https://buymeacoffee.com/itsallinyourhead
Soft whispers of fiction and daydreams. 💭 Imagines, x reader scenarios, and headcanons for when reality just isn’t enough. ✨ Let your mind wander — you never know what you’ll find.
💭 "We are all stories in the end. Just make it a good one." – Doctor Who
🌙 Welcome to All in Your Head 🌙
Hey there — I’m just a faceless writer, lost somewhere between reality and fiction. I write every second of my spare time because, honestly, it’s the only thing that makes sense sometimes.
I’ll be posting imagines, x reader scenarios, headcanons — basically anything that spins around in my head long enough to hit the page. If you have a request, send it my way! Angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort — I’m open to almost anything.
This is a space for soft feelings, quiet heartbreak, and the kind of comfort you only find in words. So if there’s something stuck in your head, let me write it out for you.
Drop a request or just hang out — either way, welcome to the chaos. 💭✨
What I’ll Write:
✔️ Imagines, x reader, headcanons, and scenarios
✔️ Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, and slow burns
✔️ Multi-fandom (feel free to ask if I’m familiar with it!)
✔️ NSFW
💀🖤 I think this is my favourite one I’ve written so far.
Do you want more parts?
You left the League and never looked back — trading justice for blood and silk and the thrill of taking exactly what you want. When Dick shows up at your door years later, rain-soaked and desperate, asking for your help… you decide to say yes.
For a price.
Dick Grayson x fem!reader — enemies to lovers / ex-lovers / villain!reader
The penthouse is decadent.
Moonlight spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the city in silver at your back. Crystal glasses glint on the bar. A man’s wristwatch ticks softly on the marble countertop — its owner nowhere in sight. The whole place hums with something warm and wrong, like luxury pressed over rot.
He steps inside uninvited, though the lock’s already broken. You never leave doors intact. They don’t deserve that kind of mercy.
Then he sees you.
Reclined on a velvet chaise like a serpent in silk, legs bare, neck glowing in the pale light. Wine glass in hand, fingers lazy around the stem. A bloodstained blade resting on your thigh. Casual. Intimate. Like it belongs there.
There’s a smear of red across your collarbone. Still wet.
“Grayson,” you purr, not bothering to look up. “I was wondering when you’d come crawling.”
His mouth goes dry.
“You killed them, didn’t you?”
Your gaze lifts — slow, deliberate. Your eyes gleam like a blade unsheathed.
“Which ones?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
This penthouse belonged to someone else — their coats still hang in the entryway. A framed photo smiles from the wall. A child’s drawing on the fridge, curling at the edges. You haven’t erased them. Just claimed the space like a queen conquering a kingdom.
You’ve never tried to be clean. You made yourself unholy.
“I need your help,” he says, jaw clenched.
That earns him a laugh — low, husky, deliciously cruel. You tilt your head, silk slipping lower on your shoulder, revealing the edge of a bruise or maybe a bite.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you breathe, “you must be desperate.”
You set the glass down without looking, the clink of crystal against marble slicing clean through the quiet.
Then you rise.
Slow. Languid. Every movement deliberate. Your bare feet whisper across the hardwood, silk sliding over skin like it was poured there — clinging to the swell of your hips, the line of your thighs, the sharp curve of your collarbone still kissed with blood. Not a costume. Not armor.
You wear danger like perfume.
And he — he stands frozen, soaked from the rain, boots bleeding water onto the polished floor, pulse hammering under his skin like it knows.
You stop in front of him, not touching. Just hovering. Close enough that he can smell you — not just wine and something floral, but something darker underneath. Copper. Smoke. A hint of gunpowder that makes his stomach twist.
This close, you’re both everything he remembers and nothing like the girl he used to know.
Once, you used to laugh when you sparred — wild, breathless, too sharp for your own good. He used to call you reckless. You’d grin and say he was just afraid to lose.
Once, you used to braid your hair before missions. Sit on the edge of the rooftop, tongue caught between your teeth as you wove it tight with shaking hands. He’d watch you from a distance, pretending not to care.
Now? Now your hair’s loose — wild, untamed, drying in waves that frame your face like something feral. Your eyes glint like broken glass.
“You look good,” you say, voice low and thick with something dangerous. “Little worn. Little wet.” Your gaze drops, lingers. “Still pretending you’re not exactly where you want to be.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t come here for this.”
“No,” you hum, “you came to beg.”
You take one slow step closer, and he doesn’t stop you.
Your fingers trace his jaw — featherlight, but it burns. Like contact with something holy and forbidden. You touch him like you have a right to. Like you still own the map of his skin.
“You want my help,” you whisper, thumb dragging over the edge of his lip, “but you’re choking on it. On me.”
He doesn’t breathe.
There was a night — years ago — after a mission that went sideways. You’d stolen a bottle of vodka from the med bay. Pushed it into his hands. Sat beside him on the floor, your backs to the wall, your knee pressed against his. Your voice had gone quiet when you’d said, “We’re not built to be good forever.”
He hadn’t believed you.
Until you proved it.
“You’re not the same person,” he says now, barely audible.
You smile — slow, sharp, brutal.
“No,” you murmur. “I’m better.”
Your hand trails lower — down his chest, over the line of his belt, not quite touching. Teasing. Threatening. You’re not sure which would be worse for him.
“And you,” you continue, voice a blade wrapped in silk, “still clinging to that broken little moral compass like it ever pointed north. But you came here. To me.”
You lean in — lips brushing his ear, your breath warm and cold all at once.
“So say it, Grayson. Say the words. I want to hear them bleed.”
There’s a version of you in his memory, sitting cross-legged on the Watchtower floor, humming under your breath while disassembling a prototype bomb — hands steady, eyes shining, voice soft when you said, “Do you think we’ll ever get out?”
That girl is gone.
And yet — when he looks at you now, standing there in blood and silk and sin — he’s not sure you didn’t become something more terrifyingly honest.
“I need you,” he says, broken and raw.
Finally.
You exhale like a slow smile, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Good boy.”
You move like you own the room. Like you own him.
He doesn’t follow when you turn away — just watches you glide toward the bar again, silk whispering over skin, blood still drying on your shoulder. The room smells like wine and metal. Like sex and death.
You finish your drink in a single, slow swallow, red lips staining the glass. Then you set it down, turn, and lean back against the bar — arms folded, head tilted, smiling like you’re already undressing him with your eyes.
Because you are.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood tonight,” you say. “I’ve killed for less than the way you looked at me when you walked in.”
His voice scrapes low. “You’ve killed for less than everything.”
You grin. “Exactly.”
There’s a flicker — just a breath of memory:
You were sixteen the first time you went off-mission.
The intel was bad. The target was worse.
You slit a man’s throat in an alley while Dick watched, stunned, heart thudding in his chest.
You didn’t flinch. Just wiped the blade on your sleeve and said, “If we leave him breathing, he follows us.”
He hadn’t slept that night.
You had.
Now, you step forward again, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving his. Your fingertips skim along the back of a leather chair as you pass it. You’re circling him again — like hunger in human skin.
“But I’ll help you,” you say, almost sweetly. “For a price.”
You stop behind him. He can feel the heat of you, the press of the silence between.
“I want a night,” you whisper — right at the edge of his ear, voice thick like molasses, like something you drown in. “With you. Not Robin. Not Nightwing. Not whatever mask you’re wearing this week.”
Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his arms — slow and teasing and cruel. “I want the part of you that still wants me,” you breathe, “no matter how hard you’ve tried to forget.”
His hands curl into fists.
He remembers the night before you left.
No uniform. No orders. Just the two of you on the Watchtower roof, watching Earth rotate in silence. You’d kissed him like it was a secret. Like you didn’t know when you’d get the chance again. And when you pulled back, you looked him in the eye and said:
“One day, I’m going to do something you can’t forgive.”
He hadn’t said anything.
Maybe you were waiting for him to ask you not to.
Maybe that’s why you left.
Now you pull around in front of him again, your lips so close he can taste the wine on your breath.
“When this is over,” you say, dragging one finger slowly up his chest, “you come back here. And I’ll ruin you properly. Take my time with it. Peel off every pretty lie you’ve wrapped around yourself just to breathe.”
You lean in — tongue flicking the edge of his jaw. Your lips graze his skin like a brand.
“I want you kneeling. Bleeding. Mine.”
His voice is rough. “You always wanted ownership more than love.”
You smile. “Ownership is love, darling. You just never learned how to take it.”
And god help him — something in him still aches for you.
Still remembers the way you used to laugh when you trained together. The thrill in your eyes when you landed a hit. The sound of you, breathless in the dark, whispering:
“We could be legends, Dick.”
He wanted to be a hero.
You wanted to be a god.
“…Deal,” he says again, quieter. Like a confession.
She was his best friend.
They built circuits together. Shared notes. Shared silence. He always knew she had powers—he just never asked how deep they ran.
Now they’re on opposite sides of a war neither of them wanted, and for the first time, Peter sees what she really is.
peter parker x reader
He doesn’t realize it’s her until the air changes.
The fight rages around him—shouts, crashes, metal groaning under superhuman weight—but suddenly everything fades.
The air goes heavier. Thicker. Warm.
Static crawls across the back of Peter’s neck, and his hand falters mid-swing.
It hits him in the chest—not a blast, not a blow—just a feeling.
Something familiar.
Something known.
Something wrong.
Then the smoke thins. The dust clears.
And there she is.
It’s like being punched in the gut without ever being touched.
She steps forward out of the haze like a ghost. Or a god.
Combat boots. Fingerless gloves. Field jacket cinched tight around her ribs like armor. Her hair’s pulled back, but wild around the edges. Her jaw’s clenched. Her hands glow.
And Peter? Peter can’t breathe.
Because her face—
Her face is exactly the same.
But her eyes aren’t.
“Y/N?”
His voice cracks like it forgot how to say her name.
She stops walking.
And the world stops with her.
He’s never seen her like this.
Not in the crowded hallways between third and fourth period.
Not tucked beside him on the roof of the compound, passing cold fries between bites of half-baked theories.
Not when she stole his notes and doodled little spiders in the margins.
Not when they snuck out of training together just to lie on the grass and breathe.
And never—never—with glowing veins of gold-red light pulsing under her skin like molten energy caged in something fragile.
The hum of her power hits him like a wave.
It’s beautiful.
And terrifying.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says.
Her voice is steady.
But her hands are shaking.
Peter stumbles forward a step. His chest is too tight. His suit is too hot.
“What are you— You can’t be—this isn’t—”
“You don’t belong on this side,” she says.
Her hands flare brighter. The light spills down her arms in angry flickers. Heat bleeds off her in waves.
Neither of them moves.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“Tell you what?”
“That you—” He gestures helplessly, voice splintering. “This. Your powers.”
She flinches. It’s quick. Barely there.
But he sees it.
“You think I wanted you to look at me like that?” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re scared of me.”
Peter’s throat closes. “I’m not— I just— You’re—”
He can’t finish.
Because he is scared.
Not of her power.
Of what it means.
Of how long she’s kept this locked away. Of how far apart they suddenly feel. Of the fact that he’s seeing her fully for the first time—and it’s here, now, on opposite sides of a war neither of them started.
And she sees all of it.
She lifts a hand. Light pools in her palm.
“Move, Peter.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Move.”
“Y/N, please—”
“Move.”
She fires.
It doesn’t hit him—not quite—but it hits the tarmac just three feet from where he stands.
The blast sends him flying backwards, ears ringing, world spinning. He flips, webbing a container midair, landing hard on one knee and gasping.
His hands tremble.
He’s never seen her like this.
And it terrifies him.
Because he knows her.
God, he knows her.
She’s the girl who stayed on the phone with him all night after Uncle Ben died.
The one who stitched his suit the first time he came back bloody and shaking.
The one who sat beside him in AP Bio and whispered “You’re doing great” during the pop quiz they both bombed.
The one who used to say, softly, when the power flickered beneath her skin: “I’m not dangerous, Pete. I just feel too much.”
But now?
Now she’s glowing.
And she’s aiming at him.
“I never wanted to fight you,” Peter says, breathless, watching her approach.
Her boots crunch over broken pavement. Her face is calm. Her eyes are wreckage.
“We’re on the same side,” he says.
She stops walking.
“No,” she says quietly. “We never were.”
Peter shakes his head. “That’s not true.”
“I just pretended for longer.”
The words hit harder than the blast.
Peter’s chest hollows out.
“You left.”
“I had to.”
“You could’ve told me—”
“You would’ve tried to stop me.”
“I would’ve followed you.”
She stares at him.
“You didn’t.”
The silence is deafening.
She steps closer. Every movement is sharp, deliberate, controlled—but there’s emotion under the surface, like her power isn’t the only thing threatening to spill over.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she whispers. “To be monitored. Restricted. Treated like you’re one breath away from turning into a weapon.”
“I never thought that about you,” Peter says. “Not once.”
“But you never said that.”
He flinches.
She keeps going.
“You stayed quiet. When my father locked me in a room. When they started calling me unstable. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t ask me anything.”
He tries to speak.
Fails.
Her eyes flick down to his lips.
And her voice breaks.
“You should’ve kissed me when you had the chance.”
The light pulses brighter than ever.
And then—
She fires.
Point blank.
White light swallows everything.
The air howls.
Peter hits the ground hard, skidding across fractured pavement.
When he blinks through the static, the smoke—
She’s gone.
The silence afterward is sharp.
Like glass in his lungs.
Peter lies still on the cracked concrete, breath stuttering. His suit's scorched. His ears are ringing. The glow of her power still burns behind his eyelids, imprinting itself on him like a scar he’ll never shake.
Before the island, you and Oliver Queen shared glances, tension, a kiss on a rooftop that never got the chance to become anything more.
Then he died.
So you bled the soft parts of yourself dry and became your own weapon. Now, five years later, you're both back in Star(ling) City—hardened, dangerous, and forced to work together.
But Oliver doesn’t recognize who you are now.
And when a mission goes sideways, everything explodes.
Oliver Queen x Reader
Before the island, Oliver Queen was a storm in a tailored suit.
Loud, beautiful, infuriating.
You weren’t in love with him.
But you were circling it.
You knew him the way people knew hurricanes.
By pressure. By instinct. By the damage he left behind.
He was the Queen heir — smug and dangerous, charming in a way that made your stomach twist. And every time he looked at you across some glittering event, it felt like gravity shifting.
He never asked for your number.
But he always found you.
A hand on your lower back. His voice low in your ear. That lazy grin that made your skin burn.
You told yourself it was nothing.
A flirtation. A bad idea with a beautiful face.
But there were moments.
Tiny things.
The time he ducked out of a party just to sit on the rooftop with you, fingers brushing yours as you passed a stolen bottle of champagne back and forth.
The way he’d say your name — slower than necessary, like he liked the taste of it.
The kiss.
God, that kiss.
You hadn’t planned it.
You were arguing — half-drunk, half-laughing — and suddenly he was inches from your face. Eyes darker than you'd ever seen them.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you’d whispered.
“Like what?” he asked, already knowing.
“Like you mean it.”
He kissed you anyway.
And you let him.
You didn’t sleep together.
He left you with a smile and a soft, "See you around."
And you never did.
The Queen’s Gambit went down three weeks later.
And Oliver Queen, for all the privilege and bravado he’d carried like armor, died.
You didn’t cry.
You’d known better than to count on him.
But something cracked inside you. Quiet. Deep.
You didn’t know what to do with that grief.
So you did what you’d always done — you ran.
Only this time, you didn’t run away.
You ran into it.
You disappeared.
Trained with mercenaries. Learned from killers. Followed whispers of death and justice across continents.
You stopped needing protection.
You became the thing people needed protection from.
By the time you came back to Starling, you were a ghost of the girl he used to flirt with.
And by then, the hood was already legend.
You’d heard the stories — a vigilante taking down white-collar criminals, swift and brutal.
But you didn’t believe it until you saw him.
Until you were on the same rooftop, chasing the same target, and he turned —
And those eyes found yours through the dark.
He froze.
You didn’t.
Your blade was at the dealer’s throat before Oliver could even speak. And when it was done — when the man was unconscious and bleeding at your feet — you finally turned to him.
He hadn’t moved.
Just stared.
Like he’d seen a ghost.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” you said flatly.
His mouth twitched. Something like a smile. Something shattered.
“So were you.”
You didn’t ask where he’d been.
And he didn’t ask what you’d become.
Not then.
But it didn’t take long before your paths crossed again.
Then again.
Until silence turned into strategy.
And tension turned into proximity.
You weren’t a team.
Not really.
But the streets ran cleaner when you worked together.
And slowly, too slowly, he let you in.
But the more he saw of you, the more you saw it in his eyes — that flicker of recognition trying to claw its way back through guilt and grief.
He didn’t know what to make of you now.
You weren’t the girl he once kissed on a rooftop.
You were sharper. Colder. You moved like you didn’t need anyone — especially not him.
But sometimes, when it was quiet…
When you were both bruised and breathing and the world outside had gone still…
He’d look at you like he almost remembered how to love you.
And that hurt worse than the blade in your ribs ever could.
The door to the bunker shuts hard behind you.
Not slammed, not quite.
But heavy. Final. Like it’s sealing you in.
You drop your weapons on the metal table without ceremony — a blade still slick with blood, the black sheath echoing as it lands. You don’t take your gloves off yet. Not because you forgot. But because your hands are still shaking.
You breathe in through your nose.
Exhale through your teeth.
You are not sorry.
And that’s going to be a problem.
The overhead fluorescents hum softly.
A distant monitor beeps.
The med cabinet’s light flickers as you open it.
You don’t need stitches. Not this time.
But your ribs burn and there’s dried blood running down the inside of your suit — collateral damage from someone who deserved worse than they got.
You unclip your vest. Peel it off like skin. Underneath, your black undershirt clings to sweat, to impact bruises, to everything you haven’t said yet.
You hear him before you see him.
Boots on concrete. Measured. Controlled.
He walks in like the whole world is pressing down on his shoulders — and for a second, you hate him for how calm he looks.
His arms are crossed. His jaw’s locked tight.
But his eyes?
His eyes look like they’ve already started the argument.
You don’t turn.
“If you’re going to tell me I went too far,” you mutter, voice low, “don’t waste your breath.”
There’s silence. Thick. Stifling.
Then Oliver’s voice — razor-sharp, quiet.
“He begged.”
The breath you take is slow.
Measured.
Not because you feel guilty.
But because you don’t.
And you know he hears it.
“I did what had to be done.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, voice getting harder. “You did what was easy.”
You finally turn.
And everything between you tightens.
He’s a few feet away now.
Still holding it together.
Still trying not to feel too much.
But you’re not here to be gentle.
“You froze,” you say evenly. “I didn’t.”
His expression flickers. Just a little.
“That’s not what happened.”
“No?” You take a step closer. “Because it looked like you hesitated. Looked like I had to clean up your mess.”
That breaks something.
“Don’t,” he says. Low. Cold. “Don’t act like this is about me being weak.”
You don’t flinch.
“I’m not acting.”
He’s breathing harder now.
Not from exhaustion.
From you.
“You used to be better than this.”
The words slip out like they taste bitter.
Your jaw tightens. “You used to see me.”
“I still do.”
“No, Oliver.” Your voice drops. “You see a ghost. The girl from the rooftop. The one you kissed and forgot and buried when the Queen’s Gambit went under.”
His mouth opens. Shuts. There’s pain behind his eyes now — and you hate that it still makes you ache.
You step in. Close enough to feel his breath.
“I’m not her anymore,” you whisper. “I bled her out years ago.”
He’s shaking his head. Not denying it. Just trying to swallow it.
“I didn’t want this version of you,” he says, quiet.
“Then you shouldn’t have left.”
That lands like a slap.
And you mean it.
You mean every word.
His voice drops. Barely audible.
“I lost five years of my life.”
“And I lived every second of them,” you snap. “Alone. Angry. Becoming the kind of person who doesn’t need someone like you telling her how to do this.”
Oliver exhales. Looks away.
And that — that look — it splinters something raw between you.
Because he still can’t accept that the girl he once flirted with at parties is gone.
And you can’t accept that he wants her back more than he wants you now.
You turn back toward the med table, chest heaving, trying to get control of your breath, your voice, your rage.
Then, softly:
“I’m not sorry for what I did.”
Silence.
You hear him step forward. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then his voice — low, level, quiet in the worst way:
“I know.”
You turn.
And this time?
The air shifts.
Because the next words are close.
Too close.
And you’re both about to break.
Your chest rises and falls too fast.
You’re not out of breath — not from the mission. Not even from the pain in your side.
But the air feels thin. Like all the oxygen has been replaced with tension.
You can feel his gaze on you. Heavy. Calculating.
Like he’s still trying to figure out who you are.
And you’re sick of it.
"Say it," you whisper.
You don’t yell. You don’t have to.
The words hit harder because they’re quiet.
Oliver’s standing near the center of the bunker, arms still tense from whatever fury he’s choking down. The bruises on his jaw are blooming violet, dried blood at his collarbone.
He looks like a man unraveling beautifully.
And it should terrify you.
But you just want to tear him open.
"Say it," you repeat. “Whatever it is. Whatever you’ve been biting back since the second we walked in here.”
His mouth opens, closes. He paces one step. Then another.
Then he stops.
Looks up.
“You scare me.”
The words land like a slap.
You freeze. Not because it surprises you — but because he means it.
Every syllable is soaked in it.
You stare. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, voice low. Not cruel. Just… bare.
“You scare me because you don’t hesitate. Because you fight like you don’t care if you walk away. Because you don’t flinch anymore, even when you should.”
He takes a slow step forward. One hand curled into a fist, the other twitching like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or push you away.
“And I used to think I was the one who came back broken,” he says. “But then you looked that man in the eye tonight and didn’t blink while you drove your blade into his shoulder.”
His voice catches.
“And I realized I don’t know who the hell you are anymore.”
The silence stretches.
It buzzes in your ears like static.
Your blood feels too hot in your veins.
You swallow, once. “Then why keep me around?”
Oliver’s mouth parts like he might deflect — deny — retreat.
But he doesn’t.
His voice drops into something quieter. Something that sounds too much like a confession.
“Because I can’t let you go.”
That’s when it happens.
The shift.
The air changes.
Something between you snaps, but not in half — it snaps tight.
You can feel it pull. Between your ribs. Low in your stomach. Beneath your skin.
Oliver steps in — and your backs are no longer straight. Your spines curve toward each other like they were always meant to close the space.
“You think I don’t see you?” he breathes. “I see everything.”
His hand is at your wrist now. Light. Testing.
“I see the way you hold it in. The way you fight like it’s penance. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching—like you’re daring me to stop you.”
You swallow, hard.
He leans in, close enough that his forehead almost brushes yours. His voice barely a breath.
“You’re still bleeding. I just don’t think you know it.”
You shove him.
Hard.
And the contact sets everything off.
He stumbles back two steps — and in one breath, he’s lunging again.
It’s not a brawl. It’s a controlled fire.
You swing — he catches your arm. You twist, drop your weight, spin around him and land a palm to his chest that knocks him a foot back.
He smiles. It’s dark.
He rushes again. His shoulder collides with yours, driving you into the nearest wall — you twist and use the momentum to lock him by the forearm.
It’s not a spar anymore.
It’s grief in motion.
You’re both breathing hard now, chests heaving with more than just adrenaline.
He grabs your wrist again. This time with real intent.
You push your leg between his — twist him — shove him off balance again.
Your bodies crash into each other like magnets fighting the inevitable.
Until your back hits the wall — and he’s right there — so close you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
You’re pinned between his forearm and the wall, your faces inches apart.
Your breathing syncs.
You’re both frozen.
And then—
He looks at your mouth.
Just for a second.
And something breaks.
He kisses you like it’s a sin.
Like he’s already damned, and this is his favorite part of hell.
His lips are rough. His grip bruising.
You gasp — and that’s all the opening he needs. His mouth slants over yours again, desperate and messy and so full of everything he can’t say.
You kiss him back with five years of rage.
You bite his lip when he leans in too close, and he groans into your mouth like it’s the first sound he’s allowed himself to make all night.
His hand tangles in your hair. Yours fists in his shirt.
Barry went back in time and saved someone.
But in the process, he erased the version of the timeline where you loved each other. Now he looks at you like a stranger. But you remember everything.
Barry Allen x Reader
The first time you see him again, it’s like being punched in the chest.
Barry Allen walks into STAR Labs laughing—easy, warm, carefree in a way you haven’t seen him be in months. His hoodie’s wrinkled, his hair is a mess, and he’s carrying a box of donuts in one hand while he tosses something sarcastic at Cisco over his shoulder.
Like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t erase you.
And when he turns—when he looks at you—he smiles.
It’s polite. Casual.
Like he’s never seen your face flushed beneath him in the dark.
Like he’s never held your trembling hands after a breach nearly killed you.
Like he didn’t kiss you just before running into the Speed Force and swear he’d come back to you.
He did.
Only this time, he came back to a version of the world where you were never his.
And the universe didn’t even give you the mercy of forgetting.
They used to call you a temporal anchor.
It sounded cool when Cisco first said it—like something out of a comic book. You’d laughed. Barry had called it your “superpower,” said it made you his constant, whatever that meant. But now?
Now it just means you remember everything.
Because the Speed Force can’t bend you. Not fully. You’re locked to the versions of events you lived—emotionally, physically, completely.
So when Barry ran back in time—again—whatever he changed rewrote the world, but not your mind.
You woke up with the same bruises on your hip from where he gripped you too tight during a nightmare. The same sweatshirt of his folded at the bottom of your bed. The same memory of falling asleep to his heartbeat against your back.
But the man you loved?
He woke up without you.
You tried to deny it at first.
Tried to rationalize the weird tension. The way he looked at you like you were a stranger. The way he forgot things—small things. Your favorite tea. The name of your old dog. That you hated being called sweetheart.
You tried to excuse it. Said he was tired. Distracted.
But then he walked in one morning and asked if you were new to the team.
That was the moment it shattered.
You nodded. Told him Cisco was showing you around.
Then locked yourself in the bathroom and vomited until your body stopped shaking.
Now you watch him from the hallway.
He’s leaned over a console, talking to Caitlin about something technical, gesturing too much with his hands. He still talks like he’s a little too excited about everything. Still has that boyish light in his voice when something clicks.
He hasn’t looked at you again.
Your fingers curl around the stairwell railing, nails biting into your palms. You focus on your breathing. Steady. Even. Not too shallow.
He doesn’t know what he’s done.
You remind yourself of that over and over.
He doesn’t know what he’s done.
But that doesn’t make it hurt less.
“Y/N?”
You flinch.
His voice is softer this time—closer.
You turn, slow, like your bones have forgotten how to move. Barry’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved awkwardly into his hoodie pockets, brow furrowed in something close to concern.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says quickly. “I, uh—I realized we haven’t really met yet.”
Your throat closes.
He steps forward and offers his hand with that same nervous grin you’ve seen a thousand times.
Except now?
Now it feels like watching a ghost wear his skin.
Everything about him is familiar — the shape of his smile, the nervous way he shifts from foot to foot, the softness in his eyes — but none of it is yours anymore.
Not the way it used to be.
“I’m Barry,” he says, offering his hand like a peace treaty you never asked for.
You look at it.
And it wrecks you.
Because you remember how it felt against your cheek, warm and trembling after a battle. In your hair, gentle and reverent when he thought you were asleep. On your waist, grounding you when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Wrapped in yours while he whispered, I don’t want to go, but I have to.
That version of him is gone.
But this hand is still his.
You take it anyway.
Because some part of you — the broken, grieving part that still sleeps in his sweatshirt — wants to feel it again.
Even if it’s a lie.
Even if it’s just muscle memory and timeline debris.
“I know,” you whisper.
His fingers linger in yours for a beat too long.
And then he lets go.
But the look he gives you?
He keeps looking at you like he’s trying to place you. Like your face is an echo in a dream he can’t remember — just familiar enough to feel important, just out of reach enough to drive him mad.
You try not to notice the way he hovers more now.
The way his eyes linger when you speak. The way his brow furrows when you say something that’s almost a joke, almost a memory, almost too close to the truth.
But it’s tonight — in the quiet of STAR Labs, long past when either of you should’ve gone home — that he finally says it out loud.
“Can I ask you something?”
You glance up.
Barry’s standing a few feet away, his posture casual—but his eyes aren’t. They’re too focused. Too curious. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without the edges.
“Yeah?” you say cautiously.
“I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I know we haven’t really known each other that long, but… it feels like I already know you.”
You freeze.
He rushes to fill the silence. “I mean—I’m not trying to be weird. It’s just… sometimes when I see you, I get this feeling in my chest. Like déjà vu or something. Like I forgot something I’m supposed to remember.”
You open your mouth.
Then close it.
He smiles sheepishly. “It’s probably just my brain being stupid. Or timeline stuff. Who knows.”
Your voice is soft. Barely there.
“It’s not your brain.”
Barry blinks. “What?”
You swallow.
“It’s not nothing. It’s not timeline static. It’s—” Your breath shakes. “You forgot me.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t deny it.
He just… stills.
Like something in your voice touches a nerve.
“What do you mean?” he asks, quieter now.
You stare at him. “Do you really want to know?”
He nods.
So you tell him.
Slow. Careful. Every word measured like a cut.
“We were together. Before the last timeline shift. You went back to stop something—something good, Barry. You saved someone. But it erased what we were.”
Barry sways slightly.
His voice is barely audible. “How do you know?”
“Because I remember,” you whisper. “I always do.”
He looks like you’ve hit him.
You keep going. Because if you stop now, you won’t be able to start again.
“You were everything to me. And one day I walked in here, and you looked at me like I was a stranger. And I’ve had to stand beside you every day since, pretending it doesn’t tear me apart.”
His breath catches.
You take a step back. “And I didn’t say anything. Because you looked happy. And I knew you did the right thing. I knew you saved someone.”
Your voice cracks.
“But I lost you.”
He’s silent.
Hands trembling slightly.
“I…” His voice breaks, uncertain. “I don’t feel it.”
You’re sick. Feverish. Miserable.
Barry Allen is the most attentive boyfriend in existence.
barry allen x reader
You knew you were sick when Barry stopped teasing you.
No smug remarks. No playful eyebrows. Just soft eyes and the gentlest hands imaginable tucking you into bed like you might dissolve if he moved too fast.
Which was ironic, really.
Because Barry Allen always moved fast.
But not with you.
Not when you were like this—pale, weak, sweating through your pajamas and shivering under three blankets. Not when you could barely lift your head without groaning.
Not when he was scared.
He didn’t say it, of course.
He never did. Not the way most people would.
But you’d been together long enough to know what fear looked like on Barry Allen.
It wasn’t panic. It was quiet.
It was the way he slowed his steps when he walked into your bedroom. The way he held your tea like it was something fragile. The way he’d pressed a hand to your forehead and murmured, “You’re burning up,” and then didn’t let go for five whole minutes.
The way he never left your side without promising, “I’ll be right back.”
Like you’d slip away while he wasn’t looking.
You’re half-asleep when he comes back this time—arms full, hair windblown, still dressed in sweats and a hoodie that definitely wasn’t his when you fell asleep (Cisco’s? Maybe? You’re too feverish to care).
He sets a tray down on your nightstand, all soft clinks and quiet care. You blink up at him, dazed.
“Soup,” he says gently. “Tea. Ginger chews. Two kinds of cough drops. And—” he leans closer, grinning, “a new thermometer. Because I know the old one lies to me.”
You huff a tired laugh. “You bought a new thermometer?”
He shrugs, clearly unrepentant. “I may have stolen it from STAR Labs.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he replies, kneeling beside the bed. “It’s a terminal condition.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes.
Barry reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. You lean into his touch instinctively.
“How’s the fever?”
“Still awful.”
He hums, reading your face. “Headache?”
You nod.
“Sore throat?”
You nod again.
He kisses your forehead softly, then mumbles, “Don’t move.”
Before you can ask why, he’s gone.
Gone-gone. Speedster blur gone.
You blink. He’s back three seconds later holding—
“A cool rag,” he says proudly, tucking it behind your neck like he’s just performed a miracle. “Dampened to exactly 74°F.”
You squint at him.
“I used my watch,” he explains.
You sigh. “You’re gonna set the bar so high for other men it’s gonna mess with the timeline.”
He smirks. “Good. Let them fear me.”
You open your mouth to tease him again but dissolve into a coughing fit. It racks through your chest, makes your eyes water. Barry’s there instantly, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, whispering the whole time:
“I’ve got you. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
And when you finally go still, exhausted and slumped against him, he whispers something even softer.
“I hate seeing you like this.”
You rest your cheek against his collarbone. “I hate feeling like this.”
“I know.”
His arms stay wrapped around you as you drift again, body warm but safe, heart fluttering slow under the press of his.
Barry sits behind you in bed, legs on either side of yours, your blanket-swaddled body resting against his chest like a human marshmallow. You’re tired, overheated, and grumpy, but he’s determined to get you to eat something before you pass out again.
So now? He’s got a spoon in one hand and your hair tucked behind your ear with the other.
“C’mon,” he coaxes gently, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Just one more bite.”
You groan. “No more. I’m a sick little sack of soup now. I’m done.”
“You’ve had, like, six spoonfuls.”
“Which is, like, five more than I wanted.”
He chuckles softly, pressing his nose into your hair. “You’re dramatic.”
“Says the man who sped across town for three brands of cough drops.”
He shrugs. “Your suffering makes me reckless.”
You laugh—quietly. It hurts your throat. But it’s real.
Once he’s finally convinced you to sip some tea, he sets everything aside and settles in again. His arms wrap around you automatically, blanket and all, his hands rubbing lazy circles over your ribs through the fabric.
“Feel a little better?” he asks.
You nod against his shoulder. “Warm. Full. Safe.”
He presses a kiss to the side of your head.
“That’s kinda my whole brand.”
You don’t mean to fall asleep.
You just sort of drift.
Your head tucked under his chin. His hands never leaving you. The sound of his heartbeat steady in your ear, rhythmic and grounding.
And in that hazy, half-conscious space between dreaming and waking, you murmur:
“I think I wanna marry you.”
It’s soft. So soft you almost don’t hear it yourself.
But Barry goes still.
You’re too far gone to notice—eyes closed, breath even, fever making the world heavy and slow.
But he hears it.
He feels it.
And god, he’s never been so in love with anything in his life.
He holds you a little tighter. Presses a kiss to your temple. And whispers, almost inaudibly:
You're not Klaus Mikaelson’s queen in a crown — you're his equal in carnage. Feared. Worshipped. Loved in a way no mortal could survive. You return to him soaked in death, and he waits — proud, aroused, and utterly devoted.
Not the sound of fear—not the frantic rhythm of prey—but the slow, deliberate click of heels on marble. You walk like war. Like the last breath before the blade. And every step echoes through the compound like a warning.
Niklaus Mikaelson smiles.
He doesn’t rush to greet you. He never does. Not when you’re like this—fresh from a hunt, blood still warm on your skin, power thick in the air behind you like a second shadow.
He stands on the upper balcony, one hand resting on the carved stone railing, the other cradling a crystal glass filled with something dark. It isn’t wine.
He only drinks wine when he’s pretending.
Tonight, he waits with blood on his tongue and reverence in his chest.
You appear beneath the archway like a storm rolling in—coat sweeping behind you, boots dripping with crimson. It stains the floor. You don’t stop to wipe it away.
Your hands are bare. Covered to the wrist in blood—no gloves, no shame. You’ve never needed to hide what you are.
The blood is not accidental.
It never is.
Klaus watches, breath shallow, eyes fixed on you like a man witnessing the return of something holy. His wife. His queen. The only creature on this earth who makes him feel like less of a monster by being more.
When you finally lift your gaze to him, it’s electric. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.
He doesn’t ask what you’ve done. He already knows.
It started with a name.
A witch in the French Quarter foolish enough to speak your title like it wasn’t sacred. Whispers of rebellion. A quiet gathering. A plan to poison the roots of your empire.
You gave them a chance to kneel.
They didn’t.
So you made them bleed.
The coven is gone now. Burned and broken and silent in the river mud. And you’re still warm from the fire.
You ascend the stairs without a word, trailing blood behind you like a bride leaves lace. Klaus doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
When you reach the landing, he offers the glass without looking away from your face.
You take it.
You always do.
He watches the way your fingers curve around the crystal stem—steady, stained, lethal. The way your lips part to drink, slow and elegant. The way your throat moves as you swallow it down.
It should terrify him.
It never has.
“They were screaming?” he asks, voice low, silken.
You tilt your head, considering. “Some begged.”
“For mercy?”
You smirk. “For death.”
A beat passes. You glance down at your hands, crimson slick and gleaming under the candlelight, then back up at him.
“They thought they’d be safe,” you murmur. “Because you’re the monster of New Orleans.”
He watches your mouth move. Every word pressed like a bruise.
“But I’m the one they beg to kill them quickly.”
Klaus’s breath catches.
You set the glass down, delicately, on the stone ledge beside you.
“They forget,” you say, stepping closer, “that I’m older than most of their bloodlines.”
He says nothing.
You keep going.
“They forget who taught you half of what you know.”
Another step. Closer.
“They forget you weren’t always the one they feared first.”
Now you’re toe to toe. Eye to eye. Breath to breath.
“And what shall I remind them, my love?” Klaus asks softly, reverently.
You lean in.
“Remind them who stands beside you,” you whisper.
He doesn’t kiss you.
Not yet.
His hand lifts instead—slow, deliberate—and cradles your bloodstained cheek. His thumb brushes under your eye. You lean into it, uncaring that you’re still wet with death.
“You’re breathtaking,” he murmurs.
You smile, just a little. “You always say that after a massacre.”
He laughs.
It’s quiet. Dark. Full of something old.
Pride. Hunger. Devotion.
“I said it the first time I saw you, too,” he murmurs.
Your smile fades into something quieter.
More intimate.
“You were on your knees,” you say, tilting your head. “Covered in blood. I was holding a dagger to your throat.”
“And I fell in love,” he says.
You reach for his shirt.
“I married you.”
You undo the first button of his shirt with your bloodstained fingers.
Slow. Intentional. A silent declaration: I could command you to kneel. But I’d rather take you apart piece by piece.
Klaus doesn’t flinch. He watches you like a man witnessing prophecy.
The second button. The third.
Your touch is soft, but there’s nothing gentle about the way his chest rises under your hands — like he’s holding back the urge to devour you. His breath is shallow. His pupils blown wide.
“You’re still covered in blood,” he says softly, almost reverently.
You don’t smile. Not yet.
You lean in instead, your lips brushing the edge of his throat, not kissing—just breathing him in. The scent of blood and bourbon and Klaus. Your tongue flicks out, just once, tasting the skin over his pulse.
“So are you.”
That’s when it starts to crack.
His jaw flexes. His hand lifts—hesitates—before he grips your waist, fingers digging through soaked fabric like he’s grounding himself on your bones.
And still, he waits.
Because you haven’t given him permission.
You press your mouth to the hollow of his throat—slow, possessive—and finally unfasten the last button of his shirt. It falls open, exposing his chest to the lowlight. Pale, freckled, scarred from centuries of battle and betrayal.
You splay your bloody palm across his heart.
It’s racing.
“I see the way they look at you,” you whisper. “Terrified. Worshipping.”
He shudders.
“I see the way you like it.”
His hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard. Still silent. Still waiting.
“But I like it more,” you murmur. “Knowing they’ll never touch what’s mine.”
His mouth parts like he’s going to speak, but you slide your fingers up his throat, slow and commanding, thumb brushing his lower lip.
“And you are mine, Niklaus.”
He exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs.
“I always have been,” he says.
You finally kiss him.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s war—centuries of shared blood, buried bodies, and the kind of devotion that doesn’t come with tenderness. It comes with teeth.
His hands snap up, one cupping the back of your neck, the other gripping your thigh. He groans into your mouth when you bite his lower lip, when you drag your tongue along the copper-stained seam of his mouth and kiss him deeper.
“You’re perfect like this,” he breathes between kisses. “Painted in blood, still tasting of death.”
“And you’re so fucking obedient,” you murmur, smirking against his mouth. “Did you wait up just to watch me walk in?”
His grip tightens.
“Always,” he rasps.
You shove him back a step, and he lets you. Lets you press him against the stone wall behind him, lets you grab his jaw with a stained hand and tilt his head back to kiss down his neck.
His voice shakes.
“You don’t need to do this to me.”
“I want to,” you growl.
Another kiss, lower now, just above his collarbone. Another bite. Another scrape of nails down his chest.
“I want to feel you come undone beneath me.”
He growls.
His control is slipping.
But he still hasn’t taken.
Because you haven’t told him to.
Your hand curls in the open collar of his shirt, yanking him closer until your lips graze his ear.
“Take me.”
His hands are on you before the last syllable leaves your mouth.
Gone is the man who waited. Gone is the restraint. What’s left is Klaus — feral and reverent, undiluted and yours.
He grabs you like he’s starved for it — like the blood on your skin belongs to him and he needs it back. His mouth is everywhere at once: your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, biting and kissing and claiming.
“I waited all night,” he rasps, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength. “Waited to see your hands painted in death.”
You wrap your legs around him as he presses you back into the stone wall, his body hard against yours. He grinds into you once, rough and slow — just enough to make you gasp.
“And now you’re here,” he groans, “and I want to ruin you for everything else.”
Your hips roll into his. He grunts like it hurts, like the tension between you is too tight to hold. You reach down, fumble with his belt, blood still wet between your fingers. He watches you, eyes dark, breath ragged.
When you finally free him — thick and hot and heavy in your hand — he groans deep in his chest.
You stroke him once. Twice.
He shudders.
“Fuck, you’re perfect.”
You smile. “Then prove it.”
And he does.
You smile. “Then prove it.”
His eyes darken—truly darken—as if something ancient and feral has just been given permission to rise.
Klaus doesn’t speak. He just looks at you—looks at you like you’re the most beautiful, terrifying thing he’s ever laid eyes on. A goddess cloaked in blood and power, his wife, his match, his equal.
His fingers curl around your jaw, guiding your mouth to his once more—this time slower, deeper. His kiss is no longer hungry. It’s worshipful.
“You want proof?” he whispers against your lips.
You nod.
Then he drops a hand between your bodies and guides himself to your entrance, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with agonizing slowness.
You gasp, hips twitching toward him. He grins.
“Feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s what you do to me.”
You nod again, breathless.
“Good,” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “Then take it.”
He thrusts in slow—one long, brutal motion—and you gasp, your back arching as he fills you completely.
Not fast. Not sloppy.
Deliberate.
Like he wants you to feel every inch of him. Like he’s carving his name into the deepest parts of you with nothing but his body and the way he says your name when he’s inside you.
“Look at me,” Klaus growls, voice tight as your walls clench around him. “I want to see your face when I break you.”
You do.
You meet his gaze, heavy-lidded and aching, and the moment your eyes lock, something snaps between you — the kind of gravity that’s existed since the first time you made him bleed and kissed him after.
He pulls out halfway. Slams back in harder.
You cry out, your fingers clutching at his bare shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist like a trap.
He grunts, jaw clenched, holding himself back with effort that shakes through every muscle.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re—so—tight. Like you were made for me.”
You claw your nails down his back, smearing blood across his skin. He growls, hips snapping harder now, thrusts gaining speed and intensity, every drag of him inside you toeing the line between punishment and praise.
“You are mine,” he breathes. “Every scream, every drop of blood, every trembling breath you take—mine.”
You moan, voice broken. “Then take me.”
He does.
Over and over.
His hand slips between you, finding your clit with fingers that know exactly how to make you come undone. His thumb circles once—twice—and your entire body clenches around him.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Let them hear you.”
You cry out his name, the world falling out from under you as your orgasm crashes over you — hot, violent, endless. You shake in his arms, head falling forward against his shoulder as he fucks you through it, groaning as your walls flutter and clench around him.
He doesn’t last long after that.
With a final thrust—deep, hard, devastating—he spills inside you, moaning your name into your neck like it’s the only thing left he believes in.
He follows with a growl so low it borders on animal, burying himself deep as he spills into you. His teeth find your shoulder, not biting, just grounding himself in the feeling of being inside you. With you. After you.
The aftermath is a tangle of limbs and breath and sweat and blood.
You rest your forehead against his, still pinned to the wall, still trembling in his arms.
“I love you,” he whispers.
You kiss him.
And this time, it’s soft.
The only thing in the world you’ll ever be gentle with.
After a case involving children, Spencer shuts down. You find him in the hotel bathroom—silent, trembling, unreachable. He says he doesn’t want to be fixed. Good. You’d rather just hold him. In the dark, in the quiet, in the soft press of shared breath, you remind him what it feels like to be safe. To be seen. To be held.
Spencer Reid x Reader
You know something’s wrong the second you step into the hotel room.
There’s no sound. No rustle of paper. No soft footsteps pacing. No quiet voice reciting facts just to fill the space. It’s just... still.
And Spencer Reid is never still.
His go-bag is by the door. Unzipped. His badge on the nightstand like he couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore. One shoe abandoned under the chair. The other on its side in the corner like he kicked it off mid-panic.
The light under the bathroom door flickers softly.
You knock.
“Spence?”
No answer.
You try the knob. It turns.
The door opens to reveal him on the floor.
He’s curled against the wall. Knees drawn up. One hand trembling in his lap, the other pressed to his mouth like he’s trying to keep something in. His eyes are red-rimmed, staring through the grout in the tile like he’s somewhere else entirely.
The moment your foot crosses the threshold, his voice rasps out:
“Don’t.”
You pause.
He doesn’t even look at you. Just drops his hand and closes his eyes. “Don’t try to fix me.”
You don’t speak. Not yet.
Instead, you lower yourself to the floor, the cold tile biting through your jeans. You fold your legs beneath you, leave enough space between you and him to breathe. Let the silence settle before you say, quiet:
“I wasn’t going to fix you.”
His throat bobs.
“I just didn’t want you to be alone.”
Spencer has always been the strongest one in the quiet.
Not in the ways people expect. Not in the way Hotch commands a room or Morgan walks into danger like he’s bulletproof. Spencer is quiet strength. The kind that reads people’s grief before they feel it. The kind that sees the truth buried in the ugliest places. The kind that carries too much and never says a word.
But you’ve known him long enough—loved him long enough—to recognize when he’s holding himself together by a thread.
And tonight, that thread is fraying.
“I don’t want to talk,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“It was the kids.”
“I know.”
He swallows hard, lips parted like he’s about to say more—but nothing comes. You can feel the ache radiating off him, the kind that sinks deep and doesn’t go away when the case is over.
You glance at his hands—shaking. Restless. Like they don’t know where to go without holding a gun or flipping through a file.
You don’t reach for him. Not yet.
He’s always been like this. Sensitive to touch when the emotions are too sharp. You learned that after Tobias. After Hankel. After prison. You learned when to give space, when to hold him, when to just be there.
And so you wait.
Sit with him in the low light, listening to the hum of the bathroom fan and the silence he doesn't know how to fill.
Minutes pass.
Then—
“They had toys still on the floor.”
Your heart cracks.
“The boy—the youngest—he was holding a book.” Spencer’s voice breaks on the word. “He didn’t even let go.”
You inch closer. Slow. Gentle.
“I keep seeing it,” he says, hand shaking against his knee. “The spine was bent. His thumb was still inside it like he thought—like he thought he’d get to finish it.”
You close the space between you, inch by inch, until your knee touches his.
“I hate that I couldn’t save them,” he whispers. “I hate that I’m so used to this.”
You reach out, fingers light against his wrist. Not grabbing. Not anchoring. Just there.
“I know you don’t need me to fix it,” you say, your voice soft. “I know I can’t.”
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Just stares at your hand like he’s forgotten what comfort looks like.
“But if you’ll let me,” you add, “I’ll stay.”
He lets out a shuddered breath. And then—finally—he shifts closer, rests his head against your shoulder like the weight of it might finally let him fall apart.
“I don’t need you to make it better,” he murmurs, voice barely there.
You press your cheek to his hair. “Good. Because I’d rather just hold you.”
And so you do.
You sit on that cold tile floor, in the half-lit quiet, while he breathes—just breathes—against you. While his hands still tremble and his voice stays gone.
You don’t try to fix it.
You just stay.
He doesn’t speak again for a long time.
You stay on the bathroom floor until your spine aches and the tile numbs your legs. You don’t move, not until Spencer does.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are glassy. Not fresh with tears—but after. Like the storm has passed, but the sky hasn’t cleared.
You brush his hair from his forehead. It’s damp. Your hand is steady. His isn’t.
“Come to bed,” you whisper.
He nods.
Doesn’t speak. Just lets you help him up, one arm slung over your shoulder like he’s too tired to hold himself together anymore.
You pull back the sheets. He hesitates.
You’re about to step away—give him space, let him breathe—but then his fingers wrap gently around your wrist.
“Stay?”
Just one word. Quiet. Raw.
You nod.
The sheets are cold when you slip beneath them, but his body is warm—almost fevered with exhaustion, still shaking in those tiny, barely-there twitches he probably thinks you can’t feel.
You lie facing him. Close, but not quite touching. Watching the rise and fall of his chest in the low amber light that spills in from the window. His curls are slightly damp against the pillow. His eyes are half-lidded, but you know he’s still awake.
He always is, after cases like this.
Too many memories between his ribs. Too many ghosts behind his eyes.
You shift closer, slow and careful, giving him space to say no. But he doesn’t. If anything, he leans into your warmth before he even realizes he’s doing it.
Your fingertips skim across his forearm, featherlight. He breathes deeper.
“I don’t know how you do this,” he murmurs. “How you see what we see and... still sleep.”
You hesitate, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist. “Sometimes I don’t.”
His brows knit, eyes flicking toward you. You offer him a quiet smile.
“But I still try.”
There’s a beat. Then—
“I always thought being strong meant holding it all in,” Spencer says softly. “Pushing it down. Acting like it didn’t hurt.”
You nod. “Me too.”
“And then you sat next to me on a bathroom floor and didn’t ask me to be anything at all.”
You rest your forehead against his.
“You don’t have to be.”
He exhales like it hurts. Like relief is its own kind of pain.
“I’m not used to this.”
“To what?”
“Being held.”
That one cuts.
You thread your fingers through his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Then let me show you.”
He blinks up at you, eyes glassy, but not crying. Just quiet. Open. Raw in a way only you ever get to see.
So you shift closer. Tuck your arm around his waist. Press a kiss just below his jaw.
He breathes you in like you’re the only thing tethering him to now.
“Is this okay?” you whisper.
His voice is thick. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
You don’t speak for a while.
You just hold him.
Fingers trailing slowly along his spine. The quiet, rhythmic stroke of his curls beneath your palm. His hand against your chest, fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he needs proof you’re not going anywhere.
And then, just when you think he’s fallen asleep—
“I didn’t know love could feel like this.”
You go still.
Your heart does that fluttering, aching, breaking thing, because he doesn’t say those kinds of things. Not easily. Not unless they’re laced with panic or precision.
But now, in the dark?
He says it like a secret he’s been keeping his whole life.
You lean back just enough to see him.
“What does it feel like?” you ask, barely above a whisper.
He hesitates. Swallows. “Like breathing.”
Like breathing.
You kiss his temple, so softly he sighs.
“And what about you?” he asks, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it. “What does it feel like to hold someone like me?”
You press your lips to his again—this time over his heart.
“Like home.”
He exhales. You feel it all the way through your bones.
Then his arms wrap tighter around you, and for the first time in days, he sleeps.
Not lightly. Not restlessly.
But safe.
Because he knows you’ll still be there in the morning.
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All the Ways We Don’t Touch in Public (Sirius Black x Slytherin!Reader)
Sirius Black x Slytherin!Reader
You’re a Slytherin. A pureblood. A girl raised for legacy and control.
Sirius Black is everything you were told to avoid—loud, reckless, Gryffindor. Wrong.
But late at night in the castle’s shadows, when no one’s watching, he kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
NSFW Content Below!
Warnings: explicit smut (18+), fingering, oral (f receiving), wall sex, desperate touches, secret relationship, angst, heavy tension, emotionally loaded confessions, Sirius being a hot mess, Slytherin reader, emotionally vulnerable sex, unsafe Hogwarts corridors
You’re not supposed to look at him.
Not in class. Not in corridors. Never in the Great Hall, where your housemates sit with perfect posture and sharper tongues, eyes trained on anyone who steps out of line. You learned early how to hold your chin high and your mouth shut—how to play the part of the perfect pureblood daughter.
You’ve spent your whole life being watched. Judged. Polished until the edges of you didn’t catch on anything anymore.
And Sirius Black? He catches on everything.
He’s loud where you are silent. Unruly where you are composed. Gryffindor where you are Slytherin.
You should hate him.
And maybe you did. Once.
But now?
Now, you’re just trying not to let anyone notice the way your eyes find him first in a crowded room.
The first time he kissed you was after a prefect’s meeting.
You were arguing—something about curfews and corridor rotations—and he was smirking, as usual, all smug charm and clever insults, and you’d had enough. You grabbed his tie, hauled him toward you, and told him to shut up.
He didn’t.
He kissed you.
Hard.
And instead of pushing him away, you kissed him back.
That was months ago. Since then: four secret meetings in unused classrooms. Two near-fights in the library over how stupid this is. One time in the Quidditch stands when you let him touch you under your uniform skirt and told him, breathless, “This doesn’t mean anything.”
It always means something.
Tonight, the castle is silent. You walk the halls like a shadow—robe drawn tight, footsteps quiet, head down. You’re technically on rounds, but you didn’t come out for patrolling.
You came because he said he’d be there.
You find him leaning against the cold stone near the trophy room, half in shadow, the gleam of his wand just catching the silver threading on his sleeve. He looks up when you approach, dark eyes gleaming like they’ve been waiting just for you.
“You’re late,” he says, voice smooth and low.
You shrug, avoiding the way his gaze drags down your figure. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He pushes off the wall with a lazy grace that makes your stomach tighten. “And yet, here I am.”
You glare. “You’re going to get us caught.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And I meant it.”
“Still didn’t stop you coming, did it?” He steps closer. Just one slow, careful step. “You always come.”
You hate how true that is.
His voice drops as he comes within reach. “I heard your name today. Mulciber. Talking about your family’s next engagement dinner.”
You stiffen.
His eyes darken. “He said your mother wants to match you with someone who’s ‘useful.’ Someone suitable.”
You say nothing.
Sirius moves again. Closer now. Close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him.
“Is that what you want?” he asks, voice rough. “A nice little arranged match with a boy who’ll parade you around like a trophy and pretend not to care who your parents are friends with?”
You grit your teeth. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
He exhales slowly. “That’s the problem.”
You look away, but his fingers brush your jaw, coaxing you gently to meet his gaze again.
“I see the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard. “And what do you see?”
His eyes drop to your mouth.
“Everything.”
It’s too much.
The pressure. The silence. The way your fingers twitch with the urge to touch him and your heart screams no but your body whispers please.
You back up, retreating until your spine hits the wall behind you. Sirius follows—of course he does—shoulders squared, lips parted, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the world he can see.
He braces a hand beside your head. His body doesn't touch yours—not quite—but his presence wraps around you like smoke.
“You act like this means nothing,” he whispers. “But I know what your voice sounds like when you’re falling apart for me.”
Your breath catches.
His eyes soften—just slightly. “I remember the first time you let me touch you. Do you?”
You nod. Once. Quietly.
He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You sounded like a secret.”
Your fingers curl into the front of his robes, knuckles white.
“Sirius,” you whisper.
His nose drags along your jaw, lips just grazing the corner of your mouth.
“Say you don’t want me,” he murmurs. “Say it, and I’ll walk away.”
You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.
Because it’s a lie. And he knows it.
You look up at him, every part of you strung tight and aching, and whisper the only thing you can manage:
“Shut up and kiss me,” you whisper.
And when he does, it’s like he’s starved for it. For you.
His mouth is hot and bruising, all teeth and tongue and months of held-back hunger. You gasp as your back hits the cold wall of the corridor, but his hands are already on you—pulling, gripping, anchoring—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
“Fuck, you drive me insane,” Sirius breathes, voice cracked open as his lips trail down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “You walk around like you don’t even see me. Like I’m nothing.”
You gasp as his teeth graze the curve of your neck.
“I had to,” you whisper. “If anyone saw—”
“They’d tear us apart,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know.”
His hand slides down to the back of your thigh, lifting, gripping. You wrap your leg around his waist and he groans low in his throat, grinding into you through layers of uniform and sin.
“But tell me to stop,” he pants, “and I will. Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll walk away.”
“I can’t,” you whisper.
His eyes meet yours—wide, dark, wrecked.
And he kisses you again, slow this time. Deep. Like he wants to memorize your mouth before the world finds out and ruins it.
His hands are everywhere.
Not rough. Not clumsy. Worshipful.
He undoes the buttons of your shirt with trembling fingers, pressing soft kisses to every new inch of skin he reveals. His mouth finds the dip below your collarbone. The curve of your ribs. The underside of your breast.
You hiss when his tongue flicks over your nipple, and he groans like he’s in pain.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
You fist your hands in his hair. “You talk too much.”
He smirks against your chest. “Then shut me up.”
You do.
You kiss him like you hate him for making you feel this much. Like you’re furious that every soft word from his mouth doesn’t feel like poison—it feels like home.
He drops to his knees in front of you, right there in the dark hallway, and pulls your skirt higher, sliding his hands up your thighs with reverent slowness. When his fingers graze your soaked underwear, he shudders.
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs. “You’re already dripping for me.”
“Sirius—”
He hooks a finger under the fabric, pulling it aside, and stares like he’s seen a ghost.
“You want this?” he asks again, softer now.
You nod, barely able to breathe. “Please.”
And then he’s touching you—fingers parting your folds, stroking slowly, like he has all the time in the world to make you beg. He watches you fall apart like it’s art, like your every stuttered breath is his to keep.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“Because you’re—fuck—Sirius—”
He leans in, mouth hovering over your cunt, and gives one slow, filthy lick that pulls a cry from your throat.
You grip the stone wall behind you like it’ll keep you grounded.
He eats you like he’s starving.
Like you’re a secret he’s dying to keep.
His tongue works slow circles around your clit while two fingers slide inside you, curling just right. Your hips roll into his mouth without permission, and he groans into you like he can’t stand how good you taste.
“I dream about this,” he says hoarsely, lips slick. “Waking up hard, aching, because I can still feel your legs around me.”
You bite your lip hard enough to bleed.
Your orgasm builds slow and hot and helpless—a wave cresting just out of reach.
Then he looks up at you, mouth still between your thighs, and says—
“Come for me, darling.”
You do.
It hits like fire. A full-body shudder, your thighs shaking around his shoulders as your head drops back with a ragged moan. You feel yourself clench around his fingers and he growls, biting your thigh to keep from making too much noise.
When he stands again, he’s wrecked. Hair wild. Mouth red. Pupils blown.
You drag him into another kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, tasting the worship he’s never allowed to show in daylight.
“You’ve ruined me,” he whispers against your mouth.
“You were never whole to begin with.”
He presses his forehead to yours, panting, eyes full of something dark and terrified.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
You don’t hesitate.
“I’m yours.”
His hands fist in your robes like he’s afraid someone will steal you if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
“I love you,” he breathes.
You exhale like you’ve been holding it in for years.
If I’m a Monster, Then Let Me Be Yours (Klaus Mikaelson x Reader)
You’ve hated Klaus Mikaelson for centuries. Or maybe you’ve just been trying not to admit how badly you’ve always wanted him. Tonight, after blood and betrayal and too many things left unsaid, the tension finally snaps.
The Quarter stinks of blood and ash when you arrive.
A storm is rolling in above New Orleans—thick clouds stretching across the sky like bruised skin, heavy with thunder. And beneath them, the street is quiet. Still.
Except for the bodies.
And Klaus.
He’s standing over them like a king surveying a battlefield, calm and composed, with flecks of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. Like he’s not just responsible—like he enjoyed it.
“You always did know how to make an entrance,” you murmur, voice like venom as your boots crunch glass beneath you. Power hums beneath your skin, aching to be released.
He turns, slow and unbothered, like he expected you. Like he’s been waiting.
And maybe he has.
“You look lovely, sweetheart,” Klaus drawls, gaze dragging down your body, slow and sinful. “As always.”
Your jaw tightens.
“You killed them.”
“They were in my way.”
“They were mine.”
He cocks his head, something ancient and gleaming in his eyes. “Were they?”
You blink once. Twice. The rage simmers under your skin, sharp and bitter. But beneath it—beneath the blood and fury—is hurt. Real, splitting hurt. The kind only Klaus could cause. The kind only he could ever deserve.
“They were witches under my protection,” you snap. “You crossed a line.”
Klaus hums like he’s bored. “Lines are meaningless things. Humans draw them in the sand like it will stop the tide.”
“Stop pretending this was about power,” you spit. “You did this to get to me.”
His smirk drops. Just slightly. But enough to tell you you’re right.
And that’s what makes it worse.
You’ve always danced the line between enemies and something else.
He saw you for the first time two centuries ago, all fire and fury and magic burning behind your eyes. You didn’t flinch when he threatened you. Didn’t back down when he offered his usual charm. And you never let him close—not really.
Not until years later. When you were tired. Wounded. And he held you in silence while you cried over the body of your coven’s murdered matriarch.
You were enemies.
But you shared a grave that night.
And a kiss.
And far too many secrets that should’ve stayed buried.
Now, everything’s broken again.
Because Klaus doesn’t know how to want without destroying. And you don’t know how to love without bleeding.
“You told me to stay out of your territory,” he says now, slow and dangerous. “I considered that a challenge.”
You move without thinking—your magic cracks across the air, fast and furious, slamming him against the brick wall behind him. It echoes like thunder.
He groans, sharp and guttural, but his laughter follows right after—low, wild, feral.
“I missed this,” Klaus growls, lips stained red, hair wild. “Come on, then. Show me what that lovely mouth of yours is hiding behind all that fury.”
You’re on him in a blink.
Power surges through your fingertips as you grab him by the collar, shoving him harder into the wall, eyes glowing. Your teeth grit. “You don’t get to miss me.”
His hands come up—not in surrender, but in challenge. His magic pulses just under the surface. But he doesn't fight back. Not yet.
“You don’t get to burn down everything I’ve built just to get my attention,” you hiss.
“And yet here you are,” Klaus says softly, voice dark and amused. “Every time.”
The tension ignites like a match to dry kindling.
Fists. Spells. Grunts and gasps and brick cracking under impact. You’re faster—meaner—but he’s relentless. A centuries-old storm bottled into one perfect, dangerous man.
But it’s not just a fight.
It never is.
You slam him down onto the hood of a car with a grunt, breathless and furious, your legs straddling his waist, magic still flaring wild in your veins. You don’t notice how close you are until it’s too late.
He’s staring at your lips.
You're staring at his.
Your chest rises and falls in sync, soaked in sweat, your thigh still pressing into his hip.
And when his hand moves—just slightly—to cradle your waist instead of strike, you know it’s over.
“Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll ruin myself for you.”
You breathe him in, jaw clenched. “You already have.”
And then you kiss him.
You kiss him like you’re trying to break him.
Teeth. Tongue. Fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt as you drag him impossibly close, like he’s dared to live too long in your head, in your dreams, without consequence.
Klaus groans against your mouth—deep, low, possessive. His hands grip your waist, then your ribs, then your throat with just enough pressure to make your breath stutter.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” you breathe between kisses.
His lips trail to your jaw, then lower—nipping, sucking, worshipping his way down your neck like he’s branding you.
“I tried,” he growls against your skin, “but you tasted too sweet.”
He’s everywhere now. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your thigh, hiking your leg up to wrap around his hip. He cages you against the car like he owns the space, like he belongs there—with you beneath him, defiant and breathless and burning.
“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low and sharp. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want you,” you hiss, pulling his shirt over his head with shaking hands. “I’ve always wanted you.”
Klaus stills, just for a second. His pupils dilate, fangs just barely visible as he exhales like he’s trying not to fall apart.
“Careful, love,” he murmurs, cupping your face. “I’ve waited too long for you to tempt me now.”
You grin, sharp and cruel. “Then stop waiting.”
He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, and this time he kisses you like he’s drowning in it—like you’re the only thing tethering him to solid ground. You claw at his back, his shoulders, drinking in every sound he makes, every shiver that rolls through him as you scratch your nails down the lines of his spine.
He kisses down your chest, lips reverent, tongue flicking over sensitive skin as he works you out of your clothes like you’re something sacred. Your bra comes off with a flick of his wrist, and he stares—stares—like he’s memorizing you.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, fingers grazing the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitches. “You always were.”
“Klaus—”
But your protest turns to a moan as he dips his head, sucking one nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers. Your hips buck, and he growls, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.
He kisses lower. Belly. Hips. Then he’s kneeling in front of you, spreading your thighs with calloused hands.
You should stop him.
You should run.
But you don’t.
You tilt your hips instead, panting as he tugs your underwear aside and leans in, eyes glowing gold.
“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” Klaus says, voice wrecked with need. “And you’re going to let me.”
You nod. Breathless. Desperate.
“Then do it.”
He licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, and you almost cry.
His mouth is skilled—languid, unhurried, like he’s feasting, not performing. His tongue circles your clit before flattening against it in perfect pressure, and your hands shoot down into his hair, hips arching into his mouth.
“Fuck—Klaus—”
You expect cocky laughter.
You get a groan so low it vibrates through your whole body.
“You taste like heaven,” he mutters, lips slick, voice reverent. “No wonder I couldn’t stay away.”
He sucks harder, fingers joining his mouth now, stroking deep, curling in just the right way to make you shatter. You sob his name as your climax builds like a rising tide—tight, all-consuming, devastating.
He watches you fall apart.
Smirking. Wild. Eyes filled with something darker than lust—something like awe.
“That’s it, love,” he whispers. “Fall for me.”
You do.
When he rises again, you’re trembling. Half-undressed. Wrecked.
He lines himself up without breaking eye contact, running the head of his cock through your slickness, slow and teasing, until you whimper.
“You still want me?”
You grab his face, pulling him into another kiss. “I want all of you.”
And he gives it.
He thrusts into you in one slow, perfect motion—filling you completely, groaning as your walls tighten around him. His hands cradle your hips, your thigh, your face, like he can’t choose which part of you he wants most.
“You feel like sin,” he gasps. “You feel like mine.”
“Then take me,” you whisper. “But don’t pretend this is just hate.”
His rhythm falters—just once—but it’s enough.
And then he devours you.
He fucks you like a storm—hungry, destructive, absolutely unrelenting—but there’s tenderness under every thrust. His lips never leave your skin. His hands never stop roaming. He kisses your temple like it breaks him. Whispers your name like a prayer. Holds you like the one thing he never thought he’d be allowed to keep.
You don’t just come—you collapse.
And when he follows, gasping your name like it’s all he’s ever known, you pull him down into your arms and whisper—
hi! Your work is so beautiful!! i was wondering if you could maybe do a bucky x reader where it's their first time having sex and it's very soft and he's all protective and sweet and there's lots of cuddling?
<333
hi lovely!! thank you so much for this request! it was so sweet and genuinely made my day <3 i absolutely loved writing soft, protective bucky and giving him all the love he deserves. i hope this brings the kind of cozy, emotional energy you were hoping for 🥺 thank you again for trusting me with your idea — i’m so grateful!! ♡
With You, It’s Safe (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
You’ve loved Bucky Barnes for a long time—quietly, patiently, without asking for anything in return. He’s healing. You knew that the first time he flinched when you touched his shoulder, the first time he looked at you like he didn’t deserve to stay. But he always came back. And now, months into quiet nights, shared books, and lingering touches, he’s finally ready to let himself be loved the way he was always meant to be. Tonight, he’s yours. And for the first time, he lets you be his too.
Bucky Barnes x Reader
NSFW content below!
You know he’s nervous by the way he kisses you—slow, careful, lips lingering just a little too long on your cheek, your temple, your jaw. He’s always gentle, but tonight there’s a tremble in his hands that wasn’t there before. A kind of reverence in the way he touches you, like he’s memorizing the moment before it even begins.
His kisses deepen gradually—tender at first, then just a little needier. His lips press to yours with quiet devotion, a soft sigh escaping when you pull him closer. His hands stay steady on your hips, like he's holding back, letting you lead the pace.
You shift beneath him, guiding his hand up your body, and he follows like he’s memorizing every inch.
“Can I touch you?” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper against your skin.
“You are touching me,” you tease softly, breath hitching as his thumb brushes just beneath the edge of your bra.
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, but it fades as he lifts the fabric away. His eyes sweep over you like he’s seeing art for the first time.
“You're… god, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes.
He cups your breast with warm, calloused fingers—tentative at first, watching your expression. When you nod, encouraging him, he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your collarbone, then lower. His mouth finds the soft curve of your chest, and you sigh, arching gently into his touch.
He trails kisses along your skin, lips brushing so softly it makes your heart ache. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and he hums quietly, the sound vibrating against you as he takes your nipple gently into his mouth.
The way he touches you—kisses you—isn't hurried or greedy. It's like he wants you to feel adored. Cherished. Like you’re the most important thing he’s ever held.
His metal hand stays splayed on your thigh, grounding you with its cool contrast while the other slides slowly down your side, over your hip, then between your legs.
You gasp softly, legs parting just enough for him to settle more fully between them.
“Still okay?” he asks, barely lifting his head. His voice is rough, like he’s holding back everything he feels just to make sure you’re okay first.
“More than okay,” you whisper, voice shaky. “Please don’t stop.”
He kisses you again—slow, deep, full of reverence—and his fingers slip past your underwear, brushing lightly over your most sensitive spot.
The touch is soft. Testing. He watches you closely, and when your breath catches, he does it again, slow and sweet until your hips start to rock in rhythm with his touch.
You cling to him, your face buried in his neck, whimpering quietly against his skin. He’s murmuring again—your name, sweet nothings, gentle praise—and your whole body is humming with warmth and tension and love.
By the time he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slides them down, you’re already trembling.
He kisses your forehead, lips, cheeks—his hands cradling you like you're something he’ll never deserve but refuses to let go of.
Then he settles over you, your bodies finally pressed together in every way, and you whisper the only words that matter.
“I want you, Bucky.”
"Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he says softly. “Even for a second. I mean it.”
You smile. “I trust you.”
He kisses you once more—slow and aching—and then he’s inside you, pushing in with infinite care. Your breath stutters, not from pain, but from the way he fills you—completely, slowly, deeply—like he’s afraid to move too fast and miss the moment.
His forehead rests against yours, both of you trembling. You’re so close, bodies locked together, hearts racing in time.
Bucky exhales a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper.
“You’re so warm,” he murmurs. “So soft. So… real.”
You cradle his jaw in your hands, gently stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “So are you.”
He lets out a quiet, broken sound—half gasp, half disbelief—and kisses you again, desperate now, like he’s trying to bury himself in you and never come back up for air.
He moves slowly at first. Tentative. Careful. His thrusts are gentle, controlled, every motion made with intention, like he’s memorizing the shape of your body from the inside out. His hips roll against yours, drawing soft moans from your lips as your legs tighten around his waist.
His name spills from you in a breathless whisper, and he shudders.
“Say it again,” he pleads, voice cracking.
“Bucky,” you whisper, and he keens—actually keens, like the sound of it is too much to bear.
He buries his face in your neck, one arm curled tight under your back, the other pressing your hips up to meet his like he can’t stand a single inch between you. His metal hand, so often seen as cold and cruel, now cradles you like something precious—cool against your heated skin.
“You feel like home,” he chokes out. “Like everything I thought I didn’t get to have.”
You hold him closer, running your fingers through his hair, whispering soothing words in his ear—You’re okay, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere.
The rhythm of your bodies builds—never rushed, never rough, just deeper. More emotional. More connected.
You start to fall apart first, the tension in your belly curling so tight it’s almost painful. Your hands clutch at his back, nails digging into warm muscle as your head tips back against the pillow.
“I—Bucky—I—” you gasp.
He pulls back just far enough to watch you, slowing his hips to prolong your pleasure, his hand slipping between your bodies to help guide you over the edge.
“That’s it, doll,” he whispers, breathless. “Let go for me.”
You do.
The world splinters apart around you, white-hot and overwhelming. You cry out his name, chest heaving, body trembling beneath him. And even through the haze, you feel him kiss you—your temple, your mouth, your throat—as if grounding you in every second of it.
And then he’s following you, body stuttering, a soft, strangled groan ripping from his throat as he spills into you, buried deep and clinging to you like a lifeline.
He doesn’t move.
Just breathes.
Just holds you.
You stay tangled together like that—bodies slick with sweat, hearts still racing—wrapped in warmth and something far too big for words.
His metal fingers stroke gently up and down your back.
You feel him press a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips.
“I love you,” he whispers suddenly, like it breaks something open in him. “God, I love you.”
You cup his face with both hands, blinking up at him through the glow of after. “I love you too, Bucky.”
And he smiles.
Not the polite, sheepish one he gives when people look at him too long.
No.
This smile is real. It’s unguarded. It’s light breaking through a lifetime of darkness.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this,” he murmurs. “To have you.”
“You have me,” you whisper, pulling him down into your arms. “You always will.”
The Way You Break (Dean Winchester x Pregnant!Hunter!Reader)
You were a hunter long before you were his. Long before you were theirs. But now you're four months pregnant, still going on salt-and-burns, and Dean Winchester is barely holding it together. He doesn’t know how to protect you from a world that’s already taken too much. But for you — for the two of you — he’s damn well going to try.
Dean Winchester x Pregnant!Hunter!Reader
You feel the blood soaking through your shirt about ten minutes after the salt-and-burn.
Not a lot. Not dangerous. Just a scratch across your ribs from where the spirit slammed you into a tombstone. You’ve had worse.
You’ve walked away from worse.
But as you ease into the driver’s seat of the Impala — because Sam rode with Cas, and Dean had no idea you slipped out — your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach.
And you wince.
Not from pain. From guilt.
The baby shifts, just slightly. A flutter. Not strong enough to kick yet, but enough to remind you they're there.
He’s there. The tiny, half-formed life that Dean talks to at night when he thinks you’re asleep. The one that makes his eyes go soft, his voice quieter, his hands gentler.
You haven’t told him you hunted tonight.
You didn’t plan to.
But old habits are hard to kill. And you were a hunter long before you were a mother.
It’s almost 2AM when you finally creep into the bunker.
You’re soaked from the rain, bruised across the hip, blood dried and crusted under your flannel. You try to slip past the map table, past the library—
“Where the hell have you been?”
Dean’s voice cuts through the dark.
You flinch.
He’s leaning against the wall by the war room, boots still on, eyes sharp. Waiting. Watching.
You open your mouth. Close it again.
“Dean—”
“You were gone. All day. No text. No call.”
“I went on a job.”
His body goes rigid. “What job?”
“Simple salt-and-burn. In Lebanon. It was local. Sam said—”
“I know what Sam said.” Dean pushes off the wall, stalking toward you. His gaze drops to the tear in your shirt. The crusted blood. Your bruised side. His jaw clenches. “Jesus, Y/N.”
“It wasn’t serious.”
“Then why the hell are you bleeding?”
You hate this part. Hate the way his voice always cracks, the way his anger always covers fear.
You want to yell back. To defend yourself. But you see the way his hands shake as he reaches for you. See the way his eyes flick down to your stomach and stay there.
“Dean,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”
He stares at you like you just said something unforgivable.
“Okay?” he echoes. “You’re four months pregnant. You’re still going on hunts. You're lying to me. And you think that’s okay?”
You take a step back. You didn’t mean to lie. Not really. Just… not tell.
“I had to,” you whisper. “I needed to feel like myself again.”
Dean’s hands drop to his sides, clenched fists. “You think I don’t get that? You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel useless? Like you’re just waiting around for life to happen?”
“I’m not useless—”
“I never said you were,” he growls. “But you’re not just you anymore. It’s not just about you anymore.”
You flinch again.
And now he looks like he wants to tear himself apart.
He steps closer. “I don’t want to lock you away, Y/N. I’m not trying to control you. But every time you walk out that door, I see your body in a ditch. I see blood. I see the worst thing that could ever happen.”
His voice breaks.
“And I can’t do it again.”
There it is.
The wound under the words. The scar he never lets heal.
I can’t lose you.
You close the space between you, trembling hands rising to touch his face. He leans into your palm like it’s the only steady thing in his world.
“I’m scared too,” you whisper. “But hunting… it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And if I give it up completely, I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You’re you,” he says. “You’re mine. You’re ours. That’s all I need.”
He drops to his knees before you, slow, reverent.
And he presses his forehead to your belly.
“I don’t know how to protect you from this world,” he whispers. “But God, I’ll try.”
Your fingers card through his hair. His arms wrap around your waist like a shield.
You don’t speak.
There’s nothing left to say.
That night, you sleep curled up in Dean’s arms in the bunker’s master bedroom. He tucks the comforter around you like it’ll hold you together. He presses a kiss to your temple. Then one to your belly.
“Night, kiddo,” he murmurs to the bump. “Let Mom sleep. She’s stubborn.”
You smile against his chest. “Wonder where I got that from.”
He huffs, but his voice is warm when he whispers:
“You’re everything to me, Y/N. Both of you.”
And even though the world is still cruel and full of monsters—
—for one night, in Dean Winchester’s arms, you believe you’ll survive it.
Stitch Me Back Together (Dean Winchester x Reader)
Three months. That’s how long it’s been since Dean Winchester vanished again. You didn’t expect him to come back—not bleeding, not broken, not like this. But Dean never calls. He just shows up, battered and half-shattered, and lets you be the one to patch him up. This time, though… something feels different. Like maybe he's just as tired of running as you are of watching him go.
Dean Winchester x Reader
You hadn’t seen Dean Winchester in three months.
Which, by your messed-up standard of things, was about a month longer than usual. He never said goodbye. Never told you where he was headed. He’d just vanish with a grin and a bruised-up wink, then reappear like a ghost on your porch with blood on his collar and that stupid leather jacket slung over his shoulder.
He didn’t belong anywhere, but sometimes—just sometimes—you let him belong here.
And tonight?
You know it’s him before you even open the door.
The knock is sharp, then softer. Hesitant. That hesitation is what makes your chest twist.
When you pull the door open, Dean's standing there, soaked to the bone. One eye is swollen, there’s a split in his brow, and he’s cradling his right arm like it might fall off.
"Hey," he says. His voice is wrecked. Not just tired—wrecked. Like someone who hasn’t spoken out loud in hours. Like someone who barely remembers how.
“You’re late,” you say, not moving.
He breathes out a low laugh, pain bleeding through it. “Sorry, sweetheart. Traffic was hell.”
You want to punch him.
You want to kiss him.
Instead, you sigh, step back, and let him in.
The kitchen is dim, the storm still hammering the windows. Dean sits where he always does—on the edge of the counter, like it’s his spot. Like nothing’s changed. But everything has. You have.
You cross your arms as you stare at him. “What was it this time?”
He shrugs with his good shoulder. “Vamp nest. Got ugly.”
"You're bleeding through your shirt, Dean."
"And here I thought red was my color."
“Take it off.”
His brows lift. But there’s no flirt in his expression, not tonight. Just exhaustion. He pulls the shirt over his head with a grimace. You suck in a breath.
Deep gashes slash across his ribs, some still bleeding, others packed with whatever roadside garbage he used to slow it down. His torso is a patchwork of old scars, burns, bruises. His skin tells a story he never says out loud.
“You stitched yourself up again?” you ask, softer now.
“Didn’t hold.”
You don’t ask why he didn’t go to a hospital. You already know the answer. There’s too much blood in his past for white walls and fluorescent lights.
You move toward him, grabbing the kit under the sink. “I thought you said you’d be more careful.”
“I was.”
“Then how’d you end up with a five-inch gash in your ribs?”
Dean shrugs again, jaw tight. “Didn’t duck fast enough.”
You don’t answer. You just start cleaning the wound.
There’s silence as you work—tense, tight, barely bearable.
You’ve done this before. Too many times. But it never gets easier, being this close to him when you know he’s going to leave again.
He flinches when the alcohol hits. You pause.
“You okay?”
He glances down at you. His eyes are darker than usual. Haunted. “I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A beat of silence. Then, so quiet it almost slips past you:
“I’m tired.”
Not sleepy. Tired. Bone-deep. Soul-deep. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away after rest. The kind of tired you get from carrying guilt for too long.
You don’t know what to say, so you just keep stitching. Needle. Thread. Thread. Knot. Repeat.
“I don’t know why I keep coming here,” he mutters.
The words slice deeper than the wound.
You don’t look up. “Because I’m the only idiot who puts you back together?”
Dean flinches. This time it’s not from the needle.
You bite your lip. “Sorry.”
“No. You’re right.” His voice is quiet. Raw. “You always are.”
It’s late when you finish. The storm is still raging outside, thunder rumbling like distant gunfire. Dean doesn’t move when you tell him the couch is free.
He just looks at you. Tired. Wrecked. Bleeding.
“I can’t sleep out there,” he says. “Not tonight.”
You know what he means. The couch faces the windows. Too open. Too vulnerable. He won’t say it, but you know. He gets nightmares when he sleeps alone.
You don’t argue.
The bed creaks under his weight as he eases onto the mattress. You climb in beside him, awkward in the dark. Two bodies pretending not to touch.
You face the ceiling. He faces the wall.
But it still feels like you’re nose to nose.
“You ever think about just…stopping?” you whisper. “Walking away from it all?”
Dean doesn’t answer right away. Then—
“Sometimes,” he says. “But I don’t think it’d ever let me.”
You turn to look at him. He’s already looking at you.
His voice is barely audible. “I think about this place, though. About you.”
Your breath catches.
“I don’t deserve it,” he adds. “But I think about it anyway.”
And then his fingers brush yours beneath the blanket. Just a touch. Barely there. But enough to send lightning through your spine.
You don’t pull away.
Neither does he.
You fall asleep like that — not touching, but almost. A storm between you, inside and out. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Dean Winchester sleeps through the night.
Somewhere Beneath the Static (bucky barnes x reader)
HYDRA took everything from you — your name, your power, your voice. Until him. The Winter Soldier doesn’t speak, but his presence cuts through the static in your mind like he remembers you from a life he’s not supposed to have. You’re psychic. He’s fractured. And in the silence they built around you both, something begins to bloom: memory, trust… and the choice to keep holding on.
bucky barnes x reader
HYDRA didn’t just strip you of your name.
They took your voice, too.
Not literally — but the screaming, the slicing, the breaking of your body and your mind, day after day, taught you early that speaking only gave them something else to ruin.
Your thoughts had once stretched far and wide — you used to feel everything, from emotions to flickers of memory. You’d been called gifted. Touched by something ancient.
So they touched you back.
And it burned.
The collar they gave you after your first outburst was sleek and beautiful in that cold, clinical way. A black band of tech nestled at the base of your throat, where it pulsed every time you thought too loudly.
It didn’t stop the power. But it hurt you for using it.
And that was enough.
For months — maybe years — you stayed quiet. Numb.
You didn’t reach for anyone anymore. You let them file you down to nothing.
Until he arrived.
They called him the Asset. Whispered his name like a myth. A ghost in a black mask. The Winter Soldier.
You felt him before you saw him.
There was something wrong in the walls that day — a pressure in your skull, too sharp, too present. Like a storm building behind a locked door.
They brought him in strapped to a gurney, unconscious, blood smeared across his jaw. His left arm — that terrible thing of steel and death — sparked where the plating had cracked.
You’d been sitting in the corner of the recovery bay, knees pulled to your chest, when his mind hit you.
It wasn’t thought. Not exactly. It was noise. Static and teeth and fractured images. Screams and trains and a boy laughing in a snowstorm.
It should’ve overwhelmed you.
But you felt something underneath it.
A pulse. A name.
Bucky.
The first human thing you’d felt in months.
And then his eyes opened.
Not at the doctors. Not at the guards.
At you.
After that, everything changed.
He didn’t speak. Not once.
But he found you.
After missions, after they reprogrammed him, after they bled the humanity out of him again — he’d come.
Sometimes with blood still on his knuckles. Sometimes shaking. Always quiet. Always watching.
You never asked him why.
You just opened the door.
There were no cameras in your room. You weren’t dangerous enough anymore — not since the collar kept your mind chained.
But when he was there, the pain in your skull faded. The static in your own head quieted.
You began to wonder if the collar wasn’t failing — but that he was cutting through it.
That his mind, as broken and brutalized as it was, still reached for you.
You started reaching back.
Just small things. A touch to his shoulder. A whisper of calm. A word — Bucky — when he looked like he might disappear again.
And it worked.
Little by little, he began to relax around you. He started sitting closer. Holding your gaze longer. Letting his hand brush yours and linger.
And you felt it every time.
That under the cold, beneath the metal, somewhere deep inside the static — there was still him.
Tonight, when he stepped into your room, you felt it before the door opened.
He was in pain.
But not from the wounds.
From something else. Something sharper.
You stood. “Bucky?”
He flinched at the name. But not like before. Not like it hurt.
Like he wanted to hear it again.
He crossed the room in two strides. You didn’t back away.
He looked at you like you were an answer he couldn’t remember the question for.
Then, slow, he reached up and touched your face.
And the second his fingers brushed your cheek — you felt it.
His mind cracked open like lightning.
You saw everything.
The cold. The pain. The faces he couldn’t name. His own voice shouting from somewhere far away — I’m Bucky Barnes — and then silence.
You let your shields drop. Let him see you in return. Your own memories. Your fear. Your rage. The first time you felt him and knew you weren’t alone.
And he stepped into it like it was home.
He sat down on your cot. Not like a soldier. Like a man too tired to stand anymore.
You joined him. Side by side. Close.
He didn’t speak. But his hand found yours.
You laced your fingers through his.
You leaned your head to his shoulder.
And for a long time, you sat like that — in silence, in static, in the kind of understanding no words could carry.
What You Asked For (loki laufeyson x reader) (NSFW)
You and Loki have always fought — sharp words in court, stolen glances in shadows, magic clashing like swords. But after one fight too many, the tension finally breaks. What begins as fury turns into something far more dangerous: desire. He pins you to the wall, challenges every denial, and makes you admit the truth with your body first. This was never a game. It was war — and you’ve both just surrendered.
loki laufeyson x reader
NSFW Content Below
You were arguing again.
Voices sharp, too loud for the marble chamber. The tension in the room clung like smoke, thick and charged.
“You twist everything,” you snapped, stepping toward him. “Every vote, every word. You undermine Thor like it’s a sport—”
Loki’s smile was all ice. “And you lap up every command he gives like a loyal little pet.”
Your jaw tightened. “At least I don’t pretend to care about people I plan to betray.”
He stepped closer. “You’re not as noble as you think.”
“And you’re not as untouchable as you pretend.”
His eyes darkened. “Aren’t I?”
You turned, headed for the exit — and the door slammed shut with a flick of his fingers. The lock snapped in place.
You spun.
“Let. Me. Out.”
He didn’t move.
“You’re obsessed,” you hissed. “Every time we speak—”
“Every time we fight,” Loki cut in, low and deadly, “you tremble. You call it anger. But you like it.”
You blinked, stunned.
He moved fast. One second he was halfway across the room — the next, he had you pinned to the wall, magic humming between your bodies.
His face was inches from yours, breath harsh. His hand pressed beside your head, the other curled at your waist, fingers twitching like he didn’t trust himself to touch you more.
“Say it,” he whispered. “Say this isn’t what you’ve wanted since the beginning.”
You stared at him, heart thudding. You hated him. You wanted him. The truth lived somewhere between your ribs and your throat.
And you said nothing.
So he kissed you.
Not carefully — not even angrily. Just fully.
Like he’d been waiting.
His mouth crashed into yours, hands dragging you closer, and you responded like you were falling. Your magic flared in your veins, curling up around his — gold against green, heat against chill.
You gripped the back of his neck, pulled his body to yours, and gasped when his thigh slotted between yours, pressing just right.
“This was a game to you,” you breathed between kisses, chest heaving. “You were playing with me.”
He broke from your mouth, lips grazing your jaw as he whispered, “No. This was a war. And you surrendered first.”
Then his hand gripped your thigh and lifted — your leg wrapping around his hip, back hitting the wall again, breath caught in your throat.
“I’ve thought about this,” Loki said, voice rough. “What you’d sound like if I made you beg. What you’d do if I pinned you down and made you forget every insult you’ve ever thrown at me.”
His fingers slipped under the edge of your robes — dragging up the length of your thigh, finding the bare heat of you beneath. He groaned, low and wrecked.
“Gods,” he said. “Of course you’re already wet for me.”
You tried to retort. Failed.
His lips dragged down your throat, nipping, sucking — claiming. You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in.
“You hate me,” he said. “Say it again.”
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
His fingers slid against you, teasing, circling, and when he pressed inside — slow, deliberate — you gasped, head hitting the wall.
“Say you want me.”
“No.”
He curled his fingers. You whimpered.
“Say it.”
“Loki—”
“Say it.”
“I want you.”
He kissed you again — deeper now, slower, like claiming and punishment and reward all at once.
Then he dropped to his knees.
The sound of silk and armor shifting echoed faintly through the chamber, drowned beneath the blood in your ears. Your breath hitched. You looked down, and his eyes — gods, those eyes — were locked on yours as he knelt before you like it meant something.
Like you were something to worship.
His hands curled around the backs of your thighs, pulling you to the edge of control — the edge of the table, the edge of yourself. Then he leaned in, slow, deliberate.
You felt his breath before his mouth. Cool and hungry.
When he tasted you, you nearly collapsed.
His tongue was deft — cruel, almost — teasing at first, lapping with slow, calculated strokes. He gripped your hips to hold you still, even when your knees buckled, even when you whimpered through your clenched teeth.
“Don’t hold back now,” he murmured, voice low and sinful against your skin. “You’ve never been shy with me before.”
He sucked hard — just once — and your hand slapped against the marble table for balance. You gasped, arching into him, one hand flying to the tangled strands of his dark hair. He groaned at the pull, as though your need pleased him more than anything.
“You taste like you hate me,” he muttered. “And I want every drop.”
It was obscene — the way he devoured you. The scrape of his teeth, the press of his tongue, the way his grip dug into your thighs to keep you right there, trembling for him, unraveling on his mouth.
When you came, it was with a sharp cry you couldn’t swallow, your vision flashing white as your body seized and then gave way all at once. You barely heard your own name on his lips — reverent and low — as you sagged back against the wall, shaking.
He rose slowly, mouth slick, eyes dark with something older than victory.
You expected smugness. But what you saw was possession.
Loki turned you, gently but firmly, pressing your front to the cool surface of the war table. His hands ran up your sides, then down — anchoring at your hips. He leaned in, his breath hot on your neck.
“You should’ve let me win,” he whispered.
Then he pushed inside.
You moaned — sharp and desperate — your fingers clawing at the table’s edge. He was thick, hot, filling you in one smooth, brutal thrust that left no space for argument.
Your name left his lips again, but this time it was a groan — guttural, like he’d been waiting years for this. His hips pulled back, then snapped forward with punishing rhythm.
You choked out a sound that wasn’t a word.
“Say it,” he growled into your ear. “Say you were always mine.”
You shook your head, just to defy him. He gripped your throat — not tight, just firm — and kept moving, driving into you until your mind blurred and the only thing left was him.
His pace quickened. You were gasping now, body arching with every thrust, cheek pressed to the table, one hand reaching blindly for his wrist like you could anchor yourself to him.
And gods — he let you.
He held your hand.
He laced your fingers with his as he fucked you through your second orgasm, his grip tightening as your body clenched around him like a vice.
“Loki—”
“I know,” he panted. “I know.”
When he came, it was with a growl against your back, his magic pulsing out like a shockwave — green and brilliant and wild. You felt it tangle with yours, felt it settle into your skin like a claim, felt him collapse forward over you, forehead pressed to your spine.
For a long time, there was only the sound of your breathing.
Then, quietly —
“This wasn’t just hate,” you whispered.
Loki’s breath ghosted over your shoulder. “No. It never was.”
He kissed the bare skin of your neck — soft, reverent — and held you there like he didn’t want to let go.
You were banished for the danger you posed — not to Asgard, but to him. Before Loki’s fall, you were everything he wasn’t meant to have: powerful, unafraid, and bound to him by something deeper than magic. Now, years later, you're summoned home… and find him alive, unchanged, and burning in your veins like he never left. You knew his magic by touch. And the moment you feel it again — you remember everything.
Loki x powerful fem!sorcerer!reader
You hadn’t stepped foot in Asgard in over three years.
Not since the battle that nearly burned your hands to ash. Not since Odin’s command stripped you of your title and sent you to exile in the outer realms — too wild, too unpredictable, too close to the second son.
Not since Loki "died."
But now you were back. Summoned in silence. The High Council needed your knowledge of ancient magic — dark magic — the kind that moved in riddles and bled through veils.
You should have refused.
You didn’t.
And now, walking through the golden halls again — older, sharper, still half-haunted by your past — you felt it.
Not the palace. Not the court.
Him.
His magic slid over your skin before you reached the library doors. Cold, calculated. Familiar like a scar.
You paused in the archway. He was already waiting. Leaning against the far window, backlit in fading sunlight, dressed in black and green as if time had never moved.
But it had.
And so had you.
“I thought you were dead,” you said.
Loki didn’t turn. “A popular belief.”
“You let me grieve.”
“I let you live.”
That made you flinch. Because it was true.
Back then — before the chaos, before his fall — you’d been more than aligned. He had shown you magic without boundaries. You had shown him how it could be shaped by something other than pain. Together, you were devastating.
And dangerous.
Odin saw it. He separated you first. Banished you after.
And Loki? He let it happen.
Until he vanished. Until the stars whispered he was gone.
You moved further into the library. He watched you now — silent, unreadable.
“I thought of you,” he said. “In the dark places.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t think you could.”
He stepped closer. The air around you shifted. Your magic responded before you could stop it — rising like heat, reaching for his.
“I never stopped,” he said, quieter now. “I tried. I tried to forget how your power felt.”
You shook your head. “You never knew how to feel it. You only ever took.”
“No,” Loki said, voice raw. “Not you. I let you see it.”
He was in front of you now. The energy between your bodies sang — old magic, threaded with memory.
“You knew my magic by touch,” he whispered. “You always did.”
Your throat tightened. “And I felt it leave me the night they dragged me away.”
His hand lifted — slow, uncertain. But you didn’t pull back. Not this time.
Fingers brushed your jaw.
The connection struck instantly.
The threads of your magic tangled with his in the space between breaths — hot and cold, memory and grief, power and want. You saw flashes behind your eyes: the night you first touched, your hands pressed together over a spell too old to be named; his voice in your mind during your exile, calling your name like prayer.
Tears stung your eyes. You hadn’t meant to let them.
“I would’ve destroyed them for you,” he said, shaking now. “If you’d asked.”
“I didn’t want destruction,” you whispered. “I wanted you.”
His lips hovered close, breath shallow.
“Then take me now. Not as I was. As I am.”
You kissed him.
And gods — it wasn’t careful.
It was raw. Desperate. Years of absence unraveling in seconds. His hands tangled in your robes, your fingers gripping his collar like he might vanish again. Magic flared around you — runes glowing in the walls, scrolls rattling on shelves.
It wasn’t just love. It was recognition.
When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, breath mingling.
“I never stopped being yours,” you whispered.
“I knew that,” he said. “I felt it. Every time I reached for magic, I felt you.”
And he kissed you again, like you were the only spell he couldn’t undo.
