im kinda obsessed with forced proximity, esp with john... i feel like he would get embarrassed easily (but hes real for that bc me too)
(love your fics diva, never let them dim your sparkle đ)
i got this one twice so i thought i would start with this!! also that meme made me laugh thank you my queen for always supporting me it means a lot xx
Going in Circles
plot: arthur is sick of john and f!reader bickering during missions, so he traps them on a ferris wheel lol
warnings: language, jealousy
trope(s): enemies/rivals to lovers, forced proximity, grumpy x sunshine kinda
wc: 2k
Saint Denis â the oasis of the Lemoyne swamps, a pillar of Civilization in the midst of bogs and muddy rivers, America's southern pride. The sun was beginning to set, only slivers of golden rays and warm, bright speckles of light managed to break through the concrete and brick facades of the city for one last time before the buildings would be swallowed whole by the darkness. The heat was heavier, almost tangible here on the cobbled streets, making people flee into their abodes even during night time. Soon, the hustle and bustle of the afternoon crowds would be replaced by their more sinister counterparts but for now, it was eerily quiet in the city. Barely any noises could be made out, except for one gravelly, exasperated voice echoing through the park it stemmed from.
"I'm beginnin' to grow real tired of you two idiots, you know?" Arthur huffed in annoyance, John and you trailing behind him with your tails tucked between your legs. Faces red from both anger and shame, neither of you dared to speak a word, lest you would feel the older man's wrath dig into your guts any further. You swallowed thickly and pushed a sweaty, sticky strand of hair behind your ear. It wasn't like you to behave like this, to mess up during missions.
Not usually.
You had always taken pride in your well-composed and reliable nature, evident in the hard work you had put in to finally fight alongside the big guns of the Van der Linde's. There was just something about the raven-haired man indignantly trudging beside you that irked you. Yes, John Marston made you furious, with his snide comments and eye-rolling at your every move. You had noticed it ever since you stumbled upon the patchwork family at Horseshoe Overlook, the way he surveyed each step you took, each bite of food, each shot of your revolver.
For some reason, he had grown to hate you â so naturally, you hated him, too.
As Arthur seemed to have said everything he wanted to say, and John and you still refused to utter a single word, the three of you moved to your destination in silence, giving you time to rethink where everything went south.
It was supposed to be a simple stagecoach robbery, with Arthur distracting the drivers and you two cracking open the trunk as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, it turned out to be neither the former nor the latter, and ended with John and your bickering being heard all the way from the bush you were hiding behind and Arthur having to flee the scene with bullets hailing down on him. It was a close call â way too close â and made you shudder despite the heat. Nothing had happened, but the fact that it could have had taught you a lesson you desperately needed taught.
"All right, here we are." The brown-haired man's booming voice tore you from your racing mind.
You both looked at him incredulously. In front of you, an amusement park, the latest addition to Saint Denise: very en vogue, unlike anything you had ever seen. Very unlike Arthur. He chuckled at your mirrored expressions and gestured you to enter.
"I'm givin' you two the chance to redeem yourselves," He explained, leading you past shooting ranges and candy booths, to the most humongous structure of them all: a ferris wheel, metal spokes creaking dangerously. "I need you two to stand watch in lookin' for Bronte's men. This thing right here is the highest you gonna get in this place."
"Why the hell can't you do that yourself?" John found his voice first, a mix of fear and annoyance in this tone. "Or just her-" He loosely gestured in your direction.
You were about to retort, enraged at his suggestion that you do this alone, but Arthur quickly stepped in. "Enough of you! Both!" He turned to the younger man first. "If you think for one second I'm gonna get on this deathtrap just because you fools hounded the whole of Lemoyne on our asses, you're dead wrong, boy." The threatening tone made John shrink under his gaze, making you chuckle.
"And you, miss-" Arthur turned to you now, promptly shutting you up. "Get up there too, because four eyes are better than two, and because I said so."
You nodded quickly in response, fearing what might happen if you defied him again. If there was one thing about Arthur Morgan, it was that he could make people do whatever the hell he wanted, even John Marston and you. After the discussion came to a quick end, you begrudgingly stepped into one of the capsules together, mutually agreeing that the instigator at hand should be the one to pay. Your eyes widened in fear as the vendor shut the door to the outside, 10$ in his hand that came straight from Arthur's pockets.
"How long do you plan on keeping us up here?" You yelled down, panic in your tone.
Arthur raised his head and gave you a devious smile. "Payed for the whole night."
For the first time in what seemed like months, John and you looked at each other. Your heart was pounding straight through your chest â the thought of being stuck on a metal contraption 100 feet in the air with a man who hated your guts was literal nightmare fuel. Neither of you knew what to do, and since simply opening the door and leaving was not quite an option, you opted for an awkward silence. A tension that could be cut with a dull blade hung in the air; it was clear that, whoever spoke up first would do so to blame the other for their misfortune. Alas, the silence persisted.
John was seething. He should have been celebrating, drinking with his friends around the campfire after a job done well â instead, he was trapped in here with you for the entirety of the night. He glared at you from the other side of the small enclosure, feeling like an animal in a zoo.
"What the hell is your problem with me?" You finally spoke up after the moon had long risen.
"Ain't got a problem, dunno what you mean, woman." The man huffed, but even in the pitch dark you could see him averting his gaze.
"Whatever." You rolled your eyes and turned to face the window. From up here, where you couldn't smell its foul stench or hear its unmelodious sounds, the city sure was a sight to see. A small smile graced your lips at the twinkling lights below, despite the circumstances.
"What the hell have you got to smile about?"
Your mood immediately turned sour at his words, and you furiously turned back to face him. "Alright, I'm done." You stood up in the shaky cabin and stepped over to his side, piercing his chest with your index finger. "You're gonna tell me why you hate me so much, or you're gonna shut the hell up and do what we were told, you understand me?"
Shock was painted on the man's face at your sudden outburst, and you expected an equal amount of energy at his answer. Instead, he slowly put your hand off him and cleared his throat.
"I'm just tired of you actin' like you own the place-" He began, calmly and almost threateningly. "Walkin' around with these stupid frilly skirts, smellin' of rosewater and thinkin' you're all that."
You looked at him, stunned. Of all things you had wracked your head about on why he despised you so much, the way you dressed and smelled was certainly not on your list. Embarrassment, and a hint of hurt crowded your mind as you sat back down across from him. Your knees touched briefly before you pulled away, almost as if he had burnt you. It took you a second before you opened your mouth to speak again, but John was not done yet.
"You might fool the other guys, battin' your pretty eyelashes and giggling like a schoolgirl-" Pretty? "But not me. I know your play. You're not gettin' any special treatment just 'cause you look nice." Nice?
You looked at him for a moment, dumbstruck. Never in your life had you felt so flattered and insulted in a single sentence, and you couldn't help but laugh at the insinuation that you dressed up to have things done for you. While the thought was amusing, you couldn't leave the accusations at hand hanging in the air.
"I don't know if you've noticed, Marston, but I pull my weight just as much as any of you around camp-" Your voice was low and angry. "Hell, I probably do more than most â not everyone can be the boss' lapcat and get away with everything!" He narrowed his eyes at you and turned to reply, but your final words shut him up quicker than he could think. "The fact that you think I look pretty doing so is frankly none of my damn concern."
It was rare for John to be at a loss for words, but the situation at hand had him too stunned to speak. Suddenly, he was glad that this conversation â which had been more or less imminent â took place at night, where you couldn't see the way his face reddened at your words. It was quiet in the capsule now, both of you having said what needed to be said.
Your mind was racing with thoughts, replaying the conversation in your head over and over again, most often the parts of John saying you dressed nice, and smelled nice, and looked pretty. You wanted to feel angry at his words, but instead you were angry at yourself for the way they made you feel. There was no denying that he was an attractive man, with his quick wit and stormy eyes and slim waist, and the thought of being the object of his affections made your heartbeat quicken. It had never occurred to you that he may have looked at you in the same way you had done before he turned sour.
"You're right." John sighed, clasping his hands together in defeat. "I was bein' real unfair to you, wasn't I? That ain't no way to treat a Lady like you."
"Are you screwing with me right now?"
"Have I really been that cruel? That you don't believe me?" He sounded genuine and hesitantly sought out your hand with his in the dark.
"You drive me up the walls, woman. But that ain't your fault, it's my own." His fingers grasped yours, surprisingly soft and warm. "I suppose I had a hard time believin' someone as kind and nice lookin' as you hangs around us thieves and killers by choice."
Your face reddened, not expecting the sudden shift in demeanor he was displaying.
"Well," a deep breath you didn't realize you had been holding escaped your lungs. "I guess I enjoyed the back and forth, too. Otherwise I wouldn't be sittin' in here stuck with you. Which was your fault by the way."
John didn't argue back, just chuckled at your jab. He squeezed your hand and stood up to sit next to you. The small space was awkward to navigate with his long legs, but he eventually settled beside you, thighs touching. His body so close to yours set you on fire, you were glued to your seat unmoving. The sky in the distance began to gray. Soon, Arthur would return with a knowing look on his face after a job well done â but for now, it was only the two of you, on top of the world, and you had to take your chance.
"Hey, John?"
"What is it, pretty girl?" his voice was barely above a whisper when he turned to face you, noses almost touching.
You didn't reply. Instead, you closed the gap between your lips. In an instant, he reciprocated. Kissing John Marston felt like kissing a man starving, a man quenching his thirst of your mouth, uncaring of whether he could breathe. If kissing you was the last thing he would do, he would die a happy man.
I'd like to request Arthur Morgan with a female reader. She gets all giggly when she's nervous. So, when a simple kiss becomes a make out session she can't stop giggling. I think he'd find it cute, but also a bit confused by it.
Anyways, thank you for reading my request!
Arthur shushes you for a third time.
"You tryin' to wake up the whole damn camp, woman?" He chuckles exasperatedly, drawing his head back from the fragrant slope of your neck. His eyes are turquoise glass in the light of the dwindling oil lamp as the shadowy marionettes of your silhouettes mingle on the canvas wall.
"Sorry, sorry..." You murmur on a slow, steadying exhale, lower lip curving under your teeth in a valiant struggle against a smile. He grunts and shifts his weight on the too small cot, propping himself on his elbow beside you, a sinewy arm curled over your middle to keep you from tumbling off the side. You briefly close your eyes, summoning your most serious thoughts, finding him studying you with something like fond bewilderment upon opening them.
"You good?"
"I'm good."
The corner of his mustache twitches in a lopsided smirk, his gaze trailing to your cupid's bow. "Good."
He kisses you, tentative at first as if to test your resolve. Then again with warm fervor, a soft rumble of satisfaction in his chest as the welcome press of his tongue parts the seam of your lips. On instinct your legs open in tandem, making room for the thick weight of his thigh to slot between them. You break for air, a throaty sigh on your rum-spiced breath, and Arthur's mouth finds the corner of yours, then the arc of your jaw, then your ear, then--
You erupt with giggles.
"Jesus." He scoffs and lifts his head, no malice to be found in the roll of his eyes. "What is wrong wit'chu?"
"I--" You can barely speak, your whole body shaking with the effort of containing yourself.
"Am I ticklin' you or somethin'?"
Cheeks stinging from smiling so hard, you wipe an errant tear with the back of your hand. "I -- yeah, maybe it's that." You giggle again, thumbing his chin scars to feel the rasp of his beard. "It's 'cause you're all whiskery."
"...Y-y'want me to get up an' shave, or...?"
"No, no, no." You laugh and quickly shake your head, settling back down on the cot in a display of good behavior. "I'll be quiet. I promise."
His eyes narrow at you doubtfully. After a beat, he lowers his head ag--
You cackle.
Arthur growls under his breath, and the lines of his face crease at you with such typical seriousness that you have to turn away, your body wracked with silent, uncontrolled laughter. He cracks a smile.
"You're a strange bird, you know that?" He shakes his head. "Actin' like you ain't never been kissed or somethin'."
"I'm just - happy, Arthur." You reply, the corners of your eyes crinkling not with mirth, but affection. "That such a crime?"
He huffs softly, eyes averting, the tips of his ears a dusty pink. "Naw. Reckon it ain't."
You gentle, your palm coming to rest at the back of his head to pull him close. He resists.
"You gonna act right this time?" He furrows his brow at you, as playful as you've ever seen him. "Or am I gonna have to kick y'out and make you go curl up with Uncle by the chicken coop instead?"
Before you can answer, a pebble hits the outside of the tent, square in the shadow of Arthur's head.
"Will you shut the hell up in there? Some of us is tryin' to sleep."
Arthur shoots a glare at the wall. "Yeah, yeah - God forbid you miss out on the beauty rest, Marston. Ain't got no more mirrors left for you to break."
You hear John curse under his breath as he retreats. Arthur lifts his palm from your mouth and gives you a crooked grin.
"Now...where were we?"
He turns his head, blows out the oil lamp, and your laughter fills the dark.
Everyone deserves a little pampering. All you wanted was fifteen minutes to yourself. Benny had other plans.
Word Count: 3k
Masterlist
@dailydoseofaustinbutler
Of all the times for him to show up unannounced, he picks now.
One second the bathroom doorway is empty and the next Bennyâs leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you like youâre a nature documentary he stumbled onto. You catch his reflection in the mirror and nearly choke on your own spit.
Your face is covered in a thick layer of green paste. Queen Helene Mint Julep Masque, $1.29 at Woolworthâs. You look like a creature from one of those B-movies at the drive-in. You look like the Swamp Thingâs wife.
âDonât,â you say, pointing at him.
He doesnât say anything. His mouth does something, though â not quite a smile, but the threat of one.
âItâs a face mask,â you say, and the paste cracks at the corners of your mouth.
He keeps staring.
âFrom a jar. You put it on, it dries, you wash it off. Itâs good for your pores.â
Nothing. Just those eyes, traveling from your green forehead to your green chin and back again like youâve just spoken Russian.
âYou can go,â you say. You wave him off. âThereâs beer in the fridge. Iâll be done soon.â
He stays right there in the doorway, one shoulder against the wood, legs crossed at the ankle. Heâs got a cigarette behind his ear and heâs looking at you like youâre the most entertaining thing thatâs happened to him all week, which â considering his weeks usually involve bar fights and police â is saying something.
You go back to what you were doing â smoothing the mask around your eyes, tilting your chin up, trying to work it into the right places.
Heâs still watching.
âWhat?â you say.
Nothing. Just those eyes, tracking your hands as you smooth a cracking edge near your ear.
âIt feels nice, you know,â you say, casual, not looking at him. âIt tingles.â
He exhales. Almost a laugh.
And maybe itâs that â the almost-laugh, the fact that heâs still here, the fact that itâs summer and heâs got grease under his nails and road dust on his boots and heâs been riding all day and he came here, to you, to your bathroom â maybe itâs all of that, or maybe itâs just that youâve never been particularly good at leaving well enough alone. You turn around, leaning back against the sink.
âI have a whole jar,â you say.
The almost-smile dies.
âNo.â
Itâs the first word heâs said since he got here and itâs not even a full sentence, just a flat wall of sound. No. Like you asked him to jump off a building.
âI didnât even ââ
âNo.â
âBenny.â
âNo.â
âYour face is ââ You gesture at him vaguely. âYou ride all day with the wind and the sun and the exhaust and everything. Your skin takes a beating.â
He shrugs. âIâm fine.â He genuinely doesnât care. He has never once in his life looked in a mirror longer than it takes to check thereâs nothing in his teeth, and even that might be generous.
âIâll do everything,â you say. âYou literally just sit there.â
âIâm not putting that shit on my face.â
âItâs not shit. It smells nice.â
âDonât care.â
âIt only takes fifteen minutes.â
âNo.â
You play your ace. âFor me?â
Silence.
You donât push. Thatâs the trick with Benny â you say it once and then you shut up and let the quiet work on him. He canât stand being asked for things, but he canât stand saying no to you either, and the collision of those two facts is where most of your relationship lives.
He looks at the ceiling. He looks at the ceiling the way other men pray. Like heâs asking whoeverâs up there to give him strength.
âFine,â he says, and it sounds like it costs him a year of his life.
âYeah?â
âDonât make it â donât make a whole ââ
Youâre biting the inside of your cheek so hard you might draw blood because if you smile right now â if you so much as look pleased â heâll walk out and not come back for three days.
âIâm not making anything,â you lie. âSit.â
You pat the edge of the bathtub and he sits like heâs being lowered into an electric chair. Back straight, hands on his knees, jaw tight, staring intently at the tile wall opposite.
âJacket off.â
He looks at you.
âItâll get on the collar. This stuff stains.â
He holds your gaze for two seconds, three, then shrugs it off and folds it over the towel rack with more care than heâs ever given anything that isnât his bike. Underneath just his white vest, grease stained as usual.
You step between his knees and dip your fingers in the jar. The paste is cool and thick and he watches you bring it toward his face with the expression of a man watching a dentist pick up a drill.
âClose your eyes.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre staring at me like Iâm about to stab you and itâs making my hands shake.â
He closes his eyes. His eyelashes are stupid â long, dark, completely wasted on someone who has never once thought about them. He looks different with his eyes closed. Not younger, exactly â heâs always looked young, too young for the things heâs done, too young for the jacket and the rap sheet and the way people talk about him when heâs not in the room â but softer. With his eyes closed and his jaw unclenched and his hands going still on his knees, he looks like someone you could take care of.
Not that heâd ever let you call it that.
You smooth the mask onto his forehead first. He flinches.
âJesus ââ
âHold still.â
âItâs cold.â
âItâs supposed to be cold.â
âYou didnât say it was cold.â
âI said it tingles. Tingle implies temperature.â
âNo it doesnât.â
âWill you hold still ââ
You press the paste down along his nose, across his cheeks, working it into the skin with your fingertips. Heâs twitching like a horse trying to shake off a fly. You tilt his chin up with your free hand to get his jaw, heâs got a bruise fading there â you donât ask â and you work around it gently. He lets you move him but heâs not happy about it. His mouth is a thin, grim line. He looks like heâs enduring trench warfare.
âAlmost done,â you say, smoothing the last of it across his chin. You step back. âOkay. Open.â
He opens his eyes.
You last about one and a half seconds.
The laugh comes out of you like a bark â sudden, loud, completely involuntary. He looks ridiculous. The boots, the vest a little grey from too many washes, the tattoos, the whole Benny-of-it-all â and above it his face, slathered in thick green paste, eyes blazing blue through the mess of it like some kind of furious swamp angel.
âIâm taking it off.â
âNO.â You grab his wrist before he can touch his face. âFifteen minutes. You promised.â
âI didnât promise shit.â
âIt was implied. Come on â come sit on the couch, weâll wait it out.â
He follows you out of the bathroom like a man walking to the gallows. You drop onto the couch and he drops next to you, slouching into the cushions, arms crossed, green-faced and furious. You tuck your legs underneath you and look at him and have to press your lips together.
âStop looking at me,â he says.
âI canât help it. Youâre beautiful.â
âI look stupid.â
âYou look like youâre taking care of yourself for once in your life. Sit back.â
He sits back. Both of you now, side by side on the couch, staring at the blank TV like itâs showing something. The masks are tightening. You can feel yours cracking every time you breathe too hard. His is setting beautifully â heâs not talking, not fidgeting, not moving his face at all, which means the coverage is going to be perfect and even and you hate him a little for it.
âFeels weird,â he says after a minute.
âWeird how?â
âTight.â He moves his jaw experimentally, testing. âLike somethingâs holding my face.â
âThatâs the mint. It draws out impurities.â
âThe what?â
âThe bad stuff. In your pores.â
He looks at you sideways. The mask cracks at his temple. âYou believe that?â
âThe jar says so.â
âThe jar.â
âThe jar cost me a dollar twenty-nine, Benny, so yes, I believe the jar.â
That almost-laugh again. The paste has set now, stiff and dry, and when he raises an eyebrow a crack splits across his forehead. You start laughing again.
âDonât move your face.â
âI have to move my face.â
âFor fifteen minutes you donât.â
He makes a sound. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just acknowledgment that youâve said words and theyâve reached his ears.
âSeven minutes left,â you manage.
âThis is the longest fifteen minutes of my life.â
âYouâve been in jail, Benny.â
âJail was better.â
Somewhere outside a kid is riding a bike up and down the block, the click of the playing card in the spokes going past and fading and coming back. If anyone from the club walked in right now, his reputation would be finished. Not damaged â finished. Completely unrecoverable.
âIf you ever tell anyone about this,â he says.
âI wonât.â
ââ anyone, ever ââ
âBenny. I wonât.â
âI mean it.â
âWhat am I going to say? âHey, you know Benny? Tough guy, rides a Harley, doesnât talk? I put a beauty mask on him and he sat there for fifteen minutes like a good boyâ?â
âDonât call me a good boy.â
âWould you prefer pretty boy?â
âIâd prefer you stop talking.â
âPrincess?â
The look he gives you should, by all rights, be terrifying. But itâs coming from a face caked in green paste with a crack running down the nose, so the effect is significantly undermined.
âTime,â you announce. You have no idea if itâs actually been fifteen minutes. Close enough.
You go to the bathroom sink and wash your own off first â leaning over the basin, warm water, rubbing the paste away with your hands until youâre just you again, pink and damp. You pat your face dry with a towel and you do feel good, actually. Soft. Clean. The write up wasnât entirely full of it.
You wet a clean washcloth with warm water, wring it out, and bring it back to the couch.
âHere,â you say, handing it to him.
He takes it, presses it to his face, and scrubs like heâs trying to remove a layer of skin along with the mask. Hard, fast, graceless â the same way he does everything.
âGently!â You grab the washcloth out of his hands. âYouâre going to â the whole point is â you canât just ââ
Youâre sitting on the couch now, right next to him, close, and you refold the cloth to a clean side and press it to his cheek yourself. Softer. Slower. Working the paste away properly instead of sanding it off. He goes still under your hands. You wipe his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, gentle over the bruise.
He lets you.
His eyes are closed again and his breathing has changed â slower, deeper, like something in him finally unclenched.
You rinse the cloth and come back for a final pass, getting the last traces from along his hairline, from the crease beside his nose.
And there he is underneath. Clean. Pink at the cheeks where the scrubbing got him, but underneath that â smooth. Actually smooth. You run your thumb across his cheekbone just because heâs letting you, and he never lets you, not like this â slow and deliberate and gentle. Gentle isnât a word Bennyâs world has much use for.
âSoft,â you say. You mean his skin. You mean something else too.
He opens his eyes. Right there. Inches away.
You should stop. Youâve made your point, youâve had your fun, the mask is off and the game is over. But Bennyâs looking at you with his clean face and his eyes that are too blue and heâs not moving away, and your hand is still on his jaw, and you think â okay. One more thing. âNow give me your hands.â
âMy hands.â
âTheyâre a disaster, Benny. Theyâre like sandpaper. Iâve got some cream that ââ
âYouâre pushing it.â
âYouâll like it.â
âI wonât.â
Youâre already up, already getting the cold cream from the bathroom, and when you come back heâs still on the couch, which at this point counts as written consent. You sit cross-legged facing him and hold out your hands, palms up.
He looks at your hands. He looks at you. He looks at the ceiling.
He gives you his hands.
You work the cream into his knuckles, rubbing slow circles into the rough patches, the calluses, the cracked skin at the base of his thumb. His hands are twice the size of yours and beat to hell â grease under the nails, a scrape across the left one, knuckles that have been split and healed and split again so many times the skin there is permanently thick. You press your thumbs into his palms, working the cream in, and you feel his fingers curl loosely around yours. Reflex, maybe. Maybe not.
âThis is what you do?â he asks. âWhen Iâm not here?â
âWhat, take care of myself? Yeah. Shocking concept.â
âYou do this every week?â
âWhen I can afford the jar.â
He watches your hands work on his. The late sun is catching the side of his face and his skin is still pink and new-looking and you realise, with a small, private thrill, that heâs not performing tolerance anymore. Heâs not enduring this. Heâs just sitting here, on your couch, letting you rub cream into his hands, and heâs â fine. He might even be good.
You finish his right hand and pick up his left and he doesnât pull away, doesnât check the clock, doesnât reach for a cigarette. Just watches you with those stupid blue eyes in that stupidly clean face.
You finish. You set his hand down. You should stop here. You should absolutely stop here.
âOne more thing,â you say.
âBaby, no.â
âItâs the last thing.â
âYou said that about the hands.â
âThis is the actual last thing.â
âWhat.â
âTurn around.â
âWhy.â
âBenny. Turn around.â
He turns, slowly, suspiciously, shifting on the couch so his back is to you. You tuck your legs underneath you, rise up on your knees behind him, and put your fingers in his hair.
He goes rigid. âWhat are you ââ
âShh.â
âDonât shh me ââ
âIâm taking care of you. Stop talking.â
You press your fingertips into his scalp, just above the base of his neck, and drag them up slowly. His mouth opens â to argue, probably, to say something about how this isnât what he agreed to, how he only said the mask and then you added the hands and now this and where exactly does it end â
But nothing comes out.
Because your fingers are working in slow circles at his temples, and then up through the thick of his hair, and then pressing firm and steady at the crown of his head, and whatever protest he was constructing just â leaves. You watch it go. His shoulders drop an inch. Then another. His head tips forward, then back, like he canât decide which direction to chase your hands. His breathing changes.
âGood?â you ask, scratching lightly behind his ear.
He doesnât answer. Heâs not going to answer. Answering would mean acknowledging that this is happening, and you can see from the back of his neck â which is turning pink â that heâs committed to pretending it isnât.
You work your thumbs up the back of his skull, through his hair, pressing into the tension he carries there that he doesnât even know is tension because heâs never not had it. His hair is thick and messy and it falls through your fingers. He leans into your hands like he couldnât stop himself if he tried.
This is it. This is the thing that breaks him. Not the mask, not the washcloth, not the hands â this. Your fingers in his hair, slow and firm and steady, and Benny melting into it like a dog getting its ears scratched.
You bite your tongue because if you speak right now you will ruin the most incredible thing youâve ever witnessed. Benny Cross â Benny who fights like breathing, who rides like heâs got a death wish, who once stared down three guys outside a bar without blinking â is tilting his head to the side so you can get the spot behind his other ear.
He makes a sound. Low, quiet, barely there â halfway between a breath and a hum. If you told anyone about this sound they would not believe you. You barely believe you.
âIf anyone finds out about this,â he says. His voice is different. Slower. Like youâve unplugged something.
âAbout what?â you say, all innocence, dragging your nails lightly across his scalp. âNothingâs happening. Iâm just sitting here.â
âPretty boy,â you say, quiet, pressing your fingers through his hair one more time.
âDonât start.â
âPretty, pretty boy. With his nice soft skin.â
âIâll leave.â
âWith his moisturised hands and his refined pores ââ
He reaches back, catches your wrist, and pulls. You topple over the back of him, graceless, laughing, and he twists to catch you so you land across his lap instead of on the floor. His arms come around you and his freshly soft cheek presses against yours and he says, right into your ear, very quietly: âTell anyone and Iâll deny it.â
âDeny what?â You turn your head. Your noses bump. His skin is warm and smooth and smells like mint. âThat you liked it?â
âI didnât like it.â
âYour face says otherwise. Your face says thank you.â
âMy face doesnât say anything.â
âYour face says âplease do this again next week.ââ
âAbsolutely not.â
âWeâll see,â you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth â the smooth, soft, minty corner of his clean, pampered, princess mouth â and he lets you, which means youâre already right.
The clock ticks. Somewhere outside, the kid on the bike makes another pass. Bennyâs arms stay where they are.
Casanova - In which when Benny can't keep his eyes off you at a picnic he decides to make a move. (veryyy loosely based on risk by gracie abrams.)
Free now - after your rocky relationship with Benny comes to a standstill, you leave, hoping to find peace somewhere else. But before you go, you leave Benny a piece of your mind.
Polaroid - in which you broke up with Benny months ago, but he still keeps a picture of you inside his wallet. part 2 to free now.
Expensive Taste - In which when you bail Benny and some of the other guys out of Jail, Benny is eternally grateful.
Benny coming to get you after a bad day at work - soft!benny x reader
Benny's hands - and how they touch you
Bar fight - in which Benny has to pull you from a fight for once
Guilty as sin - in which you want Benny just as badly as he wants you. But it's against the rules. Based on taylor swifts guilty as sin.
Carnival - in which when Benny hears about a carnival a few towns over, he decides he has to take you out for the day.
Guilty as sin part 2 - in which you have a secret relationship with Benny.
Just go with it - in which Benny's night takes a strange turn when you show up and use him as a distraction.
Benny x teacher!reader - in which he is put in charge of picking up Johnnyâs kids from school.
Neighbourhood - in which the neighbourhood Karen bothers Benny and your child.
Do you notice? - in which there's a girl in town Benny can't get his mind off, and maybe she's feeling the same.
Warnings: mentions of blood, one use of y/n, this is my first bikeriders fic so be nice
Synopsis: When Benny can't keep his eyes off you at a picnic he decides to make a move. (veryyy loosely based on risk by gracie abrams.)
Benny stood with a cigarette between his teeth, eyes scanning over you from across the field. He'd never seen you before, new blood in a sea of well known people, and he would have been a liar to say he wasn't intrigued. The girl in the white dress, surrounded by bikers and their wives. People who made you look overdressed, though you didn't seem to care.
Your smile was wide, a laugh he couldn't hear clear on your features as a group of kids came to hand you daisy chains before scampering off to go bother another poor soul. His feet carried him to you soon enough, boots squashing the grass between you as he formed a path. Your eyes were on him before he reached you, scanning over his body, his clothes, the cigarette in his hand.
"Hey," his eyes examine you just the same. Now that's he's closer, he notices more. The lace on your dress, the strings that tie it together. The tangles in your hair and the rouge of your lips.
"Who might you be?" your voice is soft, cautious as if you've had a hundred of these encounters before, none of which ending well.
"I'm Benny." He lifts the cigarette toward his lips, inhaling smoke without issue, and blowing it softly out again.
"And what does Benny want to know?" you put emphasis on his name as you say it and he likes the sound. "If I'm a single gal just waiting for a ride home?"
"Something like that, yeah." He honesty sounds like honey, dripping from an enticingly dangerous smile. "What's your name?"
You ignore his question, instead, asking him another. "Are you a Casanova, Benny?"
"That depends," Benny smiles, the cigarette wobbling between his teeth. "What's a Casanova?"
You take a step forward, reaching out to touch the fresh cut just above his eyebrow. When you pull your hand back, the tip of your index finger is spotted with blood. "Are you gonna love me and leave me? Or are you one of the good ones?" The explanation is better suited to him, and he thinks it over while his eyes sink into yours.
"I ain't good, but I'm no Casanova." he says finally, watching the smile pull itself onto your lips. You're playing with him, like a cat to a bird caught in its teeth, but he doesn't mind one bit. He might be playing you too, though he doesn't know anymore.
"You here with someone?" He asks, shifting the conversation back to you, his mystery girl. You look around at the groups on the field, but your eyes land on no one in particular. His stay locked on you, surroundings long forgotten.
"Yes and no."
Benny takes another puff of his cigarette, waiting for you to continue.
"M'here with my brother, his girlfriend too. Us girls took the car." You nod over to an old rusty red vehicle, beside it stands a man, glaring daggers at Benny. "But I've got no boyfriend if that's what you're asking."
You know damn well that is what he's asking, and his smile only grows once he knows the answer. But there's a frown on your face now, and you move away quicker than he can catch you. You swipe a semi-clean rag off of a nearby bike and a bottle of alcohol from a cooler. "God, c'mere." You gesture to him, already following behind you, and he does as you tell him. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig. Which is your bike?"
Benny points back the way he came in answer to your question. "That one there." He watches you nod, trying to read your expression as you wander over to his bike. He pictures you on it, your legs swung over before holding on tight.
"Sit, or lean, whatever." You point to the seat, and he does as he's told once again, making some of the surrounding men smirk. Johnny is watching from a few meters away, beer in hand. He's wondering if this will work out or crash and burn.
"You gonna sit still or make a scene?" You ask, opening the bottle in your hand and dabbing alcohol onto the rag. You step between his legs as Benny shrugs.
"Little bit of both." his smile is contagious and doesn't falter even when you begin to clean the wound on his face. The rag comes away red, and you have to ask the question you're dying to know.
"Saw you scrapping with one of the other boys earlier, that happen often?"
Benny is itching to put his hands on your hips, it's almost killing him not to as he pulls the cigarette from his lips and at long last, stamps it out. "Maybe."
"You a dangerous man?" your touch is so gentle on his face, one hand holding his chin up as you inspect the injury, bleeding less now. You have to admit, you enjoy being this close to him, he's definitely the prettiest man you'd ever seen at one of these meets.
"No," his mind has never been this busy, so he just asks. "D'you mind?" he's raised his hands, but hasn't touched you yet, waiting for permission. You lift a brow, pausing all movements as you process what he's asking you, until finally, you nod. "Go on then." You trust him, oddly enough, despite asking if he was dangerous a moment before.
His hands land on your hips at long last, guiding you just a little closer between his legs. The fabric of your dress is smooth under his fingers, and Benny can't help but run his thumb up and down over it as he holds you there. You could move away at any time, but you don't.
"I think the bleedings' stopped." you mumble, removing the rag and laying it over Benny's thigh. "Just don't let anyone take a swing at you for a while and it should heal up fine."
"Can't make any promises, honey."
The nickname takes you off guard, and you give him a quizzical look. Benny is very aware you've allowed his hands to stay on your body, and he's grateful.
"Honey?" you question, and Benny smirks, eyes on your lips.
"You never told me your name."
"Didn't think you deserved it." You're being smart with him, and something about is just so appealing. He loves the game, almost as much as you do it seems, and it could go on forever if you let it. You have him wrapped around your finger already, and Benny is absolutely fine with that.
"How 'bout now?" his hands squeeze your hips affectionately, and he can feel the indents of your underwear beneath the fabric of your dress. He tries to ignore it, but it's tantalizing. "Do I deserve it?"
You stare him down, his blue eyes so enchanting that it irritates you, and maybe he's got you in the palm of his hand as well, because you give in. "Y/N." you say it quietly, as if you don't want the other men around you to know, and Benny likes that even more.
"I like that name," he mutters, and his smile could kill. "you want a drink?" Your hands have slipped down to his shoulders, a soft pressure that he wishes would grow stronger.
"Yeah, I do." you're like a drug, though Benny is unsure if you know it. You could talk for hours, and he could just stare at your mouth, your eyes, your hair. Every part of you like a new fix. "You gonna get me one?" You ask after he sits in silence for a while, distracted by the curve of your cupids bow.
Benny stands, and your hands fall from his shoulders. "What's your poison?" he asks, knowing there are very little options in Johnny's cooler.
"I don't drink poison," You joke, and Benny chuckles softly, removing his hands from your hips. "I'll take a beer though."
He runs a hand over his mouth and the stubble of his chin and for a second you think he's trying to hide a boyish grin. But it's gone as quick as it comes. "Beer, okay." he moves off, toward a group of men in vandals jackets that match his own, and you know it's gonna be a long day.
When Benny glances back your way, head over his shoulder as if to make sure you haven't disappeared, you can feel yourself blush. You can almost picture how it will all go down, you and him together. It could be bad, but you want to find out.
Summary: Partners in the field, best friends everywhere else, and cowards about their feelings. It takes one bullet on Valentine's Day to rip the silence open.
Warnings/tags: gunshot injury, surgery mention, near death, angst, hurt comfort, steve/natasha/tony are alive, mission gone wrong, besties to lovers, only one use of doll, happy ending
The tower kitchen is too bright for six in the morning. You squint as the winter sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and almost silver, washing over the marble countertops and catching on the stainless steel appliances. The city below is still stretching awake, traffic thin, steam rising in soft curls from street grates. Up here, everything feels suspended, like the world hasn't quite started yet.
Bucky's already there, quietly facing away from the entry, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The light cuts across his back, metal reflecting the morning's glow. He looks soft in the light, though his features are sharp.
You don't say anything when you step in. The tile is cool beneath your feet, and the hem of your sweater brushes your thighs as you cross the room. The smell of the coffee hangs thick in the air. He doesn't look at you right away, but his shoulders ease a fraction when he notices your presence. He seems to know when it's you.
"Can't sleep?" you ask quietly, reaching past him for the coffee pot.
He steps aside, making room for you. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. "Somethin' like that," he murmurs.
You pour your coffee slowly. The light catches the thin line of steam rising between you. You hold the pot toward him, signalling your willingness to refill his mug. He stretches his arm out, fingers curled around the handle.
Across the kitchen table, Sam lowers his spoon with a pointed clink against the bowl. "It's too early for this," he mutters. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm having to do a stupid mission instead of wining and dining my lady."
"Sounds like you're doing plenty of whining," You smirk over the rim of your mug.
Sam points his spoon at you in accusation, but he's smiling. The kitchen feels warmer for a second, lighter, like this is just another morning and not the start of something dangerous. Not the kind of day that gets circled on calendars and wrapped in red hearts and pink lips.
Valentine's Day.
You hadn't meant to think about it all last night. It's easier not to; easier to pretend it's just another square on the calendar, just another mission day, just another early morning with mediocre coffee and tired eyes. Except it feels strange this year, almost... off balance. Because if you could choose where to be tonight, it wouldn't be at a restaurant or on a date.
It would be exactly where you usually are anyway, shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, sharing takeout containers and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Your knees bumping his when you laugh at something he says. It's comfortable. Easy. Almost dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the missions you go on.
He's your best friend. That's the name you gave it. It's safe that way. The one that lets you keep him around without risking the relationship. But lately the word feels small. You wonder, not for the first time, when "best friend" turned into the person you look for in every room before anyone else. The person whose footsteps you can pick out from the hallway. The one you save the last sip, the last bite, the last story of the night for.
Your gaze drifts to him without meaning to. It always does. You notice he's pretending not to listen to Sam anymore, but he definitely is. His mouth is doing that barely there thing, not quite a smile, but a small curl in the corners. The morning light sits in his hair, softening his appearance, making him look less like a weapon and more like a man who belongs in the kitchen at sunrise. Your chest tightens quickly. If anyone asked, you'd say today didn't matter. But man, it certainly feels like it should.
His eyes lift like he feels it. They land on you with quiet precision. Caught in the act, you forget to look away right off. For half a second, it's just the two of you in the kitchen, city glowing behind him, dust motes turning lazy circles in the light.
There's something unfair about how gentle he looks this early. No armor, no tactical gear, just a dark Henley stretched across his shoulders and sleep clinging to the edges of him.
"What?" he asks softly.
The word is low, private, and meant only for you, despite the fact that Sam is still loudly excavating cereal nearby.
You blink. "What, what?"
"You're starin'," he says, and there's a faint hint of humor in it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Not a tease or a challenge, just a simple observation offered carefully.
Heat creeps up your neck. "Am not."
He lifts one brow, but he doesn't argue. Somehow, that makes it worse. Your pulse does that annoying stutter; it only ever does around him. You take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself a second. It would be so easy to tell the truth. I like looking at you. I always have.
Instead, you shrug. "You look grumpy. I was just checkin' if the coffee offended you again."
That earns you a real reaction, a soft laugh. "It's terrible," he says. "Think it melted the spoon."
"It's stainless steel, Buck," you reply.
"Still offended."
Sam groans. "I'm surrounded by chaos. Romance is dead."
You laugh, but your attention slides right back to Bucky Barnes, pulled there like it always is. His shoulder brushes yours when he leaves over to grab the coffee pot. It's a small, unconscious lean that he never corrects. Comfort settles in again, familiar and dangerous. It's the kind that makes you forget the lines you're supposed to stay behind.
Somewhere down the hall, the alert chime sounds. It's not too loud from where you are, but it's enough to make you sigh. You hear Sam push his chair back as he stands to bring his bowl to the sink. Bucky's expression shifts. The day is starting whether you like it or not.
Bucky sets his mug in the sink next to the bowl, already shifting into motion. Mission mode never looks dramatic on him. A straightening spine, a quieter face. All focus and no fun.
"You comin'?" he asks.
You nod and set your mug down. Your fingers bump the ceramic, still warm from his hand. The heat lingers for a second against your skin, and you hate how aware you are of it.
The hallway outside the kitchen is cooler, the polished floor reflecting the morning light in long pale stripes. Your footsteps fall into rhythm beside his without effort. They usually do. You've walked like this a thousand times, close enough that your sleeves brush, far enough that no one would think anything of it. Most of them think something of it, though.
Your shoulder knocks his lightly when he slows to let a tech hurry past. His hand comes up automatically, hovering near your back, not fully touching you. You feel it anyway, like he's protecting you.
"You bring your good boots?" you ask quietly.
He glances down at them like he has to check. "I always do."
"Last time you wore the old ones and complained for six hours."
"I did not complain."
"You narrated your suffering?"
"That's different."
You smile. There it is again, that almost smile of his in response, small but real. People sometimes say relationships are built on big moments. But yours is built on this. Shared steps and low voices. Knowing exactly how someone takes their coffee and hovering hands without needing credit for the catch.
Up ahead, the briefing room doors slide open. Screens glow blue against the dim interior. The rest of the team is already filtering in, half-suited, half-caffeinated. The room smells of coffee, still steaming in the single-use cups. A wide holographic display rotates slowly above the central table, throwing blue light across tired faces as everyone settles into place. You take your usual seat without thinking, and like always, Bucky ends up in the chair beside you. Your legs meet briefly under the table, and you smile at him before turning your attention to the front of the room.Â
A satellite image sharpens overhead. Industrial buildings, rail lines, and a river cut through the edge of the property line.
"Alright, lovebirds and lonely hearts," Sam says, dropping into his chair and spinning it once before stopping with his boots hooked on the table edge. "Let's ruin the most romantic day of the year."
"I had a whole speech about work-life balance prepared, but then illegal weapons trafficking ruined the mood," Tony says.
A few groans answer him.Â
"We intercepted encrypted chatter late last night. A breakaway weapons cell set up temporary operations here, inside an abandoned freight distribution hub just outside the city. They're moving product, and we think it's for something bigger."
"Define product," you say.
"Portable guided munitions," Tony answers. "Shoulder launcher, smart tracking, not very romantic. The kind of stuff that turns crowded places into headlines."
Everyone sighs. Thermal scans layer over the model. Moving heat signatures. Parked trucks. Guard rotations plotted in neat predictive loops.
"Buyer?" Steve asks.
"Still in the wind," Tony replies. "Which means if this shipment rolls, we get to play find the missile later. I hate sequels."
"Got it. So we hit it before it moves." Sam says.
"Gold star," Tony points a finger at him. "Transfer closes before noon. After that, distribution branches and our neat little problem become a messy big one."
Routes appear in colored lines. Entry vectors, blind spots, and jammer zones pulse red. Security notes scroll beside the map: patrol density, signal interference, and interior barricades built from old shipping containers.
"Outer ring is armed and alert," Tony continues. "Inner flor is compartmentalized. They're expecting competition, just not you specifically, which I find insulting."
"Tragic," Bucky deadpans.
"My reservation's at seven," Sam mutters. "Non-refundable."
Tony doesn't look up. "You've generously donated to the restaurant industry."
Sam gestures between you and Bucky. "Meanwhile, these two have zero plans ever and look the most offended."
You keep your eyes on the map. It's safer there. Assignment tags blink across the layout. Advance element, east service corridor. Your name. Bucky Barnes.
Sam makes a soft drumroll on the table. "Predictable and adorable."
Tony points at Sam, "Ariel sweep. No flirting with the hostiles."
"No promises."
The plan builds in layers, contingencies stacking clean and fast. Timing is everything in missions like this. Speed matters more. Every minute of delay increases the odds that those launchers leave the building.
"Go suit up. If we're fast enough, nobody should miss their plans tonight."
Chairs slide back, and you hear the sound of boots down the hall as the mission gravity settles in. You stand at the same time Bucky does. Of course you do. Your sleeves brush as you turn toward the exit. You're not exactly sure when you started noticing every little touch, or look, or breath he takes.
The corridor outside the briefing room is quieter than the main floors, with the lights set low for the early hour. Your footsteps echo in sync, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse in your throat. Pre-mission silence feels stretched tight, every sense tuned sharper. People don't joke as much out here.
Your hand flexes at your side, already thinking through your kit, blade placement, reload time, angles of entry. But there's something else layered beneath today's readiness, something more distracting. Maybe it's the date. Maybe it's him. It's probably the two combined.
"You good?" he asks.
He doesn't look at you when he says it. Eyes forward, scanning corners like you're already midmission.
"Yeah..." you answer. "You?"
"Always."
It's automatic, the reply. You know better. He knows you know better.
A tech team rolls a cart across the intersecting hall, and Bucky reaches up to grab your elbow to pull you back. You just missed the cart. You could live inside these touches. You already do.
"Whoa," you gasp. "Thanks, Buck."
His mouth curves faintly, there and gone.
The armory door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air smells like oil, cold steel, and polymer. Overhead strip lights reflect off neatly organized racks, labeled drawers, and charging stations blink green. You head over to your station.Â
Gear up is its own language. No wasted motions. You lay everything out first, same order every time. Twin knives balanced with familiarity in your palms. Widow bite gauntlets, compact and dark, you snap them open and check the charge indicators. Micro line launcher, shock disks, compact smoke pellets. Each piece of gear gets a touch, a check, and a place on your frame.
Across from you, Bucky works in heavier shapes and darker lines. Field pistols broken down and reassembled with fluid precision. Magazine springs tested, slides racked. He lines up his knives last, more of them than anyone else carries, edges catching the light like thin mirrors. You watch his hands for half a second too long, and he notices.
He spins one blade once, testing the weight, then loops up at you without lifting his head. "You're doin' it again."
"Doin' what?"
"Starin' at me."
"I'm observing craftsmanship, James."
"It's a knife."
"It's your knife."
His eyebrows raise. You feel the warmth creep up your neck. You step closer before you even think about it.
"Hold still," you say.
He does. The leather's twisted near the buckle. You straighten it, fingers working close to his collarbone. You can feel his warmth through the fabric, steady and solid. Your knuckles brush the edge of a scar. His breathing shifts just slightly.
"All set," you murmur.
Your turn comes faster than expected. His flesh hand checks the seal on your gauntlet strap, firm and careful. He always double-checks your restraints and closures.
"Good," he says quietly.
For a second, you're standing close enough that if either of you leaned in, even a little, the line you've protected for so long would disappear.
Boots thud past the armory entrance, voices come and go, and suddenly reality sets in again. Weapons loaded, armor ready, hearts doing things they shouldn't be doing. You push those feelings aside and steady yourself before heading toward the Quinjet.
The ramp hums under your boots as you board. Inside, the cabin lights glow low amber, casting long shadows across harness straps and cargo netting. The familiar shape of the jet feels steadier than the morning has.
Sam drops into the seat across from you and starts strapping in, still talking like the silence might actually kill him. "I just want it noted," he starts, "that if anybody asks, I was ready to be romantic today.
From the cockpit doorway, Nat glances back while running a systems check on her wrist display. "You say that every year."
"I mean it every year."
"It's never true, though."
He presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts."
She doesn't even look up. "You'll live."
Bucky takes the seat beside you, knees almost touching yours in the narrow spacing. He locks his harness with one clean pull, then checks yours without comment. Tug, glance, satisfied nod. Every flight, without fail. Across the aisle, Steve adjusts his gloves with a quiet focus. His posture is straight, even at rest. He looks up and scans the cabin, doing his own head count. He always does.
"Wheels up in thirty seconds. Primary plan still holds." Steve says calmly.
A few nods. Tension is thick, though, it always is before a mission. You lean forward to recheck your gauntlet charge. Green reflections dance across your knuckles. Bucky watches the motion, cataloging it without meaning to. He wonders, not for the first time, how someone built for sharp edges learned to move so carefully. He's supposed to be reviewing entry angles. Instead, he's memorizing the way your mouth presses into a thin line when you concentrate.
The engines deepen in pitch. The cabin vibrates through the soles of his boots. Mission gravity settles in his chest, a familiar weight that he's grown accustomed to. Danger is simple when you're a deadly assassin. Feelings for your best friend aren't. He's risked everything in wars, in prisons, in the blank spaces where his past was taken from him. Yet saying one honest sentence to you feels more terrifying than any of that.
You glance over, catching him looking this time. You lift your eyebrows in a silent question. "You're quiet," you say over the engine.
"Thinkin'," he answers.
"Uh oh."
"Yeah," he says softly. "Uh oh."
The jet lifts. Natasha's voice comes over the cabin channel. "Check comms. Jammers might be active."
Sam groans. "Nothing says Valentine's Day like signal interference and ass-kicking."
Bucky flexes his metal fingers once, then rests his hands on his knees. He's completely gone for you and running out of reasons to pretend otherwise.
The jet settles into descent with a controlled shudder, engines throttling down to a low, predatory hum. The cabin lights shift to red. Outside the small side window, the warehouse district spreads in gray blocks and skeletal remains of buildings that once held life. Morning haze clings to the river. Mission air feels thick and sharp.
Bucky rolls his shoulders once and lets the soldier part of him take the wheel, but it doesn't push everything else out. It never really does when you're within arm's reach. Harnesses click open in staggered snaps. Across the cabin, Steve stands first.
"Final check. Comms are good, keep them clear. We stay quiet unless we need to."
"Copy," comes Nat over the internal channel, already mission-ready near the ramp.
Sam taps his earpiece. "If I whisper any quieter, I'm technically thinking."
"You should try that more often." You say.
Bucky doesn't smile, but he feels the shape of one trying to happen. His attention keeps splitting, half on approach vectors, half on you doing your premission ritual. Adjusting your gloves for the third time, a tell you don't know you have: anxious, nervous, whatever you want to call it.
You stand from your seat and close your eyes. You cross your left arm over your chest, your right hand grabbing that elbow to stretch. You take a deep breath. Then you do the same motion with the opposite arms. You drop your arms and drop your head back, taking another deep breath. You shake your hands out by your sides. Bucky watches you every time. Infactuated? Captivating?
He wants to tell you to be careful. He wants to tell you to stay behind him. He wants to say I'll protect you. Instead, he checks your shoulder seam for a snag that isn't there and pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.
"Another day, another mission." You whisper, smiling at Bucky.
"We'll do fine." He nods, seriously. Stoic soldier fronting.
"That's why I love ya, Buck." You laugh quietly.Â
The ramp lowers just enough to slip bodies through. Cold air rushes in, damp and metallic, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old fuel. The jet sets down behind a derelict storage structure two blocks from the target, shielded from line of sight. Boots hit the ground softly with silent nods to the rest of the group. Formations take place instantly.
Tony's voice threads through the comms, filtered and dry. "Nice and warm here in the Tower, folks. Satellite drift in ninety seconds. After that, you're under local for another ninety. That cycle repeats. Try not to do anything cinematic."
"No promises," Sam whispers.
You and Bucky peel off together toward the eastern approach, cutting between stacked cargo containers beaded with condensation. Your movement matches his without signals, without discussion. Years of shared missions turned into instinct. He knows your pace, your angles, and how much distance you like between you and a partner when you're hunting quietly. He knows the sounds you make when you're trying not to be scared.
You're making it now, that almost silent breath through your nose. It's controlled. But he knows it, hears it. He wants to reach for your hand again. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. But it's not smart.
"In position," Steve says into comms. "Status report."
Bucky keys his mic with a minimal press. "East corridor. No visual compromise."
"Copy," Steve says. "We're staged west. Sam, status."
"Nothing above so far."
You crouch at the service door access panel, pulling a slim tool from your belt. Your shoulder brushes Bucky's thigh as you work. He watches your hands instead of the perimeter for half a bear too long, but he trusts his training to cover the gap. He knows the curve of your focused face better than he knows his weapons at this point.
The lock clicks open under your tool with a tiny metallic sigh. You glance up at him, eyes bright.
"Ready?" you mouth.
He nods once. Steady on the outside, but falling straight through the inside.
The door opens, and you slip in first. Smooth and low, Bucky follows close enough to cover your blind side without crowding your movement. Inside, the air changes. Stale dust, cold iron, and old oil soaked into concrete. Light filters through high cracked windows in pale vertical strips, turning floating particles into drifting static. Somewhere deeper in the structure, machinery rattles from the wind. The door eases shut behind Bucky with barely a sound.
Bucky's senses narrow and sharpen. Angles, shadows, and distance to cover fill his mind. The world becomes lines and timing. And you. Always you at the center of his awareness like a fixed star.
"East corridor entry complete," you say quietly over comms, voice steady and low.
"Copy," Steve answers. "West team moving to outer ring."
"Roofline set," Sam adds. "Two patrols above you, catwalk level."
You hold up two fingers, then point left. Your wrist gadget shows a heat signature under the next doorway. Bucky nods once. He shifts and draws a knife.Â
The guard steps halfway through the doorway and never gets the chance to finish his next step. Your widow line snaps tight around his ankles and pulls him off balance while Bucky closes the distance. One hand over his mouth, one precise strike.
You look at Bucky, quickly checking on him. He gives you a nod before he turns to continue through the door. Every time you move like this, efficient and alive, something in his chest aches with pride he has no right to claim. You're not his to protect, but he does it anyway.
You advance deeper. The corridor opens onto a loading floor the size of a football field, stacked with crates, hung with chains, and suspended walkways. Voices carry in broken reflections off metal walls. Engines idle near the far bays. Transfer is active, and Tony was right on the mark.
"Visual on cargo," you report calmly. "Multiple crates, launcher-sized."
"Confirmed," Tony says. "Tags match."
A laugh drifts across the floor from a cluster of armed buyers near a truck. They think they're safe. It's almost comical. They're casual and relaxed. Just hoping for the next big payday.
Bucky watches you scan sightlines, mark routes, and count bodies. You watch him when you can, too. How his head drops slightly when he's zoning in on a target. How he flips his knife before sinking into a hostile. How he always seems to be looking at you when you want to look at him.
He loves you. You love him.
The thought lands fully formed this time in Bucky's head, in his chest, in his heart.
It should feel like a crisis. Instead, it feels like the missing piece that he hadn't realized he was missing.
"East side, hold," Steve says over comms. "West is almost in position."
"Copy," Bucky answers.
You both settle behind a stack of wrapped pallets. Close enough that your arms are pressed along his from shoulder to wrist. His breathing is steady, and you count it without meaning to. His metal fingers flex once against the knife handle.
"West side set," says Steve in your ear. "Eyes on three exterior doors and the north catwalk."
"Roofline ready," adds Sam. "I've got overwatch on two trucks and a bored guy picking his teeth."
"Focus," Nat sighs.
"I am focused. On his dental hygiene."
You shift beside Bucky, leaning just enough to sight past the pallet edge. He adjusts with you automatically, your shoulders aligned, fields of fire interlocked. It feels like dancing, if dancing involved knives and suppressed rounds.
"Buck, you're cleared to move to inner cover."
You move together from pallets to crates to forklifts. Each crossing is timed between patrol turns and engine noise. Your wrist gadget flicks once, twice, disabling a camera node with a soft spark that vanishes beneath the echoing machinery.
Bucky tracks threats, but he also tracks you. The way you signal without looking. The way you trust him to be exactly where you expect. And you do. Because he's Bucky, the same guy who has never let you down even one single time. Who you love. Trust is a heavier weight than armor.
A buyer group shifts near the central truck, weapons sling careless. One steps away to smoke. Nat's voice threads in, low and certain. "Isolated target, south stack. I've got him."
Three seconds later, the man is quietly horizontal and out of the story.
"Outer ring is thinning," she reports.
"Timing's good. Tony says over comms. "Thermals show crate loading starting now. You're inside their window."
You pause behind a vertical beam, back almost against his chest as you peek at the angle. He can feel you breathe through layers of gear. He could say it right now, he thinks wildly. After this, he promises himself. After this push, we're home. No more waiting for the perfect moment.
Across the floor, Steve and Nat shift positions among stacked cargo, drawing attention with their subtle, deliberate movement. Guards are redirected over towards them. Lines of sight change. Everyone's watching something and tracking someone, adjusting for obvious threats.
"Let's move in, fast."
The warehouse erupts into motion, controlled and surgical. Steve and Nat make noise, a rolling wave of impact and command presence that pulls attention hard. Shouted orders are heard over the hum of machinery as hostiles make their way over. Eyes turn away from your sector exactly as planned.
"Go," Bucky says, already moving.
You launch with him. There's no hesitation between you, no verbal count. You both break cover on the same breath, splitting angles like mirrored instinct. Your widow line snaps out and yanks a rifle sideways just as its owner tries to shoulder it. Bucky's already there, driving forward, disarming with a brutal twist. He drops the man flat. You pivot off Bucky's momentum, plant a boot on a crate edge, and vault. Midair, you loosen a shock disk that pops up against a second guard's vest in a crackle of blue. He folds with a strangled yelp. Bucky doesn't even need to look to confirm. He knows you hit your shots.
He covers your landing with two suppressed shots, tight grouping, and clean. Your knife flashes past his shoulder a split second later and buries into the strap of a third hostile's weapon, pinning it useless against a post. It's just you and him, years of watching each other move, learning rhythms, building a shared combat language no one ever formally taught.
"Cutting center," Bucky reports.
"Seen," Steve answers. "Keep pushing."
A forklift roars to life near the truck bay as a driver panics. You're already moving toward it. Bucky beats you there by half a stride and shoots the hydraulics. The machine slumps sideways with a groan, blocking the exit.
You grin at him, quick and bright. "Show off."
He almost says only for you. Instead, he tosses your thrown knife back to you without looking. You catch it by the handle. More proof of how locked in you are with each other. Gunfire cracks from the catwalks, misdirected toward Steve's pressure line. Sam's voice cuts in.
"Topside scrambling. I'm herding."
"Copy," says Nat. "Left ladder clear."
Bucky steps into your space to redirect your line of fire by half an inch, his metal arm bracing briefly against your ribs so you don't overexpose yourself beyond cover. The contact is firm, protective, and gone way too fast. His heart is pounding harder from that than from the shooting.
He's dimly aware that if anyone watched you two long enough, they'd see it. Not just the efficiency, but the care threaded through it. The constant adjustments to keep each other safe. You've never fought like this with anyone else.
The last guard in your immediate lane drops. For half a second, it feels like the center is yours. Noise shifts and targets are thinning out.
Nobody calls out the guard on the far mezzanine. Bucky starts to turn toward you to say your name. The rifle cracks. The sound is wrong. Not the scattered echo of crossfire, not the muffled thump of suppressed shots. This one is sharp and clean and close enough that Bucky feels it in his teeth.
He's already turning toward you when it happens. Your body jerks like someone yanked a wire through you. The motion is small, almost confused, and then momentum disappears. The knife slips from your fingers and clatters across the concrete in a lonely metallic spin. For half a heartbeat, his brain refuses to translate what he's seeing. He sees the red bloom on your suit, and the color leaves your face.
"Contact, mezzanine!" Sam barks over comms a fraction too late. "High right!"Â
Bucky is moving before the words finish. He fires twice at the man who may have just killed you. Pure instinct, driving the shooter back behind the railing. You hit the ground hard. Everything drops out of focus. Sound narrows to a high rushing ring. The warehouse becomes distant shapes and irrelevant motion.Â
Training says to secure the threat, maintain formation, and keep the objective in sight. Bucky drops to his knees beside you instead. Your eyes are open but unfocused, breathing unevenly. Blood is spreading fast through the seam of your suit at your side, darker than the shadows.
"No," he hears himself say, rough and immediate. "No, no, no."
"What's going on?" Steve says through comms.
"We're hit, it looks bad," Bucky responds, no longer mission-focused.
His gloves are already slick as he clamps pressure over the wound, hands shaking despite iron strength.
"Stay with me," he says to you, voice breaking loose from control. "Look at me."
You try to focus on him. The pain comes in waves but never stops. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for his face, trying to cup his cheek. He reaches out to help you bring his hand to his cheek. You move your thumb once before feeling like you're fading away.Â
This is the moment he's rehearsed in nightmares, always wordless, always too late. He doesn't want this to be the end.Â
"Med evac is almost here," Nat says. "I'm moving to them."
"Shooter confirmed dead. We got 'em all." Sam comms.
Bucky leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, the world reduced to your barely there breath and the heat leaving your skin under his hands.
"I was gonna tell you," he blurts, the words tearing out unfiltered. "I was gonna tell you after this, I swear."
He presses harder on the wound, but the blood doesn't stop coming. You try to speak, but the words can't come out. You form what you think are words for Bucky, but they come out as pained moans.
"You can't," he says, voice fraying. This is the man under the soldier stripped bare.
Steve walks up to Bucky, who's still learning over your body.
"C'mon, Buck, we gotta get her out of her."
Bucky looks up at Steve, two lone tears stream down either side of his face. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.
Bucky whispers in your ear, hoping you can hear him, "I love you. Please stay."
You're on the med jet, strapped to a stabilization board, with med foam packed right against the wound. Your face has gone too pale under the smear of blood and antiseptic. It launches almost the moment your stretcher locks into place. Priority transport. Gone into the morning sky before the rest of the team even finishes loading out.
Bucky watches it disappear through the narrowing edge of the ramp, jaw locked so tightly it aches. He doesn't realize he's taken a step after it until Steve puts a steady hand on his shoulder.
"They'll get her there faster this way." He reminds Bucky quietly.
Bucky nods once. It's not really an agreement, but he knows he can't do anything about it.
There's no banter on their flight home. No post-mission ritual. Just engine thunder and the low vibration through the deck plates. The cabin lights stay dim.Â
Bucky sits away from everyone else, his eyes stuck on the floor between his boots. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging empty between them.
The other three sit near enough to talk quietly. Nat cleans blood off her gloves with slow strokes. Sam takes worried glances at Bucky every now and then, checking on him silently. His wings are folded neatly, and he removes some gear for an excuse to fidget with something.
Bucky keeps replaying the moment in his head. He can still hear the sound of the gun going off. He can hear the gasp you let out when the bullet entered your skin. He can see the color drain from your face and the glossy look of your eyes before they finally shut. He'll never forgive himself if that's the last time he sees you. The last time he feels your warm skin and listens to you tease him for being a show off. His brain is trying to solve it differently, like there's still time to intercept the bullet.
After a while, Sam clears his throat. "She's stubborn," he says. "That counts for something."
"It counts for a lot."
Bucky swallows hard. He hasn't been able to trust his voice. Steve unstraps and crosses the distance, movements balanced against the jet. He doesn't sit down, just braces a hand on the seat frame beside Bucky.
"You did everything right," Steve says.
Bucky lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a broken laugh. "I didn't, she still got hit."
"That doesn't mean you failed."
"It does to me."
Steve studies him for a moment, not pushing him to say more. "You broke the shooter's line of sight in under a second. You stopped that second round. You kept her alive."
What happened, Bucky thinks, is that he almost lost her. And he should have been the one to take the bullet. His hands curl into fists. Metal fingers whisper against each other.
"I finally said it," he says quietly, like a confession.
Steve knows exactly what he means. "Yeah," he answers. "I heard you."
Heat crawls up the back of Bucky's neck despite the cold cabin air. "Wasn't how I planned it."
"Most real things aren't," Steve says. "But you can tell her again later. She's gonna get through this."
The engine pitch shifts as they change altitude. The sound fills the pause.
"It's Valentine's Day afterall," Steve adds after a moment. "Kind of a perfect day built for saying what matters."
Bucky looks up at him then, eyes red-edged and exhausted. "What if she dies?"
Steve's grip tightens briefly on the frame. "We cross that bridge if we have to. Until then, you make sure you tell her again when she wakes up."
The jet keeps cutting forward through the morning, carrying all of them home without the one person Bucky keeps checking for. No one speaks after that.
The tower feels too normal when they land. Glass catching sunlight now that it's early afternoon. The kind of day that shouldn't exist when someone's life is hanging in the balance a few floors below.Â
They move through intake and security on autopilot, putting their gear back where it belongs. Logging weapons and writing signatures. No one lingers or jokes. The absence of your footsteps is felt by everyone on the team.
Debrief happens quickly. The conference room screens glow with mission playback, drone angles, heat maps, and timestamps. Freeze frames of impact points and takedowns. Tony stands at the head of the table, scrolling through data with tight, economical gestures.
"Shipment was secured," he says. "Inventory intact enough that we have full trace. Buyers' network is sweating, so that's a win."
No one reacts. Tony reads the room quickly. He swipes to a Redwing camera playback. The moment of the shot pauses mid-frame, but he doesn't play it.
"Crossfire variables stacked wrong," Tony says. "Early rotation and elevation shadow. That's on their dice, not your skill."
Bucky doesn't answer. He hasn't even sat down.
Steve chimes in, "Status?"
Tony exhales sharply, and there it is, the himan crack in the armor. "Out of surgery. Bullet passed straight through. Missed the worst of the organs by a margin."
Bucky's fingers flex at his sides. "When can we see her?"
"Short version, not yet," Tony explains. "Long version, they'll page you when she is able to have visitors."
Tony looks straight at Bucky now. "She made it to the table alive because of you, Barnes."
Bucky gives a solid nod and turns to leave the room. He needs a hot shower, fresh clothes, and maybe a good cry if he can manage it.
---
The medical floor is too white, too bright, too controlled. Footsteps soften automatically on the polymer flooring. People speak in low tones, as if the volume itself were part of the treatment. Bucky waits through two checkpoints and one firm-handed nurse who makes him sit for exactly four minutes that feel like forty. He doesn't argue with her, although he wishes he could.
Finally, a door slides open down the corridor.
"Okay, Mr. Barnes. She's all yours."
He nods. The room is dimmer than the hallway. Monitors glow in gentle blues and greens. Lines run across one screen, and other machines breathe softly beside the bed. And there you are. Too still and too pale. Bandaging wrapped clean at your side, shoulder exposed above hospital fabric, skin marked with adhesive and sensor leads. Your hair looks wrong against the pillow, like it hasn't been brushed.
For a second, he can't even step forward. Battlefields never did this to him. Hydra never did this to him. You, quiet and hurt in here, almost drops him to his knees.
He moves to the bedside slowly. His metal hand hovers, then settles carefully around your fingers, mindful of the wires. You're warmer now, thank god.
"I'm here now," he whispers.
He studies your face as if he's relearning its map. The crease near your brow and the tiny scar near your chin. Of course, he knew they were there, but he had taken them for granted before.
"You picked one hell of a day to scare me," he murmurs. "I had a whole speech planned. You kinda ruined my timin'."
His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "I meant it. I don't know if you heard me, but I meant it."
Time stretches in the recovery room until it no longer feels measurable. The monitors keep their steady rhythm. Your chest rises and falls quietly. Each inhale pulls his attention like a thread. Bucky sits forward in the chair, forearms braced on the mattress edge, still holding your hand. He doesn't even know what time it is, only that Sam has left to go have his "wine and dine" dinner date.
He keeps talking because silence feels like surrender.
"Remember that terrible takeout place you like so much?" he quietly smiles to himself. "I would do anything to eat their greasy food with you right now."
His thumb traces a slow line along your fingers.
"I was gonna grab that for us tonight. That was the big plan. Real smooth, right? Greasy food and probably a movie you'd pretend not to cry to." His voice tightens on the last word.
"Steve says timing's never right for the important stuff. Guess he's got a point. Still hate that he's right though."
Footsteps pass in the hallways. A cart rolls by. Life keeps moving outside this room, and it feels offensive. He bows his head a little, bringing his arm up as a makeshift pillow.
"I've jumped out of planes and fallen from trains," he sighs. "None of it comes as close as to how I feel right now."
Time moves by slowly and quickly all at once. It's eight o'clock now. Bucky only knows because a nurse came in to check on you. She wrote down the time on the whiteboard by the door. He's hungry, he's thirsty, and he'd rather die of starvation and dehydration than leave your side. He looks out the window in the room, wishing the two of you could be out in the city, laughing and hanging out. He wishes he could tell you how he feels and hear what you have to say.
There's a faint shift in your hand. So small that someone might miss it. He jerks upright, studying your face carefully. Another small movement. Bucky is frozen in place. Another tiny movement, your fingers trying to curl but not quite getting there yet. Your brows tighten like you're fighting up through deep water.
"Easy there," he whispers. "You're okay."
Your lashes flutter, stop, and flutter again. The monitor ticks a little faster.
"That's it," he encourages. "Come back to me."
Your eyes open a sliver, unfocused, light sensitive. Confusion takes over. Then discomfort. A low groan escapes your throat as you adjust. A throbbing ache at your side. You try to assemble the room piece by piece.
Bucky's the first thing that resolves clearly in your line of sight. Relief hits his face so openly it would scare him if he were capable of self-consciousness right now.
He lets out a breath, "Hey."
Your voice doesn't come out yet, but your lips part like you're trying. Your gaze drops, finds your bandaging, the wires, then climbs back to him with a question and a memory tangled together.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "You got hit. Thought you died."
Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Tears burn his eyes instantly, and he laughs under his breath. He tries not to let them fall, but he can't help it. A shaky breath comes out as he shakes his head.
"Told you not to get shot," he whispers. "You never listen."
Your throat works to get the words out. Your voice is barely there, scraped thin.
"...Gotta keep.. you on your toes."
He huffs a broken, grateful breath. Your gaze locked on his, hazy but sharpening by the second. The room comes to you in layers: sounds first, then light, then pain. But always him.
"I... love you, too." You manage to get out.
Emotion crowds his throat again, but this time he lets it stay.
"I wasn't supposed to say it like that," he continues, voice low and unguarded. "I had this whole night planned.
He glances down at your joined hands, then back up, blue eyes clear and terrified and certain all at once. "I meant it, though, every word."
You smile at him. Bits and pieces of the morning play in your head. You've never seen a man break down quite like Bucky had earlier. And honestly, you had been grateful you were able to hold his face one last time before the darkness took over.
"Thought I was a goner," You mumbled.
He nods, understanding exactly how you feel.
"You know, I've been in love with you for a while now," he says, simple and direct. "Didn't know if we should put a label on it. Was too nervous to ruin the relationship with my favorite person."
His thumb brushes your knuckles, but he keeps his eyes on you.Â
"Me too, Buck."
"I kept telling myself I had time," he goes on. "More missions, more mornings in the kitchen. More chances to say it at the right time, exactly how I wanted. But I wasn't sure I was allowed to want more."
Your eyes shine now, fully awake, completely present.
"The days leading up to Valentine's Day felt... complicated?" he admits. "Not because I didn't have someone, but because the someone I wanted was already with me, and I didn't know if we could be anything more."
Your fingers squeeze his with surprising strength.Â
He leans in a little, voice softer but steadier than it's been in hours. "I'm telling you right here, right now, I love you. As more than a mission partner, as more than a friend. I love everything about you."
Your eyes fill before he even finishes the last word. Not from pain, not from the meds, but from the way he's looking at you like the truth finally got tired of waiting and chose to come out. You study his face like you're confirming something you've known for a long time but never dared to name. The worry lines, the softness he only shows when he forgets to hide, and the way his grip never loosened.
"I thought..." you murmur. "I guess I thought it would be easier for me to pretend not to notice."
His brows pull together. "Notice what?"
"How it feels when you walk into the room."
He just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.
"I didn't say anything," you go on. "Because I didn't want to lose you. But honestly, best friends isn't enough for me."
Silence folds around you, warm and full instead of empty. His thumb is still moving over your hand, as if he can't stop touching you, as if touch is proof you're still really here.
"You sure this isn't the meds talkin'?"
You manage a faint, crooked smile. "If it were the meds, I'd have told you months ago."
And that does it. The last of his restraint gives way. He rises from the chair and leans in slow enough for you to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.
"My lips are so dry from this place," you whisper through a giggle.
"I don't care," he smiles.
The kiss is gentle, careful of tubes and soreness, and the fact that you're still healing. Soft, lingering, reverent. Not scared and rushed like a battlefield claim, not desperate to get the words out. This is more like a sweet beginning.
His warm hand cradles your jaw lightly. He kisses you as if he's been holding it back for years, and he plans to keep doing it for the rest of his life. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air.
RELIEVED after worrying about the other, cupping their face, pulling back to gaze into their eyes, âyou okay?â
WANDERING, leaving hickeys, looking up to watch their reaction, worshipping their body, nipping their skin, pressing them back down, biting gently
SLOPPY, lazily drunk, groaning, ruining make up,
SOFT, several in quick succession, cradeling their head, arms around wait, reassuring, morphing into a hug
PLAYFUL, in between giggles, nipping the otherâs lips, pulling away and leaning back in
CASUAL, upon meeting or separating, when entering a room, just because, on the cheek or forehead or hand, from behind while getting ready and watching in the mirror
DESPERATE, stumbling across the room, pressing against one another while pulling clothes off, gasping into the otherâs mouth, teeth accidentally clashing, eventually wandering downwards
ANONYMOUS, in a club, not knowing the otherâs name, back to the wall, gasping, hands wandering, âwanna get out of here?â
Omg I just saw the recent post about Austinâs long hair and I so need a fix about the reader tangling her hand in his hair at every chance she gets đ« . Like on a date, sex, even on a sofa???
Word Count: 2.6k
Masterlist
You have absolutely no chill about his hair, and itâs becoming increasingly difficult to pretend otherwise.
It doesnât start in a dramatic way. Thereâs no big moment where you clock it and think, ah yes, this is my personality now. It starts with a glance â a passing look in the hallway mirror as youâre walking by â and there he is behind you, bent over tying his shoes, completely minding his own business.
His hair, unfortunately, is not.
The sides are starting to misbehave around his ears, the back brushing his collar in a way that feels like a direct provocation. Itâs not long-long. Itâs just⊠enough.
Enough that it never quite sits right.
Enough that it always looks like heâs just run his hands through it.
Enough that you want to be the one doing it.
You slow down. He doesnât look up, still focused on the laces, but you can tell he knows. He always knows. Itâs in the pause, that tiny, resigned stillness that says heâs already accepted his fate.
You step in behind him and slide your hand into his hair at the back of his head.
Yep. Thatâs the stuff.
Your fingers sink into the thicker part at the nape, soft in a way that feels deeply unfair given how little effort he puts into it. His shoulders drop.
His eyes close for half a second. âBabe.â
You donât stop. âWhat?â
He exhales through his nose, already smiling. âNever mind.â
You lean down, press a kiss to the top of his head, leaving your hand exactly where it is, like itâs claimed squatterâs rights. âIâm just saying hello.â
âUh-huh.â
âItâs not my fault,â you add, dragging your fingers lightly through it, âthat youâre currently walking around with the most touchable hair Iâve ever seen.â
He finally looks up at you, eyebrows raised. âCurrently?â
You give him an innocent shrug. âYou know. Because youâre growing it out.â
He rolls his eyes like this conversation hasnât already happened a dozen times. âFor work.â
âI know.â
âFor a role.â
âI know.â
âAnd youâre still acting like this is a personal gift.â
You tilt your head, considering. âIs it not?â
He laughs, quick and helpless, and finishes tying his shoes. When he stands, you stay close, your hand still very much in his hair. He doesnât move away. If anything, he angles slightly, like heâs making sure youâve got a good grip before he reaches for his jacket.
âYouâre obsessed,â he says, like itâs a complaint.
Itâs not. Not really. The way he says it is almost proud.
âYouâre lucky itâs you,â you tell him. âAnyone else wouldâve been tackled by now.â
He turns fully then, steps into you and drops a kiss to your mouth â quick, warm, the kind that doesnât need anything said around it. Your hand tightens in his hair without thinking, and the kiss goes a fraction slower, a fraction deeper. He laughs softly into your mouth, like he expected nothing less.
When you pull back, heâs looking at you with that familiar mix of amusement and something softer underneath it. âWeâre going out,â he reminds you, voice low.
âI know,â you say again. You are absolutely capable of leaving the house without touching his hair.
Probably.
You let him go reluctantly, fingers slipping free like youâve been denied something important. Already missing the feel of it.
He grabs his cap from the sideboard and pulls it on as you head for the door. It tucks most of his hair away. Not all of it. The back still sticks out, stubborn as ever.
You clock it immediately.
He catches you watching and gives you a look. âDonât.â
You smile. âI didnât do anything.â
âYet.â
He takes your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and leads you out. Outside, he locks the door and turns back to you, already resigned. You reach up and fix the sides around his ears, then the bit at the back the cap didnât quite manage.
Quick. Efficient. Necessary.
He just looks at you.
You look back. âWhat? It was sticking out.â
âIt was fine.â
âIt was absolutely not.â
He laughs under his breath and slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in as you start walking to the car. âPeople are gonna think youâre trying to mess with me on purpose.â
You grin, completely unrepentant. âI am messing with you on purpose.â
âThat much is clear.â
On the sofa, it gets worse.
Youâre stretched out together, something playing that neither of you is really watching. Heâs half-reclined against you, head tipped back, and your hand finds the thick waves at the crown of his head almost immediately.
God, itâs so soft. And long enough now that you can actually twist a few strands around your fingers, tug gently just to feel the way it bounces back. He lets out this low, contented hum, like a cat being scratched behind the ears.
âYou didnât even wait,â he says.
You glance down at him, unrepentant. âWhy would I?â
He shifts slightly, making a show of settling in. âIâm just saying. There was no build-up.â
You rake your nails lightly over his scalp, watching the way his lashes flutter. âItâs begging to be played with.â
He laughs, low, and after a minute adds, âIf you mess it up, youâre fixing it.â
You deliberately mess it up more.
âUnbelievable,â he says, but he doesnât move. In fact, he tilts his head a fraction, like heâs trying to pretend heâs not actively encouraging this.
Later, when your hand slows and your attention drifts back to the screen, you realise youâve been doing it for ages. That itâs stopped being about messing with him and started being⊠comforting.
You donât comment on that. You just keep going.
Another night, youâre out to dinner â nothing fancy, but enough that heâs clearly made an effort. Youâre sitting next to each other at a small table, knees brushing under it, his arm hooked loosely over the back of the booth like it belongs there.
His hair has been coaxed into behaving. Not perfectly. Not stiff. But styled enough that itâs obvious heâs tried â the front pushed back, the sides almost neat, the whole thing looking intentional in a way that immediately gets your attention. You notice it while heâs talking, nodding along to whatever heâs saying, and your first thought is genuinely appreciative.
He looks really good.
Your second thought is: donât touch it.
You last about a minute.
You donât interrupt him, donât make a big deal of it. You just lift your hand and smooth the side of his hair back into place, slow and fond, like youâre admiring his handiwork rather than sabotaging it.
He pauses mid-sentence and glances at you, amused. âYou checking my work?â
You smile. âComplimenting it.â
âUh-huh.â
âIt looks good,â you say honestly. âYou did a nice job.â
He hums, pleased, and goes back to what he was saying. You let your hand drop back to your lap, feeling satisfied. See? Normal. Supportive. No crimes committed.
A little while later, youâre listening again â really listening this time â when you lean in closer without thinking much about it. Your fingers slide back into his hair, this time at the nape of his neck, lingering there because you like the feel of it. Because itâs soft. Because itâs him.
Youâre fully aware of what youâre doing.
You just donât stop.
He doesnât call you out. Doesnât tease. Instead, his hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, bringing them to rest on his thigh like a gentle compromise.
You look at him, caught, âSorry,â you say, already smiling. âI know I said I wouldnât.â
âYou didnât say that,â he says easily, thumb brushing against your knuckles.
âI thought it,â you say. âVery briefly.â
He laughs under his breath, squeezing your hand. âIâm not complaining.â
âI just really like it,â you admit, a little sheepish, a little unapologetic. âIt looks so good. And it feels nice.â
âI gathered,â he says, glancing at you. Thereâs no judgement in it. Just warmth.
You make a visible effort after that. Truly. You keep your hands to yourself, sip your drink, nod along, convince yourself youâre behaving like a fully functional adult.
Then he leans in to say something quietly, mouth close to your ear, and the effort it takes not to touch his hair feels completely unreasonable.
Your fingers slip free and curl back into it again, slower this time, deliberate. Affectionate.
He exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh you feel more than hear. âYou tried.â
You laugh quietly, exposed. âI really did.â
He leans in and presses a brief kiss to your temple. âI appreciate the effort.â
You leave your hand where it is, content, and when his arm tightens around you a fraction, pulling you closer, it feels less like indulgence and more like agreement.
The first time you catch yourself doing it without thinking is in the car.
Heâs driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your knee. Youâre humming along to the radio, watching the road slide past, when your hand drifts up and settles into the back of his hair like itâs always lived there.
You donât notice straight away.
What you do notice is him saying, mildly, âYou know Iâm operating heavy machinery, right?â
You blink. Look at your hand. âOh.â
You pull it back an inch. Then pause. âWait. Is this dangerous or just distracting?â
He huffs a laugh. âItâs⊠debatable.â
You grin and very deliberately put your hand back. âIâll take that risk.â
âMenace,â he mutters, but his shoulders loosen anyway, like heâs resigned to it.
You leave your hand there the rest of the drive, smug.
You realise itâs become a thing when your friends start calling you out on it.
Youâre all sitting around a table, drinks half-finished, conversation drifting the way it does when everyoneâs comfortable and nobodyâs in a rush. Austinâs beside you, turned slightly inward, one arm resting along the back of your chair.
Youâre laughing at someoneâs story, when one of your friends squints at you. âDo you know you keep doing that?â
You blink. âDoing what?â
She nods at your hand. âThat. With his hair. Youâve been at it for, like, ten minutes.â
You glance over.
Yep. There it is. Your hand fully tangled in it. No memory of putting it there.
âOh,â you say, a little surprised. âHuh.â You start to pull your hand away.
âNo, donât stop on our account," another friend laughs. Itâs very⊠you.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. âIâm not doing it on purpose.â
Austin glances at you then, amusement flickering across his face. He lets his hand slide to your thigh, thumb pressing lightly, reassuring. âShe does it when sheâs thinking,â he says, casual.
You stare at him. âI do not.â
âYou absolutely do,â he says, gently, smiling wider. âYou do it all the time.â
âTough,â your friend says. âThat's exactly what youâre being.â
Austin leans in close and whispers, so only you can hear, âI really donât mind.â He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. âActually, I kinda like it.â
You glance at him. âYou do?â
âMmhmm.â Heâs biting his lip.
Your hand ends up back in his hair before youâve finished your drink.
Your friends absolutely notice.
You absolutely do not care.
That night, when you get home, the door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet of the house feels charged â the eveningâs teasing touches and glances still buzzing under your skin. You slip off your shoes and notice him watching you with that small, knowing smile as he does the same.
âWhat?â he asks, voice low.
You step closer. âSo you like it? When I play with your hair.â
He laughs quietly, hanging up his jacket. âDid I say that?â
âMmhmm.â You close the distance, backing him toward the stairs, your hand brushing his arm. âSo⊠do you?â
He doesnât answer right away â instead, he reaches for your waist, pulling you flush against him. âMaybe.â His eyes darken a fraction and drop to your mouth.
You hum and finally let your hand slide up, fingers sinking into the thick waves at the nape of his neck. Itâs soft, silky, and the way it slips through your fingers feels deeply satisfying. You twist gently at first â testing. Then, with a deliberate tug, you pull a little harder, tilting his head back ever so slightly.
His breath hitches, eyes fluttering half-shut. âYeah,â he admits, voice rougher now. âI like it.â
âLike this?â you murmur, tugging again â sharper this time â watching the way his jaw tightens, his hands gripping your hips more firmly.
âYeah,â he says again, quieter this time. âExactly like that.â
He leans in and kisses you then â slow at first, testing the waters â but the moment your fingers tighten in his hair again, he makes a low, pleased sound against your mouth and deepens it. His tongue brushes yours, warm and unhurried, while one of his hands slides up your back to hold you closer.
You keep your hand where it is, combing through the waves, tugging lightly whenever the kiss slows and you want more. He responds every time, groaning softly, hips pressing closer until your back finds the wall beside the stairs.
âFuck,â he breathes when you break for air, forehead resting against yours. âDo that again.â
You smile and oblige â fingers twisting a little firmer this time, guiding his head so you can kiss along his jaw, down to the spot just below his ear. His hair brushes your cheek, soft and warm, tickling lightly as he turns into your touch.
He exhales shakily, hands roaming now â under your top, along your sides â before he pulls back just enough to look at you. âBedroom,â he says quietly. âPlease.â
You donât need asking twice. You keep one hand in his hair as you guide him up the stairs, tugging gently every few steps to keep him kissing you, laughing softly when he nearly trips on the top step because heâs too distracted to look where heâs going.
In the bedroom the pace slows again. He backs you toward the bed, kissing you properly now, hands careful as he slips your top off, then his own. When he lowers you onto the mattress and settles over you, his hair falls forward, brushing your collarbone, your chest, trailing over your skin as he kisses lower.
You thread both hands into it, gripping lightly, tugging when his mouth finds a spot that makes you arch. He groans against your skin, hips rocking down in a slow grind that has you both gasping.
The rest is easy, intimate closeness â lazy kisses, wandering hands, soft sounds swallowed between you. Your fingers stay in his hair the whole time, tightening when you need him closer, loosening when you want to feel it slide through your hands, until everything builds to a gentle, shuddering peak that leaves you both breathless.
Afterward, youâre tangled together, his weight a comforting press against you. His hair is a glorious mess â damp at the roots, strands sticking up in odd directions. You smooth it back tenderly, fingers drifting through the waves in slow, absent strokes.
He looks blissed-out, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth curved in that lazy, satisfied smile you love. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it. âStill obsessed?â
You grin, unrepentant. âHopelessly.â
He laughs softly, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest.
And as his breathing evens out, your hand still playing gently in his hair, you think this silly obsession might just be the best thing thatâs happened to you.
Tags: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Body Image Issues, Gossip, Masquerade Ball, Fiyero Is Sweet, Reader Is Shy, Crying, Kissing, Soft Touches, Dry Humping, Multiple Orgasms, Aftercare, Cuddling, Gifts, Explicit Language
Word Count: Around 3000
Written For: @fandom-free-bingo @julybreakbingo @smutceptember2025
Squares/Prompts Filled: Card A: B1 - Foreheads Pressed Together for Fandom Free Bingo: Reunion Edition | Card B: O4 - Noughts And Crosses for Fandom Free Bingo: Virtues and Vices Edition | Card C: Masquerade Ball for Post July Break Bingo 2025 | Day 19 - Dry Humping for Smutceptember 2025
Dividers By: @/saradika-graphics
The Ozdust Masquerade had the entire campus glittering with excitement. Girls darted through the halls in dressing gowns, their arms full of silk and satin, hair half-pinned as they giggled about which boy might ask them to dance. Boys swaggered about with masks in hand, trading boasts about who theyâd charm first. Even the professors whispered about sneaking in to watch from the balcony.
It was chaos, and full of anticipation.
But in the far wing of the university, the library was quiet.
You sat curled in your usual spot near the tall windows, a book propped open, pages spread with notes in your neat, slanted handwriting. It wasnât that you didnât hear the excitement humming through the building. You heard it in every distant burst of laughter, every door slamming as someone rushed by. It just felt safer to tuck yourself away from it all, to pretend you didnât care.
Because caring hurt too much.
You imagined yourself at the Ball and the picture always fell apart. A grand room blazing with chandeliers, music swirling, and you, standing there, unsure where to put your hands, too aware of your body, too certain that eyes would slide over you and move on to brighter, prettier things.
Better things.
You told yourself it was easier this way. That you didnât need it. That books would never laugh behind your back or ask you to move aside.
The creak of the heavy library door startled you. You looked up instinctively, and your breath caught.
Fiyero.
He sauntered in like he owned the place, though in fairness, he seemed to own every room he entered. His jacket hung loosely from one shoulder, his golden mask dangling from two long fingers, catching the faint lamplight. His hair was a little mussed, his smile as easy as breathing. The infamous prince of Winkie Country, Shizâs golden boy.
You ducked your head, heat rushing to your cheeks. Boys like him didnât linger in libraries. Boys like him belonged to the world of glittering chandeliers and girls with perfect smiles.
But his footsteps slowed. Stopped.
âStudying?â His voice was smooth, rich, tinged with amusement. âNow? On the night of the Ball?â
You forced yourself to look up. He was standing only a few feet away, leaning casually against your table, mask twirling lazily in his hand. His grin was playful but not cruel, and his eyes, sharp, strikingly blue, were fixed entirely on you.
Your throat tightened. Somehow, you managed, âI just...prefer the quiet.â
His smile deepened. âFair point. But youâre really not going? Everyoneâs practically buzzing about it.â
You fiddled with your pen, eyes dropping back to the page, though you hadnât absorbed a word in the last five minutes. âItâs not really my sort of thing.â
There was a pause, long enough that you risked a glance up. He wasnât smirking. He wasnât moving on. He was studying you.
Then, to your utter shock, he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down.
Your pen slipped from your fingers. âWhat are you doing?â
âKeeping you company,â he said, resting his chin on one hand, the other tapping the mask against the table. âIâve been to a hundred Balls. But Iâve never met someone whoâd rather spend the evening with a book than under a chandelier.â His eyes flicked to your notes, then back to you. âItâs new. And I like new.â
Your pulse quickened. He couldnât mean that. He couldnât. Not about you.
âYou donât have toâŠI mean, youâll be missed,â you said quickly, words tumbling out. âEveryone will be waiting for you.â
He tilted his head, watching you squirm, then leaned forward slightly. His voice lowered, conspiratorial. âWhat if I donât want to be with everyone? What if I want to be with you?â
Your heart stuttered. You laughed nervously, shaking your head. âYou donât mean that.â
âDonât I?â His tone softened, losing its teasing edge. âYou think Iâm joking, but Iâm not.â He held your gaze, steady and unwavering. âCome with me.â
Your breath caught. âWhat?â
âCome with me. To the Ball. As my date.â
The words slammed into you. You stared, wide-eyed, certain youâd misheard. A prince. The prince. Asking you.
âI...no, I couldnât...â You pushed your chair back slightly, shaking your head, heat burning your cheeks. âFiyero, youâreâŠyouâre you. And IâmâŠâ You gestured vaguely at yourself, unable to say it out loud. Too quiet. Too plain. Too much and not enough, all at once. âPeople would laugh.â
His grin faded. His expression grew serious, gentle, but firm. âLet them. I donât care what they think.â He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between you. His voice was lower now, threaded with something earnest that made your chest ache.
Your pulse raced. He couldnât be serious. He couldnât. And yet his eyes, bright and intent, didnât waver.
âSay yes,â he murmured, almost like a plea. âSay youâll go with me.â
You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the edge of your book, fighting the impossible thought blooming in your chest. That maybe someone like him could really want someone like you.
You finally said yes.
The word had left your lips in a whisper, so fragile you almost couldnât believe youâd spoken it. Fiyeroâs smile had lit up the quiet library, and before you knew it, he was promising to come by later to escort you himself.
Now, alone in your dorm, that single yes felt unbearably heavy.
The hour stretched long, your small room filling with the rustle of fabric as you sifted through the meager contents of your wardrobe. Dresses, plain, simple, none of them shimmering like the gowns youâd seen other girls carrying down the halls. You lie them across your bed, biting your lip until it hurt.
Too dark. Too plain. Too tight across your waist. Too loose at the shoulders.
With each elimination, the lump in your throat grew bigger, the doubt crept in like a tide. What had you been thinking? Fiyero Tigelaar, crowned prince of Winkie, had asked you...you...to go to the Ozdust Masquerade. You could still hear the laughter echoing in your head, laughter that hadnât even happened yet but felt inevitable.
By the time you finally slipped into your nicest dress, a soft fabric that brushed your ankles, fitted at the waist but comfortable, you felt wrung out. You stared at your reflection in the small mirror above your dresser, tugging at the sleeves, smoothing the skirt, tilting your head this way and that.
It didnât matter. All you saw was you. Quiet, too much, not enough, your cheeks blotchy, your body taking up space you wished it didnât.
Tears stung your eyes before you realized theyâd gathered. You sat on the edge of your bed, pressing your palms to your face, trying to breathe past the tight ache in your chest. Maybe you could justâŠnot go. Heâd understand. He had to.
A knock at the door jolted you.
âY/N?â His voice was warm, muffled through the wood. âItâs me.â
Panic flared. You wiped at your eyes frantically, hoping to erase the evidence, but when you opened the door, there he was, Fiyero, mask in hand, jacket fitted perfectly, every inch the storybook prince.
And you, with red-rimmed eyes.
His smile faltered the instant he saw you. âHey.â He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door gently behind him. His gaze swept over your face, your dress, the way your hands twisted nervously together. His voice dropped low, careful. âYouâve been crying.â
You shook your head quickly, forcing a small laugh. âNo, I just...I'm just tired. I think maybe... maybe I shouldnât go after all. Youâll have more fun without me.â
You tried to move past him toward the dresser, but his hand caught yours. He didnât tug, just held you there, grounding you.
âStop.â
The single word was soft, but it rooted you in place. He turned you gently to face him, tilting his head so he could catch your gaze.
âYou donât want to go?â he asked carefully.
Your throat tightened. The truth tumbled out before you could stop it. âI donât want to be⊠laughed at. Not when Iâm standing next to you.â
His expression softened, his eyes searching yours. âY/N.â He said your name like it was something rare. Precious. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek tenderly. âDo you really think Iâd let anyone laugh at you?â
You swallowed hard, blinking against fresh tears.
He leaned closer, his voice low and steady. âI asked you. Not anyone else. Not because I couldnât find a date, not because I wanted a joke. Because when I saw you in that library, quiet and beautiful and completely yourself, it was the only place I wanted to be. With you. You donât need sequins or feathers to shine, you already do.â
Your chest ached, torn between disbelief and the raw sincerity in his tone.
âYou look perfect,â he said simply and held out his hand, âand Iâm not leaving here without you.â
Your hand trembled when you placed it in his, but Fiyeroâs grip was steady, warm, and reassuring. He smiled like youâd just given him the world. âThatâs better,â he murmured, tucking your hand against his arm.
The Ozdust Ballroom glittered just as youâd imagined, chandeliers dripping with golden light, the floor alive with color as students swirled in masks and gowns. Music soared, laughter spilled from every corner, and heads turned almost instantly when the two of you stepped through the grand doors.
You could feel it, the eyes, the whispers, the subtle tilts of heads toward one another as people noticed you.
âIs that-?â
âWith her?â
âWhy would he-?â
Your stomach clenched, the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck. You shifted closer to Fiyero instinctively, ready to ask him to turn around, to escape before the whispers grew louder.
But Fiyero stopped, his arm tightening around yours. He turned his head just enough for his voice to carry, his words crisp and deliberate.
âYes,â he said, loud enough for the nearest cluster to hear. âWith her. She's my date. Got a problem with that?â
Silence rippled through the group, and a few people quickly looked away. Your cheeks burned, but Fiyero only glanced down at you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. âThere,â he said softly. âThat should keep them quiet.â
You tried to laugh, but the ache in your chest didnât quite ease. He must have noticed, because he lowered his head toward yours, his lips brushing close to your ear. âDo you want to stay?â
Your answer came without hesitation, whispered just for him. âNo. Iâd rather spend time with you. JustâŠyou.â
He leaned back, studying you for a moment, and then his grin softened into something warmer, gentler. âThen letâs go.â
He didnât care about the stares as he led you out of the ballroom, didnât look back once. Instead, he walked you across campus, the cool night air chasing away some of the noise still ringing in your ears. By the time you reached your dorm, your nerves had quieted, replaced with a fluttery anticipation.
Inside, the room felt smaller with him in it, but not in a suffocating way. He shed his jacket, draping it over your desk chair, and leaned against your dresser like he belonged there.
âSo,â he said, loosening his cuffs, his eyes fixed on you with open interest. âTell me about you.â
You blinked, startled. âMe?â
âYes, you,â he said with a little laugh. âI already know what they all say. I want to know whatâs real.
The questions came gentle, one after another. What books did you like as a child? Did you always know you wanted to study at Shiz? Did you ever get into trouble as a kid?
You found yourself answering, slowly at first, then more easily as his curiosity proved genuine. He wasnât asking to fill the silence, he wanted to know. He listened, eyes locked on you, sometimes leaning in as though to catch every word.
Then he asked, âWhat was your favorite childhood game?â
You smiled faintly, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. âNoughts and Crosses.â
He tilted his head. âNoughts and...what?â
âYouâve never played?â
He shook his head, grinning at your surprise. âNope. Sounds intriguing. Youâll have to teach me.â
You grabbed a scrap of paper and a pencil, sketching the grid with quick lines. He pulled a chair up beside you, close enough that your arms brushed as you leaned over the paper together.
âOkay,â you said, suddenly self-conscious under his eager gaze. âItâs simple. Two players. One is X, one is O. You take turns putting your mark in a square, and whoever gets three in a row wins.â
âSounds easy enough,â he murmured, eyes flicking from the paper back to your face. âIâll be O. You can be X. Show me how itâs done.â
You drew your first mark, and he followed with his, brow furrowed in mock-serious concentration. The game was quick, your three in a row cutting straight across the middle.
âHa,â you said before you could stop yourself, a burst of pride breaking through your shyness.
Fiyeroâs jaw dropped dramatically. âYou beat me already? I demand a rematch.â
You laughed, covering your mouth, but he grinned back at you, a playful sparkle in his eyes. âBest two out of three?â he challenged.
The pencil scratched lightly across the paper as you drew another grid. Fiyero leaned in as he made his move, his tongue caught between his teeth in boyish concentration.
You let him win the second game, though his triumphant grin made it worth the sacrifice.
âHa!â he declared, pointing to his perfect row of Oâs. âYou see that? Strategy. Pure brilliance.â
You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile. âSure. Beginnerâs luck.â
The third game went much the same, you could have blocked him easily, but instead, you angled your Xâs just shy of victory. His victory whoop filled the small room, warm and bright, and you found yourself laughing softly despite the sting of your own insecurities.
He dropped the pencil on the desk, folding his arms behind his head with mock arrogance. âTwo out of three. Which makes me champion, officially.â
You shook your head, the laughter lingering even as the room grew quiet again. A comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of the breeze through your window. For the first time in a long while, being quiet didnât feel lonely.
Still, the question pressed at your chest, aching to be asked.
âFiyero?â
He turned his head toward you, eyes bright, patient. âYeah?â
You swallowed, fingers twisting in your skirt. âWhy me?â
His brows knit. âWhat do you mean?â
You glanced down, unable to hold his gaze. âI meanâŠwhy give me the time of day? You could have chosen anyone for the Ball. Someone⊠prettier. Someone who isnâtâŠâ Your voice faltered. âCurvy. Shy. Invisible. Most people wouldnât even notice me, let alone ask me to be their date.â
The confession hung heavy in the air. Your chest tightened, bracing for the dismissive laugh, the denial, the pity.
But none came.
Instead, Fiyero pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet. You looked up, startled, as he crossed the small space and sat down on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He lifted his hand and extended it toward you, waiting silently until you let him take it.
Gently, he tugged, guiding you closer until you stood between his knees. His hands slid from your fingers to your hips, resting there firmly, grounding you.
âY/N,â he said softly, tilting his head so his eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. âI see you. Not what you think everyone else sees. Not the walls you hide behind. You. And I think youâre beautiful.â
Your breath caught, your heart pounding so loud you wondered if he could hear it.
He squeezed your hips lightly, pulling you closer until your knees brushed against his. âCurvy? Shy? Those are just words. What I see is someone who lights up when she talks about the things she loves. Someone who doesnât chase after attention because she doesnât need to. Someone who, the moment I walked into that library, made me want to stop and stay.â
His hands slid lower, curling around the tops of your thighs. With an insistent tug, he drew you down onto his lap, your legs bracketing his, your dress pooling around both of you. Your hands braced on his shoulders for balance, your face only inches from his.
He smiled up at you, so sincere it nearly unraveled you. âAnd what I want, right now, is this.â
His hand lifted, brushing a thumb tenderly across your cheek before he leaned up, closing the small space between you.
The kiss was gentle, hesitant at first, a question more than a claim. His lips were soft, warm, lingering like he had no intention of rushing.
When he finally drew back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice was a whisper.
âStill think I donât see you?â
The second kiss was deeper, his lips parting to coax yours open, his tongue brushing against yours in a slow, deliberate sweep that sent shivers racing down your spine. His hands, warm and steady, moved from your cheeks down the slope of your shoulders, over your waist, then lower still, tracing the curve of your body as though heâd been aching to learn every inch of you.
You gasped softly into his mouth when his fingers brushed over your hip. It sent a rush of heat through you, dizzying and intoxicating.
But then the familiar knot of doubt tightened in your chest. You pulled back slightly, breath trembling, your hands pressing against his shoulders as though to create distance.
âFiyeroâŠâ Your voice was small, your throat tight. âAm IâŠam I too heavy? I donât want to hurt you...â You started to shift, to lift yourself off his lap, shame prickling at the edges of the moment.
A low sound rumbled from his chest, not quite a growl, but close, rough, and insistent. His arms locked tighter around you, dragging you firmly back down against him. His mouth found yours again, hotter, hungrier this time, the kind of kiss that left you breathless.
âDonât,â he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now. âDonât you dare move. Youâre not too heavy. Youâre perfect.â
The force of his pull pressed you hard against him, your thighs tightening around his hips for balance. The sudden friction made you gasp, your panties sliding over the tent in his slacks.
Your cheeks flamed instantly. Embarrassed, you tried to pull back again, your lips trembling into a soft, nervous laugh. âI-I didnât mean to-â
But Fiyero didnât let you retreat. One of his hands slid firmly to your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to hold you still. He tilted his head back to meet your gaze, his eyes dark now, heated, his mouth still glistening from your kiss.
âI did,â he said lowly, voice husky. His nose brushed your cheek, his lips ghost over yours as he continued, âYou feel perfect on me. So perfect.â
Your thighs trembled as his other hand moved down, guiding the curve of your body to rock against him. The movement forced the thin fabric of your panties to catch and drag against his cock straining against his slacks. You choke out a sound thatâs half-moan, half-whimper, burying your face against his neck, too shy to look at him.
But he wonât let you hide. His hand came up, tangling gently in your hair, tipping your head back so he could kiss you again. It was demanding, swallowing every tiny sound you made as his hips shifted up in a perfect counter to the slow grind heâs urging from you.
The friction built, your clit catching with every slide, sparks shooting down your thighs. Your breath stuttered, lips parting in a shaky moan you couldnât hold back. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, stroking your curves, coaxing you to move against him harder, faster.
âStars, look at you,â he groaned, biting gently at your bottom lip, his own composure fraying.
Your body rocked helplessly, chasing the friction, panties damp and clinging as you ground against the firm outline of his cock. The pressure of his hand on your hip grew firmer, keeping you steady, making sure you didnât shy away even as your moans spilled louder, shameless, right into his mouth.
He groaned deep in his chest, kissing you desperately, pulling you tighter against him until there was no space left, only heat and movement. Every roll of your hips made your body jolt, makes the coil of pleasure wind tighter, hotter, impossible to ignore.
âFiyero,â you gasped, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your thighs clamped around his hips, your grinding turning frantic.
He licked a filthy stripe from your neck to your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as he growled, âThatâs it, my beautiful girl. Cum. Let go, baby.â
And with a broken, breathless cry, your whole body trembled as the tension snapped, pleasure flooding through you in waves. You trembled helplessly through it, still grinding against him as he held you tight, kissing you through every shudder, every moan, his own hips straining and rutting up against you with need.
Even when you slumped against his chest, breathless and shaking, he didnât let go. His hand rubbed circles over your back, lips brushing your temple as he whispered, âNever doubt me again. Never doubt how badly I want you.â
You can tell heâs holding back, chest heaving, jaw clenched as if heâs afraid of pushing you too far.
But when you shift even the slightest, dragging your panties over him again, a guttural sound rips out of his throat. His grip on your hip tightens almost painfully.
âFuck,â he growls, kissing you hard, bruising. âI need more...â
His hips surge up, rutting into you with a roughness that makes you gasp. The friction sparks hot and immediate, your over-sensitive clit catching just right against the ridge of him. You moan into his mouth, clinging to his shoulders as he drives you both into a rhythm that leaves no room to breathe.
âFiyero!â your voice cracks, high and desperate, âI canât...Iâm gonna...â
âYes, you can,â he cuts in, his voice ragged, almost a plea. His forehead presses to yours, sweat beading at his temple as his hips grind up harder. âGive me another. I want you to cum with me. Please.â
Your body obeys him before your mind catches up, hips jerking, thighs tightening around his waist, your panties dragging in sharp, wet strokes across his cock. The friction is unbearable, dizzying, building again despite the ache already lingering from your first climax.
Every thrust of his hips pulls another whimper out of you, every grind of him against your soaked heat has you breaking apart more and more. His hands are everywhere, one gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back to keep you pressed flush to him, chest to chest, heart to heart.
His breathing turns ragged, uneven. âStars, youâre so wet for me. So fucking perfect. Youâre gonna make me-â His words cut off in a deep groan as he jerks up hard beneath you, cock straining, the front of his slacks damp and hot against your panties.
That sound, that feeling, undoes you. Your body bows, shuddering, as another climax rips through you, harder, sharper, crashing in perfect time with his release. You cry out against his lips, your hips grinding helplessly, milking every last wave of pleasure as he bucks beneath you, spilling hot against the confines of his slacks.
The room fills with the sound of your mingled moans, of panting breaths and the wet drag of fabric. Even when the trembling ebbs, he wonât let you go. His arms wrap around you, crushing you to his chest as his mouth finds your jaw, your temple, your lips again and again, murmuring against your skin between kisses.
âYouâre amazing...so beautiful...perfect for me...â
You're still shaking, your panties clinging damp between your thighs, his slacks wet beneath you. And instead of shame, all you feel is the warmth of him, his arms, his breath, his heartbeat, holding you as if youâre the most precious thing in the world.
Fiyero doesnât loosen his hold on you for a long while. His chest is damp with sweat, his slacks soaked beneath you, but he doesnât seem to care in the slightest. His lips graze your temple, then your hair, his voice low and steady as he whispers,
âYouâre alright, my beautiful girlâŠbreathe with me.â
You do, shaky but soothed by the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling. His hands stroke slowly down your back, grounding you. After a few moments, he shifts, tugging a handkerchief from his pocket to gently dab at your damp cheeks where tears, of release, of vulnerability, still linger. He doesnât tease. He doesnât laugh. He just looks at you with something so earnest it makes your heart ache.
âAre you comfortable?â he asks softly, his thumb brushing over your hip.
You nod, but shyly murmur, âWeâŠwe made a mess.â
His lips curve into the softest smile. âThen let me take care of you.â
He lifts you carefully from his lap, settling you onto your bed. You think he might leave, but instead he shrugs out of his jacket and lays it aside before kneeling in front of you. His hands are gentle as he eases your legs apart just enough to tend to you, blotting at the damp between your thighs with his handkerchief. Every motion is tender, careful, his gaze flicking up to meet yours as if silently asking for permission with each touch.
When heâs done, he sets the cloth aside and presses a lingering kiss to your knee. âPerfect,â he murmurs again, as if itâs a truth carved into stone.
Youâre quiet, overwhelmed, curled into yourself as he climbs onto the bed beside you. He tucks you into his side, arm draped securely around your waist. You think maybe thatâs it, but then he shifts, reaching into the pocket of his slacks.
âHere,â he says softly.
You blink as he holds out something small, glinting in the candlelight. A signet ring, its gold warm and worn from years of touch, set with an emerald carved in a sunburst pattern.
âThisâŠthis belonged to my great-grandfather, passed from prince to prince.â His voice is low, steady, and serious. âI shouldnât part with it, not really. But I want you to have it, for proof.â
âProof?â Your voice trembles.
âThat I meant every word Iâve said tonight,â he replies without hesitation. His fingers slide the ring gently into your palm, closing your hand around it. âProof that youâre not some fleeting whim. That I see you. That I choose you.â
Tears brim your eyes again, but this time theyâre different. Softer. Sweeter. You stare at the heirloom in your hand, then at him, struck silent.
Fiyero leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. âKeep it. Even if the world doubts you, doubts us, when you look at that ring, I want you to remember that I gave it to you because I couldnât imagine giving it to anyone else.â
Fiyero Tag List: @a-quick-request @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @stormster111
drunk call - when youâre in need of a safe way home from the bar, the first person you think of in your drunken haze is bucky, who comes to get you in an instant
hungover realizations - when you wake up with a raging hangover, youâre met with the last two things you wanted to deal with - a splotchy memory and a call log that says youâd spoken to bucky last night. you just hope you didnât say anything stupid. requested
empty bed - you wake up to find bucky sleeping on the couch rather than in bed with you
needy and lingering - three times bucky wanted to kiss you, and the one time he actually did
afraid - when bucky found you curled up on the couch a nervous wreck over the thunderstorm happening outside, he pushes through his rather fake dislike for you to comfort you. requested
| blurbs | >1k
canât help falling in love - bucky realizing heâs in love with you.
head over heels - bucky realizing heâs crushing on you. requested
first kiss - bucky kissing you for the first time. requested
Hiiii :) I honestly have no excuse for my lack of updates other than life is really busy rn. But I really hope you guys aren't too frustrated with me and still want to read some Benny x Bunny content. Here's a little scene I wrote when I was in my feels and missing Benny Cross
Benny x Bunny Masterlist
Summary- He never sleeps. Not really. Not the kind of sleep thatâs safe, deep, unguarded. But when Benny finally lets goâshirtless, sun-drenched, and halfway out of his jeansâitâs beside you, wrapped in the sound of your voice and the scent of your shampoo.
Word Count- 2.8k
**********
The air had gone syrup-thick, slow like molasses, heavy with the weight of another midwestern summer afternoon.
Sunlight poured in through the trailer window in soft golden ribbons, catching on the dust that floated lazily like snowflakes that had forgotten how to fall. Outside, the cicadas sang their shrill chorus, endless and loud, while the fan in the window gave a weary clatter with each turn, doing its best to stir the heat but failing with quiet dignity.
Benny lay sprawled flat on his back across the tangled sheets, shirtless, sun-kissed skin gleaming faintly with sweat that clung to every sharp line of his torso. One arm was slung over his eyes, his fingers curled loosely like he was trying to disappear beneath the weight of the dayâor maybe just into the comfort of the bed itself. His other arm rested by his side, hand limp, calloused fingertips twitching now and then in the sticky heat.
His jeans were halfway undone, the button popped open and the zipper tugged down just enough to hint at the waistband of his boxers. The denim clung low on his hips, creased and faded and worn soft in a way that made your throat tighten. The kind of undone that didnât look accidental, even if it was. The kind of undone that made him look almost obscene in his beauty, in that unbothered, sleep-heavy sprawl.
He smelled like summer and metal and motor oil - something rough and real and deeply him - but there was still a trace of you on his skin. A faint sweetness clinging to his collarbone, the ghost of your strawberry shampoo from when your head had rested there earlier that morning.
He looked like sin left out in the sun. And he didnât even know it.
You were sprawled out beside him, stretched on your stomach like a lazy cat, flipping through a sun-wrinkled magazine with a smudged pink lip print on the cover and water stains along the edges. Swimming in one of his old undershirts â white, too big, slipping off one bare shoulder, your legs kicked absently behind you, ankles crossing and uncrossing in the air like you had nowhere to be and no one else to be.
You read aloud in a singsong voice, every word lilting and golden, warm enough to spin the stale air around them into something soft and sweet.
ââTen Signs Heâs Secretly Thinking About Marriage,ââ you announced, clearly delighted by the headline.
Benny didnât so much as twitch.
âNumber oneâŠâ you continued, twirling a strand of hair around you finger, âhe gazes at you when he thinks youâre not looking.â
You peeked over your shoulder at him with a grin. âYou do that.â
From beneath his arm came a low, stubborn grunt. âNo, I donât.â
You smirked and went right on reading. âNumber twoâŠhe does little chores for you without being asked.â
Another noncommittal grunt from his side.
Smirked, you pointed out, âLike how you always untangle my necklaces. Or how you replaced the lightbulb in the closet after I stubbed my toe and threatened to burn the whole place down.â
Still nothing besides a breathy hum.
âNumber threeâŠâ you went on, legs swaying lazily behind you, toes brushing the edge of the fanâs breeze. ââHe lets you pick the music.ââ You scoffed. âYeah, right. You act like my records might bite you if you get too close.â
That got a reaction.
Barely, but you saw it.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile. The faintest suggestion of dimples beneath stubble. But his eyes stayed closed, his head tilted slightly to the side, arm still thrown over his forehead like he was shielding himself from the worldâor from you
âNumber fourâŠâ you continued, but the words came slower now. You had to swallow to keep going. ââHe tells you about his childhood.ââ
Silence bloomed in the space between you.Â
The page stopped moving beneath your hand, fingers still. You stared at the print but didnât see it. Your lips parted, but the next words didnât come. Because the air had shifted againâgrown thick in a different way. Not with heat, but with memory.
Because Benny didnât talk about his past in the way most people did. He never sat you down and said this happened to me. He never unraveled himself in one clean thread. He gave pieces. Tiny, jagged pieces. Offhand comments dropped like loose change. Things you werenât supposed to catch â but did.
One night, long after midnight, when the only light in the room was the blue glow of the microwave clock, heâd murmured it while staring at the ceiling: âUsed to sleep in the closet when I was little. Figured if they couldnât see me, theyâd forget I was there.â
You didn't know what to say.Â
Another night, after too much beer and not enough food, heâd added, âEven now? Donât think Iâve ever slept more than an hour at a time. Not deep. Not like you.â
And thenâafter you had reached for his hand in the dark and he hadnât pulled awayâhe had said the one that gutted you.
âHad a system. Kept my shoes on, just in case I had to run. Slept with a flashlight under the pillow, knife taped to the mattress springs.â
He hadnât looked at you when he said it. Hadnât blinked. Just kept staring out the window, as if the darkness might look back.
âThatâs probably why I donât sleep much now,â he added with a shrug. âCanât tell if itâs habit or if my body just thinks restâll get me killed.â
You could still hear the way heâd said it. Like it was just a fact. Like it didnât hollow out your chest to imagine a younger version of him flinching at footsteps in the hall. Holding his breath at the sound of keys in the door.
Your throat tightened.
You stared down at the wrinkled page, the words bleeding together into soft-edged nonsense. The cheap perfume sample tucked into the binding had long since faded, but you could still smell the paperâsun-warmed and dusty, like old laundry and summer heat.
Your fingers stayed still.
And for a while, you didnât move. Just breathed. Just listened to the fan clink its tired rhythm in the window and the cicadas shrieking outside like theyâd never known quiet. Your heart ached in your chest, too full of things you couldnât say aloud.
Because youâd never known anyone like him. Someone so hard-edged, so bruised and wary, yet capable of such impossible softness when no one else was looking.
You blinked once before turning your head to glance over your shoulder at him.
And the sight of him undid you all over again.
He was asleep. Really asleep.
That same arm still draped over his eyes, but his hand had gone slack. His jaw had loosened, lips parted just slightly, the faintest breath slipping past them. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, the kind of breathing that only came when a body had let go. Completely. Utterly. Trustingly.
Every inch of bruised skin left bare by the rumpled sheet. Every scar, every freckle, every old burn or faded scrape that hinted at a boy whoâd learned to survive before he ever learned to rest. And yet â here he was. Laid out beside you, utterly unguarded, as if you were a shelter he had finally chosen. As if this bed, this hour, this closeness was something sacred.
It was too much.
Too much tenderness to carry. Too much weight behind the silence.
âSafe ainât a thing I ever learned how to be,â heâd told you, once, voice thick from bourbon and exhaustion. âSo when Iâm next to you, it donât feel right. Feels like Iâm waitinâ for the catch.â
You turned her face away, back toward the forgotten magazine still open in your lap. But the words had blurred beyond recognition. The page rippled beneath her fingers as you blinked hard.
You swiped at your cheek, brushing the tear which had escaped. But it kept coming. Thick, warm tears that slipped free before you could catch them, running soundlessly down your face and soaking into the collar of his undershirt you still wore. There was no sobbing. No trembling. Just a kind of quiet, overwhelming griefâtoo big for your ribs to hold and too soft to scream.
Grief for the child heâd been, sleeping in closets with his shoes on. Grief for the man he became, carved out of silence and hard choices. And most of allâfor this moment. For the trust he offered now, without words, simply by sleeping beside you like he believed he wouldnât need to run.
You bit your lip to keep from making a sound. Tried to breathe through the acheâbut it broke free as a shudder, small and sharp, curling in your chest.
And thatâs when he stirred.
Just a shift at firstâa flicker of motion through his body, a twitch of his shoulder. Then he went still. Completely still. Like some instinct inside him had gone taut in the space of a heartbeat.
You heard it before he spoke: the change in his breathing. The subtle hitch. That flicker of awareness clawing its way back to the surface.
Then, his voiceâlow, rough with sleep, and laced with something that sounded like worry. âBun?â
You sniffled, barely more than a sound, and wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand like it meant nothing. Like the tears werenât real if you caught them fast enough.
âIâm okay,â you whispered. But it wasnât even a lieâit was a hope, said out loud.
Benny blinked, slow and disoriented, still tangled in the haze of sleep. But the moment his eyes landed on you â curled at the edge of the bed, turned away from him, shoulders trembling in that quiet, repressed way that said donât look at me, please donât look at me â something in him fractured.
You looked like someone trying to disappear.
And that undid him.
He didnât speak. Didnât ask permission. Just moved.
Slower than instinct. But with more certainty than heâd ever had.
The air kissed his skin, still damp with sleep as he pushed himself up with one elbow. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of dreams he hadnât meant to fall into. But none of it mattered.
You were crying. And heâd missed it.
So he crawled â quietly, carefully â to the foot of the bed where you lay, curled like a child hiding from a storm. Each shift of his body made the mattress creak, but you didnât flinch. Didnât look at him.
By the time you turned your head fully to look at him, he was thereâbehind you, beside you, with youâone arm sliding beneath your chest, the other draping across your lower back as he lowered himself over you, curling along the curve of your body like he belonged there. He pressed his chest to your spine, his breath warm at your ear. His jeans were still unbuttoned, slung low on his hips, skin hot from sleep and the sun-drenched bed. You felt every inch of him, solid and real and right there.
âSweetheartâŠâ It wasnât even a question, just a gentle plea.
âIâm fine,â you tried again, but it cracked on the way out.
His arm around you tightened. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just in that quiet, desperate way people hold each other when words arenât enough.
âTell me,â he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. âPlease. Just tell me whatâs breaking you.â
You turned her face into the pillow, as if that might protect you from the truth.
âI donât know,â you breathed. But thenâyour voice wavered, and the truth began to rise like floodwater. âYou were sleeping. Really sleeping. And you never do that, Benny. You never let go. And I just kept thinking⊠all those nights you spent afraid to close your eyes. The things you mustâve heard through the walls. The things you didnât tell me. You were just a boy, and no one came for you. And now youâre here. With me. And you looked so peaceful, like something finally let go inside you. And it justââ Your breath shuddered. âI didnât know it would hurt to see you safe.â
âBunnyâŠâ His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching another tear. âI didnât think Iâd make it this far. I didnât think Iâd ever find a place where I could close my eyes and not feel like I was being hunted.â
You turned slightly then, just enough for him to see the glint of your tears in the light.
He kissed you â gently. Once. Just below your eye, where the salt clung to your skin.
âThat wasnât sleep,â he said softly. âThat was surrender. That was you.â
You let out a trembling laugh that hurt to hear. âIâm sorry I woke you.â
âIâm not,â he said, pressing a kiss to your other cheek. âYou cry, I wake up. Thatâs the deal.â
Benny buried his nose in your hair, took a breath, and exhaled like the weight of her grief had somehow lessened his own.
You let out a small breathâshaky, wet, but gentling now that he was there. All around you. His weight draped over your back like a blanket, his arm snug across your waist, holding you close in that silent way he always did, like he didnât trust words half as much as touch.
The tears didnât stop completely. But they quieted. Softened. Fell slower.
Benny didnât speak again right away. Just rested his cheek against the back of your head, his chest rising and falling against your spine like a lullaby. His fingers curled into the hem of the oversized shirt you woreâhis shirtâand for a moment, the silence swelled full and sacred.
Then, after a pause long enough you thought he mightâve fallen asleep again, you heard his voice. Muffled. Sleep-rough. Almost shy.
âHeyâŠâ
You hummed in response, too tired to speak.
âWerenât you in the middle of reading me somethinâ?â he asked.
You blinked, smile tugging slow at your lips. âYou mean the article about how to tell if your boyfriendâs thinking about marriage?â
âYeah.â He shifted slightly, one leg sliding between yours as he pulled you even closer. âThat one.â
You turned your face toward the edge of the mattress, blinking at the sun-wrinkled magazine still splayed open a few inches away, half-tangled in the sheets.
âI thought you said my records bite,â you murmured, teasing gently. âPretty sure that means you donât trust my taste.â
He let out a small gruntâalmost a laughâand nuzzled against your hair like he could burrow deeper into you.
âI trust your voice,â he said, voice going quieter. âDonât care what youâre readinâ. Could be the back of a soup can for all I care.â
You smiled again. A real one this time. Small, but glowing.
âYouâre lucky,â you said, reaching for the magazine with one hand, still tucked under the weight of his body. âBecause this quiz has five more signs, and I know youâre dying to know if you pass.â
âOh, Iâm nervous as hell,â he murmured, voice dripping with fake solemnity, even as his mouth brushed your shoulder. âLay it on me.â
You adjusted the magazine against the sheets, flipping to the right page, and cleared your throat dramatically.
âNumber five,â you read aloud. ââHe talks about the future like youâre already a part of it.ââ
Benny was quiet for a second.
Then he murmured, âI think I told you last week that we should plant tomatoes next spring.â
âYou did,â you said. âYou also said weâd need netting to keep the birds from eating them.â
âThen Iâm five for five,â he said, his voice warm and slow and dripping with satisfaction. âKeep goinâ. I wanna see if I score perfect.â
You flipped the page, snickering under your breath. âNumber six⊠he picks up on your moodsâeven the quiet ones.â
His hand squeezed your side, thumb brushing your ribs.
âNext,â he whispered into your skin.
Your smile spread. God, it hurt to love him this much.
âNumber seven,â you continued, âhe says âweâ more than âI.ââ
Benny shifted, lifting himself just slightly so he could press a kiss to your temple.
âWeâre gonna need new sheets if you keep cryinâ on this set,â he said gently. âWeâre gonna wear this bed out at this rate.â
You let out a small laugh, sniffled once, and kept reading. The tears were drying now. The ache was still thereâbut it had been wrapped in something warmer. Something real.
âKeep going,â he mumbled.
So you did.
Even long after heâd fallen asleep, you kept reading. Just in case his dreams were listening.
Requests Are Open For Benny x Bunny Or If You Just Wanna Chat, I'd Love To Hear From You :)
Benny x Bunny đ°
aka: shy!reader who has Benny Cross positively wrapped around your finger from the very first time you stood before him with a bowl of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
* means it has NSFW content!
Part 1 Little Bunny
Part 2 The Ride
Part 3 A Date
Part 4 Rooftop Conversations
Part 5 Ponytails and Promises
Part 6 Apologies
Part 7 Perfect
Part 8 Soaked
One Shots*
SFW Alphabet
NSFW Alphabet*
Life Raft*
Broken Glass
Sweet Talking*
Bruised Ego
Love, Lids, & Lessons
Baby Fever
T-Shirts
Denim*
Tease*
(I sadly canât add anymore of you wonderful readers to my tag list but you can turn on post notifications for updates about Benny and Bunny!)
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