I love how in almost every adaptation of "The Count of Monte Cristo" the Abbe's last words are something like "Remember, do not let vengance consume you. Promise me you won't seek revenge. Justice is served by God" or smth like this, while in the book, the literal source material, he just goes "Find the treasure on the island of Monte Cristo. Get the money" and then dies.
This book is so unhinged, I can't even. It's pure chaos. Don't let anyone ever convince you that it's sophisticated classic literature. Dumas loved drama, schemes, adventures and dumb ironic humor.
After the war, Severus Snape expects nothing but silence and solitude—until you.
Gentle, unafraid, and quietly unwavering, you don’t try to fix him… you simply stay.
(Inspired by the song Ordinary by Alex warren.)
Ordinary
They say, 'The holy water's watered down
And this town's lost its faith
Our colors will fade eventually
The castle was quieter now. Not in the absence-of-students sort of way, but in the way a place becomes after too much grief has soaked into the stone. Even the portraits had fallen into a gentler hush, as if they too were mourning something long gone.
Severus Snape walked the corridors like a man suspended between realities—alive, yet not truly living. His robes trailed behind him in silence, his gaze fixed just above the heads of anyone who passed. He rarely spoke unless forced to. Rarely ate. He wasn’t so much present as tolerated—by the castle, by the staff, by himself.
They had let him come back, astonishingly. Perhaps because he had survived. Perhaps because no one else knew what to do with him. Perhaps because Albus would’ve wanted it.
In the dim light of the staffroom, he poured himself tea without tasting it. The clink of his spoon was the loudest sound in the room. That was, until you entered.
You didn’t announce yourself. Didn’t even seem to notice the way every space you stepped into subtly shifted. You simply moved quietly, confidently, like someone who didn’t need to fill the silence to be seen.
He didn't speak. He never did. But you smiled at him anyway.
Not out of politeness. Not in pity. Just… a smile. Like the kind someone might give a bird perched on a snowy windowsill. Quiet recognition. A softness untouched by expectation.
He held your gaze for a moment too long—and then returned to his tea.
You sat across the room, a book in your hands and a blanket draped over your knees. You said nothing. Made no effort to engage him.
Yet somehow, Severus felt less alone than he had in months.
The book in your hands was old—he could tell by the fraying spine, the way you thumbed its edge like it was an old friend. Not many people handled books like that anymore. He wondered briefly what you were reading, but the question never made it to his lips.
Instead, he watched you out of the corner of his eye. Observed the ease with which you breathed in the silence, unbothered by it. You didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around in search of company or conversation. You simply… were.
It made something restless in his chest still for the first time in days.
A small group of students passed the doorway, laughter trailing in like the last breeze of summer. He tensed instinctively, but they didn’t notice him. Of course they didn’t. Most of them had stopped seeing him the way people stop noticing the cobwebs in a forgotten corner—there, but untouched.
“Professor Snape,” one younger student murmured respectfully as he passed. No sneer. No fear. Just a name.
He gave a barely perceptible nod in return.
You looked up briefly, your eyes following the boy’s retreating steps before shifting back to your book. Still, you said nothing.
But Severus felt your attention linger like a brush of warmth across cold skin.
It unsettled him.
He stood abruptly and moved to the window, the steam from his teacup rising in thin curls. The sky was heavy with clouds. Somewhere, far away, he thought he heard thunder. Or maybe it was just the wind pressing against the old glass.
Behind him, the chair creaked as you shifted—stretching, maybe, or curling deeper into your seat.
“I didn’t expect to love the quiet this much,” you said softly, voice low, not meant to intrude.
He didn’t respond.
You didn’t expect him to.
There was something strange about it. Your presence. It wasn’t light exactly—you didn’t sparkle or glow or fill a room with false cheer. But you made the silence feel like something you could rest in. Something alive, instead of empty.
And that… bothered him. Because for the first time in a very long while, Severus Snape wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone.
So if our time is runnin' out
Day after day
We'll make the mundane our masterpiece
it started with tea, a week later.
Not conversation, not glances—just tea.
Every morning, the staff room held the same quiet ritual. Steam rising from mismatched cups, the faint rustle of the Daily Prophet, the soft clink of spoons stirring sugar. And every morning, you were there. Not in his space. Not demanding. Just present.
Sometimes you brought a biscuit or a slice of spiced bread, always set neatly beside your own tea without offering. You never asked if he wanted one, never forced politeness. But once, when he arrived earlier than usual, there were two biscuits on your napkin.
He took one.
You didn’t look up from your book.
That was how it began.
Over the next few days, you passed like ships in a fog—soft glances, occasional nods. Nothing direct. Nothing verbal.
But you sat near him now, not across the room. Close enough that he could hear the page turns of your book, the tiny hum in your throat when you were deep in thought. Some days you would knit or write with your legs curled under you, like you had always belonged in that chair.
You never asked him questions.
You never filled the air with noise.
You just sat. With him. Like he wasn’t a monster. Like his silence wasn’t something to be solved.
It wasn’t until one particularly dreary Thursday that he realized how much he had come to expect your presence.
He entered the room, slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and felt something strange tighten in his chest when your chair was empty.
No blanket. No book. No quiet smile.
He stood there, teacup in hand, unsure why the room suddenly felt colder.
He was halfway through steeping his tea when the door creaked open and you slipped in, cheeks flushed from wind, hair damp with mist.
“Morning,” you said softly, already moving to your usual chair.
He didn’t answer.
But when he sat beside you, he placed a second biscuit on your napkin.
You blinked down at it in surprise, then looked at him with something unreadable in your expression—warm, perhaps. Or maybe… grateful.
You said nothing.
Neither did he.
But the silence between you no longer felt empty.
It felt like a masterpiece in the making.
Oh my, my
Oh my, my love
I take one look at you
it was a few weeks later when he saw it.
Severus didn’t mean to look.
It wasn’t an intentional thing—just a glance as he walked past an open classroom door. But what he saw made him pause in the corridor, just beyond the line of sight.
You were kneeling beside a small first-year, your voice low, hands still. Not touching, not pushing—just present. The boy’s lip trembled, wand clutched too tightly in his grip. Whatever had happened, he looked on the verge of tears. But you didn’t crowd him. You waited. Let him breathe.
And then you smiled.
Not the polite smile you offered the staff. Not the knowing one you sometimes gave Severus when your eyes met across the staff room. This was something different—bright and warm and completely unguarded. Like sunlight through a frosted window.
The boy let out a shaky breath and nodded. You whispered something Severus couldn’t hear, and the boy smiled back before scurrying off with a slightly steadier step.
You stood slowly, brushing off your robes, and looked toward the hallway.
He moved before you could see him.
Back into the shadows, away from the vulnerability curling in his chest like smoke.
Later, you joined him in the staff room. Tea. Blanket. Book.
As always.
You didn’t speak, but your presence wrapped around him like a memory he couldn’t quite chase away.
He glanced over without thinking.
Your hair was tucked behind one ear, fingers curled lightly around your teacup. Your lips moved silently as you read—soft, careful enunciations. You had a small ink smudge near your thumb, and the edge of your boot tapped absently against the chair leg.
You were… unremarkable. Ordinary.
And he couldn’t stop looking.
For the first time in so long, he noticed the way his heart felt in his chest. The way it pulled just slightly toward you, like gravity, like instinct. And he hated that it felt fragile. Exposed.
You looked up suddenly, and your eyes met.
You didn’t speak. Just smiled.
That same, quiet smile you’d always given him.
But this time, it felt different. Not like politeness. Not like recognition.
This time, it felt like invitation.
He looked away first.
But not before you saw it—the flicker of something he hadn't let show before.
And for the first time since the war, something bloomed in Severus’s chest that wasn’t sorrow.
You're takin' me out of the ordinary
I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried
Only after a few days he was starting to sit closer.
It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself. The staffroom was small, after all. Your usual seat was by the fire, and there weren’t many chairs near it. It only made sense to sit beside you.
That’s what he told himself the first day.
And the next.
And the day after that.
But he never sat anywhere else now.
You never commented on it. Never shifted away. If you noticed, you gave no sign. Only poured your tea, opened your book, and let him be.
But the distance between you had shrunk, and Severus could feel it.
He felt it in the brush of your sleeves when you reached for the teapot at the same time. In the way your knee nearly touched his when you crossed your legs in the chair. In the faint scent of lavender and parchment that clung to your robes.
It was maddening.
Not because it was loud or invasive. Quite the opposite.
It was quiet. Soft. Like a whisper he couldn't unhear.
In the library one evening, he found you sitting on the floor in a corner alcove—legs tucked under you, parchment spread out around your knees, ink smudged on your finger again. You looked up when you saw him. Smiled.
He said nothing, but paused.
You looked back down, returning to your notes. No invitation, no expectation.
Still, his feet moved before his mind gave permission.
He sat down beside you.
The stone was cold against his legs, the air sharp with winter’s early breath, but your presence warmed the space between you.
You didn’t speak, and neither did he. But when your hand reached out to pass him a spare roll of parchment, your fingers touched.
Just barely.
Barely—but it was enough to send a current down his spine.
He didn’t pull away.
Neither did you.
And when you went back to your scribbling, your shoulder nearly brushed his.
It should have been uncomfortable.
Instead, it felt like a quiet kind of gravity.
He left before you did. Didn’t say goodbye.
But that night, for the first time in years, Severus Snape lay in bed and imagined the sound of someone breathing beside him.
Not in lust. Not in fantasy.
In peace.
On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine
The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found
It was raining.
The kind of steady, rhythmic drizzle that made the castle feel wrapped in cotton—soft, muffled, private. The fireplaces were glowing brighter now. The stone walls had a chill to them that clung to skin and sank into bones.
He found you in the courtyard.
Why you were out there in the cold, he didn’t know. Your cloak was drawn tight, your hair damp with mist, your fingers curled around a steaming mug. You were standing beneath the arched overhang, watching the drops fall into the stone basin at the center of the courtyard garden.
You didn’t flinch when he approached.
Didn’t speak. Just lifted your mug in greeting, then looked back toward the rain.
He stood beside you.
Close.
Closer than usual.
The silence stretched—comfortable, then weighted, then thick. The kind of quiet that rang with everything unsaid.
“You always find the still places,” he murmured before he could stop himself.
You looked at him. Not startled. Not surprised.
Just… seen.
“Maybe I just recognize stillness when I see it,” you said softly, voice warm as the mug in your hands.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
You turned your gaze back to the water, and he allowed himself—just briefly—to look at you. Really look.
You weren’t beautiful in a way that demanded attention. You weren’t gilded or painted or wrapped in honeyed charm.
But there was something in your stillness that undid him.
Something sacred.
Something dangerous.
His fingers curled into his palm.
You turned again—slowly—and met his eyes.
The tension between you was delicate, fragile. Like the surface of a bubble catching sunlight. One wrong move and it would burst.
But you didn’t reach for him. Didn’t ask.
You just stood there.
Near enough for him to feel the heat radiating from your skin. Near enough to kiss you, if he wanted to.
And Merlin help him… he wanted to.
Instead, he stepped back.
Barely. Just enough for the cold to settle between you again.
You didn’t follow.
Didn’t flinch.
Just smiled. Softly. Almost sadly.
And he hated himself for the part of him that wanted you to reach for him anyway.
That night, he dreamt of you again.
Not in a way that left him breathless or shamed.
Just… quiet. Your fingers tangled with his. Your breath on his chest. The silence between you.
He woke with your name on the tip of his tongue and a yearning that felt like it might hollow him out.
Somethin' so out of the ordinary
You got me kissin' the ground of your sanctuary
The castle was asleep.
Even the portraits had gone still, their snores muffled by thick stone and years of dust. Moonlight streamed through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the hallway floors.
He wasn’t sure what woke him.
A sound. A memory. A ghost.
The dreams had returned—fragments of screams, of blood, of choices he couldn’t take back. They clung to him like fog, cold and choking, and when he sat upright in bed, his chest ached with the weight of things unsaid.
He didn’t scream. He never did.
He just… broke, silently.
Like he always had.
You were awake when he found you.
In the tiny corner of the library you often claimed after curfew—wrapped in a blanket, knees drawn to your chest, a half-empty cup of tea forgotten at your side.
You didn’t look surprised to see him.
You didn’t ask why he was there.
Just shifted wordlessly, making room beside you on the bench.
Severus stood frozen for a moment, breath still uneven, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The part of him that wanted to walk away—the old voice, sharp and bitter and defensive—was screaming.
But you didn’t speak.
You just… waited.
Like you always had.
So he sat.
The bench was narrow, and your sides pressed together, shoulder to thigh. You didn’t pull away.
And when his hands began to tremble—just barely—you reached out and laced your fingers with his.
He didn’t stop you.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
You didn’t say it’s okay or you’re safe. You didn’t ask questions or offer pity.
You simply leaned your head against his shoulder and held on.
As if he was worth holding.
As if you’d do it again.
And again.
And again.
His breath hitched once—just once—and then he exhaled. Slowly. Raggedly.
Then, hesitantly, he leaned into you.
Not fully. Not yet.
But enough.
Enough that you could feel the way he clung—not with arms, but with need.
You stayed that way for a long time. Long enough for the nightmare to fade. Long enough for his pulse to settle.
Long enough for him to begin to believe—maybe—that this could be something holy.
That you were something holy.
And he had found sanctuary.
Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust
The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found
The next days that followed were almost like a blur.
He didn’t expect it to feel like this.
The weight of your hand against his—gentle, calm, human—shouldn’t have left such a mark. But now he noticed everything. The shape of your presence. The way you moved, quiet and certain. The warmth of your body when you sat beside him, the scent of vanilla in your hair.
And the worst part—the best part—was that you never tried to force closeness. You never chased. You never asked.
You just waited.
Always near. Always open.
And somehow, that was what broke him.
It happened in the corridor.
A group of students had passed you, laughing too loudly, running to dinner. One brushed too close, bumping your shoulder and nearly knocking the books from your arms.
You stumbled slightly.
Before he even realized what he was doing, his hand was on your waist, steadying you.
You looked up.
And something in his chest cracked wide open.
Because your face was close—too close. And you were looking at him like you knew. Like you had always known. And you didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
His fingers lingered. Your breath hitched.
Then slowly, your hand came up, brushing against the back of his.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t grand.
But it was enough to make his heart slam against his ribs.
Enough to shatter him.
That night, he sat in his quarters with a half-full cup of tea growing cold in his hand.
He stared into the fire, but all he could see was you.
The look in your eyes. The way your fingers had brushed his, like a whisper meant only for him. Like your touch had been stitched together by every quiet moment you’d shared. Every time you hadn’t walked away.
He pressed his hand to his chest, as if he could hold the memory there—where it might be safe.
And maybe—just maybe—if you touched him again, he wouldn’t turn to dust.
He’d turn into something new.
Hopeless hallelujah
On this side of Heaven's gate
He wasn’t sure what drew him to your office that night.
The door was open, as it often was in the late evenings. A soft candle glowed on your desk, casting long shadows over the walls. The fire flickered low, and the room smelled faintly of dried herbs and vanilla.
You were seated in your usual chair, legs tucked beneath you, a book resting on one thigh. You didn’t startle when he stepped in. You didn’t speak.
You simply lifted your eyes… and waited.
That was what undid him.
He stepped inside, slow and unsure, as if each step might break him. He didn’t know what he meant to say—not really. Only that something inside him ached, and it had nowhere else to go.
You closed the book without a sound and patted the armchair across from you.
He sat.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked. A clock ticked somewhere beyond the bookshelf.
Then quietly—like it cost him something—he said:
“I am the reason she is dead.”
The words fell like ash between you.
Still, you said nothing. Didn’t ask who. Didn’t press. You only looked at him—really looked—and waited.
“And when I became a spy I told myself it was for the greater good. That it was war. That I was playing a role.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “But I...After Dumbledore...”
His hands were clenched in his lap, pale and trembling.
“I’ve spent every moment since trying to earn back something I never had the right to claim.”
He didn’t cry. He never did.
But the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with breath, with the unsaid, with the ache of truth finally spoken.
And then—then—you moved.
Not with words. Not with platitudes.
Just quietly rose, stepped around the desk, and sat on the floor in front of him. You reached for his hands. Took them gently, as if you were holding something sacred.
He didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
“It's not about what you chose,” you whispered. “It's about what you carried. And how you kept walking despite believing you are not worthy of it. That's what I care about. Why I care so deeply about you.”
His breath caught.
You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t lean forward.
You just held his hands and let him breathe.
And in that quiet, something in him settled.
Not forgiven.
Not erased.
But… held.
Later, you would fall asleep in the armchair beside him, knees drawn up, your head tipped against the cushion.
He watched you in the firelight, and for the first time in years, Severus Snape looked at someone and thought:
Maybe I won’t be alone forever.
Oh, my life, how do ya
Breathe and take my breath away?
You were laughing.
Not loud, not wild—just the quiet, breathless kind that slipped past your lips like wind through trees. It happened while you were walking with a group of third-years through the courtyard, one of them animatedly retelling a story that was clearly exaggerated, complete with wild hand gestures and dramatic sighs.
And you were laughing.
Severus hadn’t meant to watch. He’d only been walking past the upper hallway window, heading toward his classroom, tea cooling in his hand. But he stopped.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to see.
Your head was tilted back slightly, eyes warm, lips parted. Your hand was pressed gently over your chest, like you were trying to contain the feeling and couldn’t. The students around you smiled too—at you, not just with you.
And Severus Snape, who had spent years trying to quiet his own heartbeat, suddenly forgot how to breathe.
Later, in the staff room, he sat beside you as always. You didn’t speak much. He liked it that way. But this time, you noticed his eyes lingering.
He didn’t look away fast enough.
“What?” you asked, quiet and amused, setting your book aside.
His mouth opened—and then closed again. He shook his head.
You tilted yours slightly, a soft smile curving at the corner of your mouth.
“You look like someone who’s about to say something,” you teased gently.
“I don’t… often watch people,” he said, more honest than he meant to be. “But you—” He paused, throat tight. “You make it difficult not to.”
You blinked once.
Then twice.
And instead of laughing or brushing it off, you reached out and nudged the edge of his tea mug with your finger—lightly, almost absently.
“I like being watched by you. You have so much warmth in your eyes” you murmured, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it. “It makes me feel safe.”
And just like that—without moving, without touching, without anything but that one, quiet truth—
Severus forgot how to breathe again.
You returned to your book as if nothing had been said. But your foot bumped gently against his under the table, and when he didn’t pull away, you left it there.
And for the rest of the afternoon, the silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat.
At your altar, I will pray
You're the sculptor, I'm the clay
It was nearly midnight.
The halls were empty, the world wrapped in stillness. Severus stood outside your office door, unmoving, hand poised to knock—and yet he didn’t.
The door was slightly ajar. The soft glow of candlelight spilled into the hallway like a silent invitation.
He didn’t knock.
He stepped inside.
You were curled on the couch, a blanket around your shoulders, bare feet tucked beneath you. A book lay closed on the cushion beside you, your gaze already lifted toward him.
You didn’t look startled.
Only expectant.
Only calm.
He closed the door behind him. The latch clicked, loud in the quiet.
You sat up slightly, your blanket slipping down to your elbows.
He didn’t know where to start.
So you waited. Of course you did.
“You’ve…” He paused, jaw clenching. “You’ve changed something in me.”
A soft hum in your throat. You didn’t interrupt.
He took a breath.
“I’ve spent most of my life… folding myself into corners. Into shadows. And even after the war, when the world stopped needing me to vanish—I still did. Until you.”
Your brows furrowed faintly.
“You don’t ask me to be anything,” he continued, voice low, rough. “You don’t expect… apologies. Confessions. Explanations.”
Your lips parted, but you still didn’t speak.
“You see me,” he said. “And for some reason… that doesn’t terrify me anymore.”
You moved then—slowly, carefully—as if not to startle him. Your hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve. A touch that asked permission, not possession.
He didn’t flinch.
“I see you,” you said softly, “because I want to. And I stay because you let me.”
His heart was pounding—too loud in his chest, in his ears, in the spaces between you.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to do anything,” you replied, your thumb now brushing the inside of his wrist. “You just have to be.”
Silence.
A breath.
Then his hand lifted—tentative, trembling—and he cupped your cheek.
You leaned into it. Without hesitation. Without fear.
And when he bent his head toward you, when his lips met yours for the first time, it was not a claiming.
It was a prayer.
Soft. Trembling. Sacred.
The kind that didn’t ask for answers.
Only peace.
Only presence.
Only you.
And when you pulled apart, your forehead resting against his, he whispered:
“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted to worship.”
Oh my, my
You're takin' me out of the ordinary
I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried
The world didn’t shift.
There were no fireworks. No triumphant orchestral swell.
But when you opened your doorOnly two days later and found him standing there—wet from rain, hair clinging to his cheeks, eyes dark with something deeper than longing—you didn’t need anything else.
You stepped aside. Let him in. Closed the door behind you.
He didn’t speak.
He just looked at you. Like he was memorizing your face all over again.
Like this moment was the one he’d return to if everything else fell apart.
And then he moved—slowly, reverently—and kissed you again.
Not soft, not this time.
This kiss held weight. Want. Worship.
It was a promise sealed with breath.
You held onto him like you’d always meant to—fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, grounding him.
He touched you like you were something he wasn’t sure he deserved but refused to let go of now that he had you. His hands found your waist, your back, the curve of your neck. Everything sacred. Everything yours.
And when you moved to the bedroom—fingers trembling, hearts racing—there was no rush.
Just time.
Time to feel.
Time to stay.
Time to let himself be loved without fear of it slipping through his fingers.
Later, the rain still whispered against the windows, but inside… there was only quiet.
You lay beside him, one hand against his chest, your breath steady.
And Severus stared at the ceiling like he’d never seen it before.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispered, the words foreign on his tongue.
You shifted, kissed his jaw gently.
“It’s real,” you murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
He turned then—propped on one elbow, eyes locked to yours.
“If this is what forever feels like,” he said, voice low and hoarse, “I want it. All of it. With you.”
No hesitation.
No fear.
Only you.
Only always.
On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine
The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found
Severus had never known quiet like this.
Not the kind filled with solitude, or grief, or shadow—but a silence that wrapped itself around his bones like warmth. Like safety. Like belonging.
You lay across his chest, one hand drawing lazy patterns over his ribs, breath steady. The fire across the room crackled softly, casting gold over your skin. And he… watched.
He couldn’t help it.
There was something in the way you existed when you thought he wasn’t watching. The way your lips parted slightly when you were sleepy. The way you hummed when you were content. The way your fingers always sought out skin—even in sleep.
You were a thousand quiet moments that stitched themselves into his soul.
And he was utterly drunk on you.
You didn’t speak much that day.
You didn’t need to.
You moved through the castle together in perfect rhythm—his coat brushing yours as you walked, hands grazing but not always holding, glances shared like secrets.
You made tea. He reached around you to grab mugs. Your bodies touched in the smallest ways—in the kitchen, on the couch, beside the window—and every time it happened, it lit something in him that made it hard to breathe.
That night, you read by the fire. He sat beside you, his hand resting on your knee, fingers idle.
You looked up at him, catching him mid-thought.
“What?” you whispered, voice dipped in candlelight.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned forward—resting his forehead against yours.
“You’ve undone me,” he murmured.
You smiled gently. “Good.”
And then—so softly he almost missed it—you added:
“I want you like this. Always. Messy. Unfiltered. Yours.”
His breath caught.
And then he kissed you again. Slow. Deep.
Like a man starved for something only you could give.
And when he pulled back, eyes still closed, he whispered:
“Thank you.”
Somethin' so out (out) of the ordinary (ordinary)
You got me kissin' the ground (ground) of your sanctuary (sanctuary)
It was a letter that came nearly a year later.
Severus had returned from a late afternoon class, shoulders tight with tension, robes damp from the rain that had rolled in out of nowhere. The castle was dim, lit only by wall sconces and the dusky blue-grey of early evening.
He didn’t expect to find you waiting in his quarters.
You were seated on the edge of the armchair, hands folded, face calm—but there was something about your stillness that made him pause in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice lower than usual.
You looked up at him—steady, quiet.
“There’s been an inquiry,” you said softly. “About you.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. He stiffened. Cold.
“Who—?”
“I don’t know. An outside board. Political. It sounds like someone wants to dig up the past again.” Your voice was careful. Gentle. “But I took care of it.”
He blinked.
“What do you mean, you took care of it?”
You stood, walking slowly toward him. Not defensive. Not triumphant. Just… open.
“I gave a written statement,” you said. “Told them what you’ve done since the war. What you’ve been to this school. To the students. To me.”
He stared at you.
“You gave them your name?” he asked, breath caught between fury and fear.
“I gave them my truth, Severus,” you said, gently but firmly. “I told them you saved more than lives during the war. You’ve saved hearts after it.”
You reached for his hand. Took it. Pressed it between both of yours.
“I didn’t do it to protect you,” you said. “You don’t need protecting.”
His throat was tight. His pulse unsteady.
“I did it because I love you. And I’ll tell the whole bloody world if that’s what it takes.”
He didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
He just looked at you—at the softness of you, the strength, the choice you made so willingly.
And then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.
Not in shame.
Not in weakness.
But in reverence.
You gasped softly, reaching for him—but he just wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his head against your stomach. Holding on.
And for the first time, he let it show. All of it. The fear. The awe. The love.
Your arms wrapped around him.
Held him like he was something worth holding.
And in that moment, Severus Snape loved you not in silence. Not in shadow.
But in full, aching surrender.
His sanctuary.
His everything.
Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust
The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found
The fire was low.
Not crackling—just glowing. Like a heart still beating after a long, aching day.
You reached for him first this time.
Your fingers brushing the side of his neck, tracing the line of his jaw, resting over the pulse that fluttered just beneath his skin.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Because when he looked at you now, it wasn’t with hunger or hesitation.
It was with reverence.
And when he kissed you, it was slow. So slow.
Not because he was unsure—but because he wanted to remember everything. The taste of your breath. The tremble of your fingers. The way you exhaled like he was something holy.
You undressed him gently.
Not like you were removing armor.
Like you were freeing him.
And he let you.
Let you trace the scars. The old ones. The new ones. The ones no one else had ever dared to touch.
And when you kissed the curve of his shoulder, the hollow beneath his collarbone, the place just over his heart—
He broke.
No sound. No cry.
Just the slow, shattering realization that he had never, in all his years, been touched like this.
Like he was cherished.
Your bodies moved together in silence. No demands. No desperation.
Only a rhythm that felt like breath.
Like life.
Like home.
You held his face as he trembled above you. Whispered his name like a prayer.
And when he buried his face into your neck, gasping, lost, found—you wrapped your arms around him like a vow.
“I love you,” you whispered.
No question. No hesitation.
And for once… he believed it.
For once… he let it in.
Afterward, you lay tangled in sheets and each other, skin to skin, soul to soul.
He was quiet. But not the haunted quiet.
The kind that comes after a storm when the world is washed clean.
Your fingers ran through his hair, slow and steady.
And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper:
“Whatever is left of me… it’s yours. I love you”
Somethin' so heavenly, higher than ecstasy
Whenever you're next to me, oh my, my
Sunlight filtered through the window, warm and golden and impossibly kind.
It bathed the room in soft light, catching on the folds of the blanket pulled halfway down your back, the way your hair spilled across the pillow, the curve of your shoulder beneath his arm.
Severus had never lingered like this before.
This was something else entirely.
He was still here.
And so were you.
You stirred slowly, as though waking up in a dream, and blinked up at him with sleepy eyes and the faintest smile.
“Good morning,” you said, your voice rough with sleep.
He could have sworn his heart ached at the sound.
“Is it?” he murmured.
You stretched, your foot brushing against his beneath the covers.
“It is now.”
You didn’t leave bed for hours.
You stole the blanket. He grumbled and stole it back. You laughed—really laughed—and he couldn't stop staring. Your laughter wasn’t loud or wild. It was soft, breathy, like honey and fresh air.
“You’re staring again,” you teased, cheeks pink, hair a perfect storm.
“I’m allowed,” he said. “You’re mine.”
You blinked at that—slow, stunned—and then reached for his hand under the sheets, lacing your fingers.
“I’ve been yours since the first time you screamed at me with silence.”
He huffed. “Romantic.”
“The most.”
Later, when you finally dragged yourselves into the kitchen, you made food while he leaned against the doorframe watching you. Hair messy. His shirt on still half-buttoned. Eyes filled with warmth.
You looked like forever.
And when you turned to ask him what tea he wanted, he caught your wrist and pulled you into him.
Kissed your forehead.
Then your cheek.
Then your mouth—slow and warm and impossibly whole.
You smiled against his lips.
“Hi.”
He breathed out a laugh. “Hi.”
And for the first time in a very long time, Severus Snape wasn’t waiting for the moment to end.
Because this—this—was heaven.
World was in black and white until I saw your light
I thought you had to die to find
He watched you from the window.
You were sitting in the courtyard, surrounded by late-blooming flowers and golden leaves. A stack of parchment was balanced on your knees, quill tapping absently at your chin. The sun caught in your hair, weaving through it like firelight.
And for the first time in his life, Severus Snape thought the world looked alive.
Not sharp. Not grey. Not something to survive.
Just… beautiful.
He remembered a time when everything had felt faded. Like the world had lost its magic and the silence in his chest was just the cost of breathing.
He had lived like that for years—ghost-walking through corridors, sipping bitter tea, speaking only when spoken to. Not quite dead, not quite living. A relic of a war no one wanted to talk about.
And then you came.
With your soft voice. Your presence. Your infuriating patience.
You never asked him to smile. Never asked him to speak. You just stayed.
And that was how you saved him.
Not with spells.
Not with speeches.
Just by being there.
He found you later in the staff room. Your chair by the fire, legs curled up, a blanket around your shoulders. A mug of tea sat untouched on the table beside you, steam long since faded.
You looked up when he entered.
Smiled.
And something inside him just… broke open.
He crossed the room slowly. Sat beside you. Took your hand in his without a word.
“You alright?” you asked softly, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.
He nodded once.
And then whispered, “The world used to be...cold.”
You looked at him, head tilted gently. Waiting.
“And then you came,” he said. “And everything… changed.”
You didn’t say anything.
Just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Slow. Lingering.
He closed his eyes.
And in that moment, he knew—
He hadn’t had to die to find peace.
He just had to find you.
Somethin' so out of the ordinary
I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried
On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine
The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found
It was late.
The stars hung low in the sky, like someone had pulled them closer just for the two of you.
You were sitting on the Astronomy Tower—blankets beneath you, shoulders pressed close, a flask of tea passed back and forth. The castle below was quiet, breathing in the night like a lullaby.
You were tracing constellations in the sky, naming them lazily.
He wasn't really listening.
He was looking at you.
And thinking about how you’d made a home out of him.
“Do you believe in fate?” he asked suddenly, voice barely more than breath.
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But I believe more in… choices.”
He nodded.
Then, slowly, reached into his pocket.
You didn’t notice at first—not until he gently took your hand and pressed something small and warm into your palm.
A ring.
Simple. Silver. Understated.
Just like him.
You looked down at it, then up at him—eyes wide, breath caught.
“No kneeling,” he said, quiet. “No speeches. Just this.”
He turned your hand over and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“I want to grow old with you,” he whispered. “I want to share silences and storms and whatever else this life has left to give. I want you… until we’re dead and buried.”
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t need to.
You just leaned forward and kissed him.
Not urgently.
Not dramatically.
Just like someone saying yes with their whole heart.
And when you finally pulled apart, you slid the ring onto your own finger and whispered:
“Forever’s always been yours.”
He let out a breath like a man exhaling every weight he’d ever carried.
And the stars above you pulsed just a little brighter.
As if they were cheering.
Somethin' so out (out) of the ordinary (ordinary)
You got me kissin' the ground (ground) of your sanctuary (sanctuary)
The music was soft.
Vinyl cracked gently in the background, old jazz filling the cottage with warmth. The fire was low, casting amber flickers across the walls. Outside, snow kissed the garden, blanketing it in silence.
And inside, Severus held you in his arms.
You weren’t dancing the way you used to—no grand spins, no rhythm. Just slow steps. Rocking gently in the center of the living room. Your cheek resting against his chest, his hand warm against your back.
You sighed. Not tired. Just content.
He kissed your temple.
“You’re still my favorite silence,” he murmured.
You smiled against his chest.
“And you’re still my safest place.”
Your home was small, tucked into the woods beyond Hogsmeade. A little crooked. A little drafty.
But it was yours.
Photos lined the mantle—of you, of old students who still wrote letters, of gardens that had bloomed and quiet winters you’d weathered.
Severus never thought he’d see this version of his life.
He thought he’d burn out. Be forgotten. Fade like a ghost in some forgotten hall.
But here he was.
Older. Softer. Held.
And still—always—yours.
You looked up at him as the song slowed.
Lines around your eyes, silver in your hair, your ring catching the firelight.
And he thought—I have never loved anything this way. Not even once. Not even close.
“You’re staring again,” you whispered.
He smiled—really smiled.
“Of course I am. You're mine.”
You leaned up, kissed his jaw.
And you kept dancing.
Not toward an ending.
But into everything you'd built.
Everything you'd become.
Two ordinary souls.
With an extraordinary love.
Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust
The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found
warnings: Suggestive 18+ MDNI & Fluff | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Brief mentions of PTSD | Brief talk of HYDRA | Heavy petting | Love biting/hickeys
a/n: This came to me randomly but thought it was cute and somewhat spicy. I added some fluff to balance it all out and tried to keep the sexy scenes sweet too. I see so many fics of him being super aggressive in bed and those are great, but for me I think he'd be a little more like this. Takes place after the events of CA:TWS. Contains roughly translated Russian, native speakers can correct me if anything was translated wrong. Ty. ;; wc: 5.5k
It was so awkward.
Everyone sat frozen in place, their eyes locked on the imposing figure of the Winter Soldier as he towered behind you, his piercing blue eyes methodically scanning the room and studying each occupant with an intensity that made them shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"Absolutely not!" Tony was the first to break the suffocating silence, his voice sharp and decisive as he beat Steve to speaking by a mere second. There was absolutely no way he would even consider allowing the fist of HYDRA to take up residence in his tower, treating him like he was nothing more than some lost stray that needed sheltering. "He's not staying here, no way in hell - this isn't a halfway house for reformed assassins."
"Tony, come on. HYDRA is gone, their control over him is broken," you reasoned desperately, your voice taking on a pleading tone as you gestured toward the silent figure behind you, "He's been surviving on his own for weeks, barely getting by. Just look at him...he's exhausted, malnourished, and clearly needs somewhere safe to stay and recover."
"Uh, how about no?" Tony fired back, staring at you like you had grown a second head...or like you had a towering sleeper soldier looming behind you.
Tony wasn't your favorite person in the world, but he was usually somewhat reasonable.
"There's absolutely no way that he's staying here. Have you completely lost your mind? What if he suddenly snaps or loses control and goes completely berserk, hm? What if one night those sleeper triggers buried in his brain suddenly activate and he systematically takes us out one by one in our sleep?" Tony added emphatically, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he attempted to visualize the gruesome scenarios playing out in his mind.
"Your state-of-the-art security cameras can't give us a heads up before that happens?" You asked with dry sarcasm, your tone deliberately flat and unimpressed, clearly making a joke while you tried to find some kind of middle ground that would get the agitated, self-proclaimed playboy to calm down and think rationally.
"No chance in hell, sweet cheeks," he folded his arms and glared at you with sternness that etched across his features. "Too dangerous."
"He's staying, whether you like it or not," you replied in the same unwavering tone, standing your ground with resolute conviction. "He's hurt, weak, completely vulnerable. There's absolutely nothing he could possibly do in this state. He needs somewhere warm and safe to stay, especially since he's been struggling to survive out on the streets for weeks now. Besides, winter is coming fast and there’s no way he won’t get hypothermia or something." You added with concern, knowing full well that while the soldier hadn't been entirely helpless during his ordeal, he certainly hadn't managed to secure any kind of stable shelter.
His temporary refuges consisted only of cold spaces beneath bridges, dark corners tucked away in forgotten alleys, or the remains of abandoned buildings - not a single place where he could truly let his guard down or feel protected from the harsh elements. With winter's rapid approach and already light dustings of snow, the temperatures would only get more brutal as the nights went on.
You continued to argue with Tony, Steve butting in every so often, luckily siding with you, desperate to have his old friend somewhere safe. It was a long, frustrating argument that lasted much longer than need be.
Earlier that day, while you had been making your way down the frost-covered street of New York's downtown district, his eyes had caught sight of your familiar form. Something deep within him told him to follow you, a magnetic pull that he couldn't explain. He obeyed the instinct, trailing silently behind you all the way back to the tower. When you finally became aware of his presence, he was thoroughly drenched from the steadily falling snow, his cheeks and nose having turned a bright, rosy color from the biting cold as he tried to suppress his constant shivering.
The moment you made your sudden turn to approach him, he visibly startled, immediately taking a defensive step backward as his mind raced through all the possible scenarios and potential threats. His eyes darted across your face with obvious wariness as you fully turned to face him, his entire body subtly shifting its weight from foot to foot, muscles tensed and ready to bolt away.
"It's okay...you look cold..." You spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper, trying not to startle him as you took in his disheveled appearance. The soldier, the one whose face had practically been plastered across every news channel, the same one Steve had spoken about with such raw emotion in his voice.
You remembered how Steve had mourned his best friend, utterly confused and devastated about why he had saved from the river, while Bucky fell to what should have been his death. Steve held onto that grief, that guilt, like a lifeline. He held onto it so desperately, clinging to the faintest hope that a sliver of Bucky was still somewhere deep inside the persona of the Winter Soldier.
Looking at him now, you couldn't see any trace of the man from Steve's stories - the soldier's eyes were too wild and wide, filled with fear and confusion.
But despite everything you'd heard, despite the destruction you'd witnessed on the news, despite the intense warnings from everyone in the tower, there was something about his presence that didn't trigger your fight or flight response.
He didn't make you feel unsafe.
He looked absolutely beat down, exhausted to his very core, his shoulders slumped in a way that made you wonder when he'd last had a moment's rest. You weren't even sure he could take you down if he tried in this state, though you knew his reputation suggested otherwise. He was shaking from the cold air as it blew in a stinging breeze, his metal arm gleaming dully in what little light remained, while the incoming winter storm brought with it a thick haze and countless tiny pinpricks of needle-like snowflakes that seemed to cut through the air.
"Come inside with me, I'll take care of you." You offered quietly, your voice gentle and reassuring as you extended your hand towards him. Your body language remained open and non-threatening, shoulders relaxed and posture deliberately casual to help put him at ease and to show him you felt no fear.
After a few silent moments where his piercing blue eyes studied you through the thick haze, he finally shifted his weight forward and took a step in your direction.
The water in the shower had set a steady steam in the bathroom, the mirror had fogged and the tiles sweat below your bare feet.
You could hear the gentle splashing of water against the bathtub as he cleaned himself. The mechanical whirring of his metal arm caught your attention, hopefully that thing was waterproof, but it must be, right?
After setting out a fresh towel and clean clothes for his use, you quietly excused yourself to provide him with privacy. The state of his current attire was awful, every piece was thoroughly saturated and carried an unmistakable stench that made you wrinkle your nose. The clothes were in such poor condition that you couldn't help but wonder if they had been scavenged from someone who no longer needed them.
You wouldn’t put it past the soldier to steal from a cadaver.
His shower routine was notably brief, years of conditioning taught him to minimize the time spent on his personal care. Upon finishing, he emerged from behind the curtain and efficiently dried himself with the provided towel. His gaze fell upon the fresh clothes you had thoughtfully placed by the sink, while his previous garments had been discreetly removed.
The soldier hesitated momentarily before donning the clean outfit. It wasn’t anything fancy, a pair of grey sweatpants emblazoned with the Avenger's logo along the side and a simple yet comfortable black tank top. When he finally emerged from the bathroom to face you, his body language betrayed his uncertainty as he stood there, not sure what to do now. Comfort was completely foreign to him, and care was a dream away.
"Tony finally gave in," you replied softly, your voice sounded in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. "He said you could stay here with us."
He remained motionless, his expression blank and unreadable as he stood there, offering neither response nor the slightest hint of acknowledgement to your words. You weren’t sure what to expect but that seemed pretty in character for him at the moment.
"You'll be staying in my quarters since no one else is comfortable having you in their space just yet...but don't worry too much about that," you reassured gently, though you could tell from his demeanor that others' opinions held little weight in his mind. "They'll come around after some time, I'm sure of it."
His gaze fixed upon you then, his brow creasing ever so slightly with an unspoken question as he began to move. Each step was deliberate and measured as he crossed the room, closing the distance between you until he stood directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets from his freshly washed hair beading at the ends and falling onto the fabric of your top, leaving dark spots where they landed.
"Everything's going to be fine," you said with gentle reassurance, trying to ease the tension in the air. "Why don't we head to the kitchen and get you something to eat? You must be hungry." You offered, hoping to bring some normalcy to the situation.
The soldier shadowed your every movement, following closely behind like a faithful companion who refused to stray from their master's side.
Upon entering the expansive kitchen, you immediately made your way to the industrial-sized refrigerator, searching through its contents for something suitable to offer him. The kitchen was perpetually stocked to the brim with an array of foods, snacks, and ingredients, practically anything one could imagine or desire. It was like having a private, fully-stocked grocery store.
Though with a the ravenous super soldier with enhanced metabolism, the mighty Asgardian god whose appetite matched his status, and Banner's surprisingly hulk-ish consumption…the team still depleted their food with an efficiency that would put a pack of famished wolves to shame.
"Hm...what should you have...do you want anything specific?" You turned over your shoulder to address him, but he maintained his characteristic silence. Unmoving, and completely stoic, like a statue carved from marble.
"Нет [No]," came his quiet response, the Russian word rolling off his tongue deeply. He remained perfectly still, observing with careful attention as you continued your search through the refrigerator's contents, trying to determine what would be most appropriate for him to eat. Your mind was working quickly, knowing you wanted to avoid anything too time-consuming to prepare. You wanted to get some food into him sooner rather than later.
"How about...I could make some soup real quick? Tomato and grilled cheese might be a safe option for you. Shouldn't upset your stomach too much if you haven’t been eating a lot, and it will warm you up if you're still feeling cold." You turned back toward him once more, studying his features carefully for any hint of reaction or preference to your suggestion, any subtle change in his expression.
But, he didn't provide even the slightest indication of his feelings.
You decided on tomato soup and a grilled cheese anyway, you figured it was best and immediately set to work in the kitchen.
Although you typically prided yourself on preparing meals completely from scratch, this particular circumstance called for something different. You assembled the sandwich, buttering the bread before placing it in a heated pan to get a golden-brown crust while keeping a watchful eye on the pot of soup simmering beside it, occasionally stirring for even heating.
Once everything reached the perfect temperature and consistency, you transferred the meal onto clean dishes, relieved it didn’t take too long. You presented him with the steaming bowl of soup and perfectly grilled sandwich, watching as the soldier deliberately took his place at the counter, his eyes fixed intently on the rising steam from the bowl before him.
You watched him, noting how his entire body remained unnaturally rigid and motionless, as though every muscle was locked in place and braced for something. His lips bore a slight sheen of moisture, like he had licked them at some point when you weren't watching. Yet despite his obvious hunger, he hadn't made even the slightest attempt to reach for the food. His eyes held intense longing and hesitation, briefly meeting yours before quickly darting away, as if making eye contact was somehow forbidden.
"What's wrong?" You asked with growing concern etched across your features, "You're hungry aren't you? I can tell you haven't eaten in a while. Especially not anything warm, at least. I know it can be hard out there, all by yourself…"
His response came in the form of an almost imperceptible nod, his gaze remaining firmly fixed on the bowl and sandwich before him, as though they were the most important and most dangerous objects in the room.
"So why aren't you eating? The food's getting cold, it won’t be as good if it cools too much."
"Я не могу совершить действие без приказа. [I cannot perform an action without an order]," the soldier responded in barely more than a whisper, his voice carrying the weight of years of conditioning.
You stood there, completely lost in the language barrier between you. Your limited knowledge of Russian extended only to the most basic words - 'да' and 'нет' - leaving you clueless by his response and worried about the implications of his behavior.
You didn't want to wake Natasha, even though she would certainly understand what he was saying in Russian, but disturbing her sleep for something as simple as a quick translation seemed unnecessary and might put her in a bad mood. Instead, an idea popped into your head that would avoid an angry widow. You reached for your phone and placed it on the smooth counter surface, navigating to a translator app before looking up at him again. "Can you repeat that?"
The soldier's eyes flickered briefly to the phone screen, taking in the sight of the translation app with what seemed like recognition, before his gaze deliberately returned to the untouched food laid out before him. "I cannot perform an action without an order," he stated in perfect, albeit mechanical English this time.
You blinked in surprise, thoroughly caught off guard by the sudden switch to English when he had been persistently speaking Russian up until this point. "Okay...well...eat then, you can eat freely here, you don't need an order to do that." You slowly tucked your phone away into your pocket as his right hand gradually lifted from where it had been resting in his lap, reaching out to pick up the sandwich.
You weren't sure what you were expecting, but he wolfed down his food within a minute, that sandwich was gone within maybe three bites. The soup swallowed just as fast.
God, he was starving, and the realization made your heart ache.
"Better?" You asked gently, to which he only nodded, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth.
This became routine, the soldier stuck by your side like a duckling imprinting on its mother.
He followed you diligently around every corner of the tower, his protective instincts activated as he positioned himself like an ever-vigilant guardian. His eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, noting how others would cast uncertain and sometimes suspicious glances in his direction.
These looks made him increasingly self-conscious and anxious, as though he were some exotic creature put on display at a zoo for others to gawk at. But in your presence, he seemed a bit more at ease. He genuinely liked being around you.
Gradually, the rigid tension that had defined his existence began to melt away, and he started allowing more intimate gestures of care. He let you gently brush his unruly hair into place, carefully wash his face with warm water, or trim his growing stubble for him.
He accepted these tender ministrations without the slightest resistance or complaint, though a nagging worry lingered in your mind that his compliance stemmed from years of conditioning to submit to others' wishes. Each time you worried about that, you’d see a genuine warmth and contentment in his gaze rather than submission, showing you that he truly found comfort and pleasure in your gentle touch.
It was evening, the room reflected the warm glow of festive holiday lights emanating from a miniature Christmas tree nestled in the corner. The soldier found himself transfixed by the small decorated tree, his eyes lingering on each twinkling light as their vibrant colors danced and shimmered. The sterile, monotonous walls he had grown accustomed to during his confinement were nothing compared to the colorful lights. The gentle play of red, green, and gold seemed to awaken something long dormant within him, he almost wanted to plant himself in front of the tree and just stare at it.
Tony may have allowed his stay, but that didn’t mean there weren’t restrictions. He was stern about where and when the soldier could go anywhere with you, and he demanded that he not leave your room afterhours. It wasn’t hard to follow, the solider showed reluctance to leave your room at all, having been so accustomed to being kept in one room. You didn’t push him, but you felt bad for him because he was missing how the tower had been decorated for the holidays. So, you got a smaller tree for the bedroom to provide some kind of festive look for him to take in.
You emerged from the bathroom, wisps of steam following in your wake, your damp hair leaving little droplets on your shoulders as you continued to towel it dry with scrunches. He remained motionless on the edge of your bed, his attention immediately shifting as he turned and blinked up at your approaching figure.
His icy eyes traced a deliberate path across your form, which was barely concealed beneath the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the hem teasingly brushing against your mid-thigh with each movement. "I am beat," you sighed heavily, your voice carrying the weight of the day's festivities. The marathon of holiday activities had clearly taken its toll, leaving you thoroughly drained. The tower often held an array of things to do because Tony loved to show off what he could afford, and it wasn’t like anyone else would object.
He observed with rapt attention as you made your way onto the bed and settled back against the pillows, releasing a deep exhale that seemed to melt away the day's tension. His unwavering gaze remained fixed on the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of your chest rising and falling with each breath.
You felt the bed shift beneath you as he moved, his weight causing the mattress to dip and creak softly. He crawled over to where you lay, his arms positioning themselves on either side of your body, caging you in. Your eyes fluttered open to find him hovering directly above you, his presence overwhelming in its proximity. This was something new…he had always maintained somewhat of a distance before, never daring to position himself so intimately over top of you.
"Я скомпрометирован. [I'm compromised]," the soldier spoke in a hushed tone, his voice carrying that distinctive gravelly pitch that made you feel tingly. The tension between you had become damned near impossible to ignore. What had started as a subtle pull had grown into an overwhelming force of attraction that seemed to draw you both together like magnets.
Still, you forced yourself to hold back, maintaining that last thread of restraint. You had no way of knowing the depth of his emotional capacity, if he was even capable of genuine feelings, or wanted to experience them at all after everything he endured.
"Soldat...?" The whispered word escaped your lips as you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way his muscles tensed as he remained suspended above you, perfectly still. "You know I don't understand-"
"I am compromised," he repeated, switching to English this time. His voice had dropped even lower, carrying an edge of frustration that vibrated through the minimal space between your bodies.
"Comprom..." You sat up slowly on your elbows and shook your head in confusion, your brow furrowed as you tried to process his words. That’s what you’d say about a machine or computer, not a man. "What are you talking about?" Your eyes wandered downward, suddenly drawn to an unmistakable tent in his fitted briefs that became obvious from your new viewing angle, causing you to freeze in place as your breath caught in your throat.
So, he could feel things.
"Oh..." You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you remained frozen in place, your cheeks growing warm. "I think I understand now...you're feeling a bit pent up, aren't you?"
His metal arm whirred softly, the sophisticated machinery humming as he moved to adjust his hand placement. "Да. [Yes]," he responded in a low voice, his gleaming titanium fingertips delicately ghosted across the bare skin of your thigh, just barely grazing beneath the hem of your thin sleep shirt. Goosebumps erupted along your body in response to the contact, the cool metal sudden against your flushed skin.
"Мне не нравится делиться вашим вниманием. [I don't like sharing your attention]," he muttered with an undertone of possession, his lips curling into a slight frown as he gradually leaned closer to you. His silken hair delicately tickled your face as he slowly lowered himself, the tips of your noses barely grazing against each other in an intimate gesture. His lips parted ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of anticipation before he dipped his head down, warm lips pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your jawline.
You swallowed reflexively, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his warm, steady breath caress your sensitive skin, sending a visible shudder of growing excitement through your body.
He continued his gentle exploration, encouraged by your acceptance and the absence of any resistance. He pressed a trail of soft, purposeful kisses along the curve of your jaw, each one more intimate than the last, before gradually working his way down to your neck. His lips carefully followed the rhythmic flutter of your pulse beneath your skin, his tongue peeking out shyly to touch against you.
"Ah-" You voiced softly, feeling him settle on a particularly sensitive spot, right against the delicate side of your neck. It was nestled perfectly between the graceful junction where your neck connected to your collarbone, the skin there warm and inviting, holding a faint trace of blood flow from the intricate network of smaller veins positioned just beneath the surface.
He kissed many times with increasing intensity, clearly finding this spot ideal for his attentions. The soft, tentative pecks gradually became more passionate, open-mouthed kisses as each one was placed. His tongue began gently pressing against your skin with each lingering kiss, the pressure slowly growing in need. You felt your cheeks flush with warmth when he finally latched on, your eyes widening in surprise as the soldier's strong arms held you a little tighter.
Soldat began to suckle a mark, his ministrations gentle and teasing at first, but quickly growing in force and intensity as his skilled tongue swirled expertly around the trapped skin between his lips and teeth. The sensation drew a breathy moan from deep within you, making your entire body feel as though it were engulfed in flames of desire. Though you were completely helpless beneath the assassin, you had absolutely no intention or desire to push him away.
This felt too damned good.
Without thinking, your leg came up and hooked around his hips, drawing him closer until your bodies were flush against each other. The heat between you grew and you felt his painful erection trapped in his briefs, straining against the fabric as his arousal was staining them. Soldat exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening possessively, but he did not let go.
His suckling grew increasingly intense, the sensitive skin tingling and starting to sting and burn with each passing moment. Still, he didn't release the bruised skin just yet.
Instead, he just bit down harder, ensuring the mark he left would last for days. You moaned loudly, your fingers gently tangling in his thick hair as your pleasured sounds encouraged his attention. He became more attentive when your little sounds of pleasure turned into sharp, quiet hisses - clearly indicating that the sensation had crossed from pleasure into discomfort, silently telling him to ease off.
When he did finally relent, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, looking down at the deep purple mark blooming on your neck. His breath came in heavy pants through his parted lips as he stayed quiet, watching intently as you struggled to catch your own breath too. The sight of you beneath him, disheveled and vulnerable, with flushed skin and labored breathing, was enough to draw him right back in.
He dipped back down with renewed hunger, his metal hand slowly threading through your hair before gently fisting it at the base of your skull, though his careful control ensured it wasn’t painful, just firm. He tugged just enough to guide your movement, encouraging you to expose more of your neck to his hungry gaze.
"E-easy..." You whispered, a note of anxious anticipation in your voice. You wanted more, god you wanted more, but his sudden change of behavior was a bit surprising for you.
"Понял. [Understood]," he whispered against your skin, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to your jaw before returning his attention to your neck. Those soft kisses began again, trailing along your skin, but his restraint didn't last long as he quickly sought a new canvas for another mark. He latched onto a spot just a little bit higher on your neck, alternating between sucking and carefully controlled bites to gradually darken and bruise the sensitive flesh.
You felt bite after delicious bite, hickey after possessive hickey.
He marked the tender flesh of your neck in several deep, purple marks that bloomed like violent flowers across your skin...each one throbbing with a sweet ache when he pulled away. His tongue always swirled over the mark with care to soothe the sting of it, making you arch into his touch as you fell into a complete daze.
"S-Soldat," you muttered breathlessly, cheeks flushed crimson and eyelids heavy with desire. Your pupils matched his own - completely blown with hunger and desperate need. Those bermuda swirls meeting yours as he continued a torturously slow trail of hot kisses down your chest, nipping your collarbone with just enough pressure to make you gasp before following the gentle dip of your sternum.
He paused deliberately, pulling up so he could lift the thin sleep shirt over you and expose more of your bare chest to his hungry gaze, giving him better access for his heated kisses and teasing nips. Once your top was discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands gently but firmly held your sides, trailing up with reverent touches until settling against your ribcage. His larger hands completely encompassed your torso, making you feel small but protected.
The soldier was absolutely transfixed at the sight of your breasts, eyeing the soft mounds and peaked nipples as they hardened in the cool air, growing increasingly sensitive and rosy with your mounting arousal. It was like he was completely mesmerized by the sight before him, the fucking Winter Soldier, the most dangerous assassin in history, stopped dead in his tracks at the mere sight of your bare breasts.
You felt in charge now.
"What is it? Do you like them?" you purred softly to the soldier, your body swaying in a deliberately teasing motion that made them gently move. His eyes remained fixed, drinking in the sight before him as his lips parted ever so slightly. Slowly, his head tilted down again, surrendering to the moment. He let his face nestle against your chest, his lips trailing a constellation of unhurried kisses across your skin.
He began to nip and suckle the tender skin of your breasts, his mouth working to create deep, purple love bites on that delicate flesh. The bruising blossomed easily beneath his ministrations, almost like they were eager to show themselves.
His lips would find a promising spot, then he would begin lapping at the skin with gentle strokes of his tongue until he felt you squirming. The soldier took the sensitized flesh carefully between his teeth, rolling the captured skin while his talented muscle swirled and sucked.
Your chest displayed his passionate handiwork when he finally drew back to admire his creation. The plum-colored bruises created an intimate pattern across your skin, their rich hues made even more striking by the soft glow of the holiday lights that danced through the room, highlighting each carefully placed love bite until they seemed to shimmer like twilight stars against your flesh.
"Soldat...I think you covered enough surface area," you breathed, feeling overwhelmed by the intense throbbing that radiated from each mark he'd left. The sensation pulsed in waves across your skin, making it difficult to focus. Your neck was thoroughly covered in the passionate marks, and now your chest bore an equally impressive collection.
The soldier gazed down at you with intensely, his eyes taking in each little sugar plum bruise that decorated your skin like a masterpiece. Though they were scattered without any deliberate pattern, the overall effect clearly pleased him. You lay there looking thoroughly affected by his attention, hair mussed and breathing uneven, cheeks beautifully darkened with a dust of blush, just from his careful application of bites alone. The sight of you in such a state, marked so thoroughly, brought deep set satisfaction in his gut.
"Моя теперь. [Mine now]," he muttered softly, his warm breath ghosting across your skin as his lips hovered mere millimeters from your own. The almost-kiss was delicate, just the faintest brush of contact that sent electricity dancing through your nerves. He almost seemed nervous to close that final distance, his confidence faltering despite the passionate trail of marks he had already left scattered across your skin.
He drew back slightly, seemingly snapping out of a trance, and you could see the vulnerability written plainly across his features as that nervousness flickered in his eyes. Shifting his weight, he settled back onto the bed, his right hand finding your knee and tracing gentle, soothing circles there with his thumb. The tender gesture matched his hushed voice as he spoke, "Я не хочу идти дальше. [I don't want to go any further]," the words carrying both certainty and a hint of apology.
Your brow furrowed deeply as you struggled to understand what he was trying to stay, the confusion evident in the slight crease between your eyebrows and the questioning tilt of your head. You really needed to study Russian. "Do you not want to continue?" you asked slowly and carefully, focusing more on interpreting the subtle nuances in his tone rather than trying to parse the exact words he was using.
His facial expression held hesitance and uncertainty, the slight downturn of his lips and the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet yours telling you what you needed to know. Body language was his primary mode of genuine communication, and you had become very good at reading these silent signals he unconsciously broadcast.
"It's okay, we can stop," you replied with a reassuring tone, making sure to keep your voice soft to help dissipate any lingering tension he might be feeling. "Let's just lay here, okay? We can cuddle without any kind of pressure to do anything else, if you want." You offered with a warm smile, wanting him to feel that his comfort and boundaries were completely respected and that there was no expectation or obligation to continue.
This was a lot of good progress with him, you typically just cuddled or he kept to his side of the bed but he had shown you a lot of sweet affection tonight, and you loved it, it meant he was growing more confident in himself and your relationship. The evidence of his passionate yet tender attention remained visible in the form of gentle, plum-colored marks that decorated your neck and chest as you lay beside him, watching as his silent form trembled slightly beneath the heavy warmth of the thick blankets that enveloped you both.
You opened your arms, offering him a warmer space, and he quickly scooted forward, tucking himself against you. Prone to being cold, he liked being under many layers of blankets, so you made sure to provide plenty for him to not only feel warm but secure. Plus...having you to hold him always helped.
Without the worry of being a soldier, he could rest easy like this.
Thanks for reading. -em 🌿
Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.
sharing this older piece as my contribution to ajin week! this was a project for art school where we were tasked with recreating a famous painting in the style/process of another artist. I chose sakurai gamon. the lineart was done traditionally on a piece of illustration board, with screentones added digitally.
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