccharine.
"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.
You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut.
"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.
"Yeah. I'm done."
It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist.
The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.
His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.
You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.
The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.
Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.
Fuck him.
You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.
Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.
You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.
Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."
"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."
"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."
You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."
"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."
"I'm not —" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"
"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.
"Liar."
"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."
"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."
"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."
"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"
"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."
"You agreed!"
"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop —"
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to do something about it."
The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as you’re suddenly realizing you do.
Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to —"
He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."
The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to —"
"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."
"I'm not —" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a —"
"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.
"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really —" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.
"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.
The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.
His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"
When your mouth opens — to say what, you're not sure, — his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.
Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."
"'m — ngh — n’goin’ any — wheh —"
Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him.
He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.
"Takes one to know one."
"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"
His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.
"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"
"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.
"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."
The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky — please —"
"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"
"Yes —"
"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."
"That's not fair —"
"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."
Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."
It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.
After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky —"
"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."
"I'm not drunk."
"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.
The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.
Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.
You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his.
Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means —
The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.
"Did we—" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"
Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."
The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"
"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal — you.
"No?"
Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."
Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."
"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."
The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.
Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.
"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."
He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.
Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.
The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.
When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.
The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him.
By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.
You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks.
He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.
"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."
"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.
He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.
Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.
No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.
His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."
"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was — this morning was — we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."
"Okay."
"No offense, you're a great lay —" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "— but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we —"
"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.
The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"
"Yeah. We're good."
There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it.
The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.
You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.
So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.
The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.
It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.
You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is.
Except he's not. He's never actually there.
Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose — well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.
He's not.
Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.
"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't — I didn't ask."
Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.
The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.
Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.
What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.
Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.
Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.
He's not here either.
You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.
The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it?
He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.
What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?
Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.
She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."
"Talking about what?"
"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping —"
"I'm sleeping fine."
"— and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."
You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."
There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."
"What? How —"
"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"
"Does it matter?"
"Humour me."
You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."
"Ish?"
"It's complicated."
"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"
You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."
"Did you want him to disagree?"
The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."
"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"
"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were —" The words gets caught in your throat.
"Instead you were what?"
"I don't know. Something else."
"Like what?"
You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes —"
"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear.
"No. I don't — we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."
"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."
"That's not —"
But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick — though, that too —, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."
"Little bit, yeah."
"What do I do?"
"Tell him."
"I can't just — he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."
"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"
She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.
Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings.
After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.
"I need to talk to you."
There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."
"It's important."
"I said I'm busy."
"Bucky, please."
Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll be —"
He hangs up before you can finish.
Bucky is ten minutes late.
Not that you're counting.
Eleven minutes now.
You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.
Twelve minutes.
Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.
He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.
"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.
"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.
"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.
He shrugs.
This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.
"I wanted to talk about — about what happened. About what I said."
"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."
"No, I wasn't right. I was —" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to —"
"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."
"But I do want —"
"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."
The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to — I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."
The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard.
"You're confused," he says finally.
"I'm not —"
"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."
"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between —"
"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."
"That's not fair."
"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."
"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I —"
"So you ended it. Which was the right call."
You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like an asshole. Like you don't —" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."
"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."
"I'm not —"
"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."
"Bucky —"
"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."
Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care what you believe."
"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you —"
"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."
You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, there’s a raw, painful part of him he’s trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."
"I'm really not."
"Then why are you so angry?"
"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."
Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words haven’t managed to.
He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.
The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isn’t answering, isn’t meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isn’t cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you can’t blink away fast enough.
"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."
"No — no — you're —" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot.
"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."
Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.
"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.
"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."
Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.
What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?
You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.
He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.
Nothing.
You meant absolutely nothing.
Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.
Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.
Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.
Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.
Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.
The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh.
Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning.
Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.
You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out.
The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.
There's Bucky?
Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.
You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."
He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.
"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."
"It's not a dream, baby."
Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.
"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."
You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.
Hours later — could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick — you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.
And dream-Bucky is still there.
Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."
Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."
He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."
You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Nat told Steve you were sick —"
"Why the fuck do you care?"
Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.
The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."
"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."
"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways.
"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think.
You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For —"
"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now.
"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."
His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."
"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."
He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."
"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"
"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and —"
"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.
Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.
"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."
The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place — metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.
You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since — you know — I'm sick and all."
The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not — I didn't come here for that."
"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"
"I came because I was worried about you."
"Well, don't be. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You can barely stand."
"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.
Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.
You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.
"I'm not a dog."
"Please sit down before you fall down."
You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat something."
"I said I'm not —"
"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act.
"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.
"It matters. Drink the broth."
"You're not my mother."
"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated.
You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.
Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.
"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.
"Getting there."
You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.
But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.
After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.
When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.
Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.
You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.
Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.
You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.
Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."
You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.
He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"
Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.
"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"
He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.
"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.
"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.
When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."
The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.
But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside.
His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go — I'll step out. While you — you know — change."
The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?
"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."
The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.
Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."
You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"
"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.
"Bucky, what the fuck —" You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate.
Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.
"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."
You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you — You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."
"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.
"What?"
"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."
Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.
You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."
He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.
You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.
"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck it— I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."
Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.
"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."
Wait.
"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot —"
"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.
"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was — I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"
The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.
You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.
"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"
Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you.
"And then we — uh — had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."
"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.
"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."
Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him.
"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."
"What about it?"
"You told me you liked me."
Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"
"We — uhh — I — I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."
No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't — I don't remember that."
"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."
Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.
"I thought maybe — I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to —"
The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck.
"You pulled away, said I was — I was — Like that's all I was to you."
The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.
"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I — I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."
It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.
"So you decided to hurt me first," you say.
The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."
He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.
"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening.
"— and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted —"
"Bucky."
"— and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't —"
You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.
This position — him on your bed, you between his legs — feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."
His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.
Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.
There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.
He's crying.
Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.
The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.
You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.
"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library — it hurt me so much I got physically sick."
His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward — hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."
Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."
He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."
One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.
"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek.
"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.
You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.
None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love —"
You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.
Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."
Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.
But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though — maybe because — you drive me completely insane."
His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.
No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.
He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words.
You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."
His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."
There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.
"Okay?"
"I believe you."
His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.
"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."
"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything.
"So we're both disasters."
"Seems like it."
His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."
Together.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."
"Anything."
"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"
He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and — yeah. Disaster from the start."
"What was the speech?"
"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."
"C'mon."
"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."
"That's actually kind of creepy."
His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."
You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.
"I liked fighting with you," you admit.
"I know. I could tell."
"It was the only time you paid attention to me."
"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."
All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.
"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it — was it about that guy?"
There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."
"And then we fucked instead."
"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."
You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.
"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."
The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.
"For what?"
"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For — For making you think you were nothing to me."
"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."
"Yeah. We're here."
His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.
There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months — watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.
You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.
Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.
He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed.
He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up.
It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.
But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.
His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.
"How we got here."
"Long fucking journey."
"Worth it?"
"Every second of it."
The torture of wanting someone you can't have is finally over. The torture of having someone you could lose is just beginning.
But as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, as his breathing evens out and his heartbeat steadies under your ear, you think maybe this is the kind of torture you can live with.
Maybe this is the kind of torture that's actually called love.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. first time writing smth where both of them are this toxic, please go easy on me! thank you for reading!
Ok, so, as in Mattheo!Crack Headcanon PT. 1 I had talked about how I thought if Mattheo, the one who will beat the crap out of anyone hurt hurt/upset his beloved Y/N, had upset the Y/N to the point of tears he would have to make a choice. A hilarious choice.
Well now I am imagining him actually attempting to punch himself. He's not going to but he is going to try to knock himself out.
Well, now I am full on picturing him actually attempting to punch himself in the face.
Is he gonna succeed? No!
But I think it would be funny for a scene to play out like this:
(Reader sees Mattheo trying to stop his balled-up fist from punching his face)
Reader: Matt, what are you doing?
Mattheo: Made. You. Cry. Must. Make. Fucker Pay!
Reader: But it's you?
Mattheo: No excuses. You cried, fucker must be punished.
I don't know if I already posted this. I may have, it was sitting in my drafts and I'm trying to clear it out.
