side blogs;
@imaginingmanyfandoms (multifandom fanfic)
@upsidedownmvnson (stranger things + fanfic)
@hauntedturntables (horror)
styofa doing anything
Jules of Nature
Sweet Seals For You, Always
we're not kids anymore.

JBB: An Artblog!
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
đȘŒ
Misplaced Lens Cap
taylor price
almost home
Game of Thrones Daily

pixel skylines
NASA

JVL
dirt enthusiast

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
trying on a metaphor
h
todays bird

blake kathryn
seen from Brazil

seen from France

seen from Germany
seen from China

seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from Chile

seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from South Korea

seen from Indonesia
seen from Israel
seen from United States
seen from Honduras
seen from TĂŒrkiye
@robinsbuckleys
side blogs;
@imaginingmanyfandoms (multifandom fanfic)
@upsidedownmvnson (stranger things + fanfic)
@hauntedturntables (horror)
Caught in the Storm
Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader
Characters: George Weasley, Oliver Wood
Summary: New to the school paper, assigned to Quidditch coverage, you didnât expect the real game to be off the pitch. George Weasley flirts, teases, and pushes boundaries, while Oliver Wood stakes his claim with every serious, commanding word. Youâre the prize, and the tension is almost too hot to handle.
Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Smut / Soft Intimacy / Subtle love triangle tension / Soft Angst / Friendly rivalry
The weather had been warning you since the moment you left the castle.
Wind pulled at your coat, sharp and impatient, and the rain had only just begunâlight, almost polite, the kind that promised it wouldnât stay that way for long. You crossed the grounds anyway, boots sinking slightly into damp grass, heart beating faster with every step toward the Quidditch pitch.
You werenât entirely sure what you were doing there.
You were new. Everyone knew that. New to the paper, new to the columnâsports, of all things. You still werenât sure how that had happened. You didnât play. You didnât fly. But someone had decided you had to start somewhere, and Gryffindor Quidditch seemed as good a place as any.
What if they donât let me in? What if training sessions are off-limits? What if I walk all this way just to be told to leave?
You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on your notebook.
Stop it, you told yourself. You wonât know unless you try.
You were so focused on rehearsing your introduction that you didnât see him.
You walked straight into a bodyâsolid, warm, unmovableâand would have lost your balance if hands hadnât caught you instantly, firm at your arms, steadying you before you could even stumble.
âEasy,â a voice said, close.
You looked up.
His hair was a blaze of red even under the gray drizzle, rain darkening the collar of his jacket. His hands lingered on your arms, slow to release, as if letting go hadnât even occurred to him yet.
âAre you alright?â His eyes searched your face, calm, insistent, like your answer actually mattered.
You nodded, suddenly aware of every fraction of a second, every inch between you. âYes⊠yeah. Iâm fine. SorryâI wasnât looking.â
Behind him, a lighter voice teased.
âLost already?â
A second redhead appeared over his shoulder, identical grin, identical curiosityâbut his gaze flicked between the two of you like he was watching something interesting unfold.
The wind, the rain, even the distant shouts from the pitch faded into a muted haze. For a moment, there was only thisâstanding here, in the open, the quiet electricity between you, hands still brushing yours as they loosened ever so slightly.
âIâm George,â he said, voice soft, offering his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. âGeorge Weasley.â
Your name came out almost on instinct as you introduced yourself, fumbling slightly over the detailsânew to the paper, sports section, first article, hoping watching the training wouldnât be a problem.
Georgeâs smile deepened, playful yet knowing, a flicker of something unspoken lighting his eyes.
A sharp crack of a broom landing split the moment.
Footsteps approachedâfast, purposeful.
âWhy arenât you in the air?â a voice demanded. âHow long am I supposed to wait?â
Oliver Wood appeared, rain dripping from his hair, half-irritation on his face⊠until his eyes found you.
For a heartbeat, he forgot the words he was about to say.
You stepped forward, just enough to break the silence.
âIâm sorryâI donât mean to interrupt. I just started working for the school paper, sports section,â you said, voice steady, heart racing, âI was hoping to write about Gryffindor. About the team.â
Wood glanced up at the sky, then back at you. âYou know itâs going to rain.â
You nodded. âQuidditch doesnât stop for bad conditions, right?â
His gaze softened, approving, almost impressed.
âAlright,â he said. âYou can stay. Just donât get in the way.â
He turned, calling orders, sending players to their positions, but George lingered.
George finally moved toward his broom, he leaned close, voice low over the wind. âTry not to blink,â he said, almost a whisper, teasing, intimate, like a secret only you were allowed to hear. âYou might miss something.â
Then he was gone, lifting off into the grey sky as the rain finally began to fall in earnest.
Training ended the way it had startedâloud, sharp, and soaked through.
Rain clung to everything now. Robes, hair, brooms abandoned near the edge of the pitch. Players laughed, complained, shoved at one another as they landed, adrenaline still humming under their skin.
You stayed where you were, notebook pressed to your chest, watching them come down one by one.
You almost told yourself youâd leave it at that.
Almost.
âHey,â you said, stepping forward before you could change your mind. âI still have a few questions. If anyoneââ
âIâm free.â
Georgeâs voice cut in first, immediate. His hands brushed the wet hair from his forehead, rain clinging to his lashes. He turned to you with a certainty that made your pulse jump. âHappy to answer all of them,â he added, as if there had never been a question.
Then Oliverâs voice reached you, smooth, firm, commanding without edge. âActually,â he said, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight, âI should probably be the one doing this.â
Georgeâs gaze flicked toward him, still smiling, but there was a sharpened edge nowâsomething deliberate, unspoken.
âPretty sure you donât speak for the entire team,â George said, eyes back on you, playful, defiant, yet teasing. âNot off the pitch.â
Wood stepped closer, a subtle heat radiating off him even through the rain, close enough that your notebook seemed to shrink between all of you.
âAs captain,â he said, eyes locking on yours, steady and certain, âit makes sense that I handle interviews. Especially official ones.â
You opened your mouth to smooth it over.
Instead, you found yourself standing between them.
George raised an eyebrow, smirk teasing, unapologetic. âUnless you want to hear the same rehearsed answer three times.â
Wood didnât break his gaze. âUnless you want the truth instead of a performance.â
You exhaled slowly, nodding once. âThen I suppose Iâll talk to both of you.â
Neither of them argued.
They just watched each other for a beat too long before turning back to you.
You flipped open your notebook.
âAlright,â you said. âFirst question.â
You asked about the season. About expectations. About pressure.
George answered first, casualâeach word teasing and light, yet precise.
âWith style,â he said. âWith instinct.â âWith the ability to adapt when things donât go according to plan.â
Woodâs corrections came, calm, measured, the weight of responsibility in every word.
âWith discipline.â âWith preparation.â âWith knowing your role and sticking to it.â
They disagreed politely. Constantly.
Every answer became two versions of the same truthâGeorgeâs loose, confident, edged with humor; Oliverâs precise, measured, rooted in responsibility. When one finished, the other filled the space immediately, as if silence meant losing ground.
You wrote quickly, barely able to keep up.
At one point, George leaned closer, brushing your notebook with a finger, a ghost of warmth, eyes glinting. âMake sure you write that part down,â he said, voice low.
Wood folded his arms. âOr you could write what actually wins matches.â
You looked up from the page.
They were both watching you now.
Not waiting for your next questionâwaiting for your reaction.
You didnât give them one.
You just smiled faintly and kept writing.
By the time you closed your notebook, the rain had soaked through the last dry edge of the pitch, and something unspoken had settled between the three of you. Not hostile. Not friendly.
Charged.
âWell,â Wood said at last, straightening. âIf you need anything clarified, let me know.â
George tilted his head, eyes still on you. âSame goes for me.â
Different words. Same meaning.
You thanked them, already aware that this wasnât just an interview anymoreâand that whatever you were writing, both of them intended to be part of it.
As you turned to leave the pitch, you felt it clearly for the first time.
You had stepped into something that wasnât neutral.
âHeyâwait.â
Oliverâs voice reached you before you made it halfway to the path leading back to the castle.
You turned.
He was jogging toward you, rain still clinging to him, hair damp, expression more careful now than it had been during training.
âYou said youâre writing this tonight,â he said. âAfter standing out here, youâre going to freeze.â
You shrugged lightly. âOccupational hazard.â
He shook his head once, decisive. âCome have some tea. Somewhere warm. We can go over the articleâif you want to make sure itâs accurate.â
There it was.
The official reason.
You hesitated only a second before nodding. âAlright.â
The Gryffindor common room smelled like firewood and damp wool.
The rain outside beat steadily against the windows now, heavier than before, but inside it was warmâalmost too warmâgolden light flickering from the fireplace as students talked, laughed, drifted in and out.
You sat on one end of a sofa near the hearth, parchment spread across your knees, a steaming mug cradled between your hands.
Oliver sat close. Closer than necessary.
He leaned in as you reread a paragraph, shoulder brushing yours, attention fully on the text.
âThis part,â he said, pointing. His finger grazed your hand as he did. âYou might want to clarify what we changed tactically after mid-season.â
You nodded, scribbling a note.
A moment later, it happened again.
Another accidental touch. Brief. Deliberate enough to be noticed, subtle enough to be dismissed.
Oliver spoke quietly, his voice low in the space between you. âYou write well,â he said. âYou see things people usually miss.â
You looked up at him, surprised.
Before you could respond, the portrait hole burst open.
Noise flooded the room.
Laughter. Voices. Wet boots hitting stone.
Georgeâs voice carried firstâeasy, unmistakableâfollowed by Fredâs commentary, Harry complaining about the rain, Angelinaâs sharp laugh, Katie shaking water from her sleeves.
The team.
They filtered in together, energy still buzzing from training.
George saw you almost immediately.
Then he saw where you were sitting. Who you were sitting with.
The way his gaze lingered on Oliverâs arm resting along the back of the sofa behind you.
He approached slowly, hands in his pockets, rain still clinging to his hair.
âWell,â George said, stopping in front of the sofa, gaze flicking pointedly to Oliver. âLooks like you didnât waste any time.â
Oliver glanced up, unfazed. âWeâre going over the article.â
âAh,â George drawled. âOf course you are.â
You felt the tension before either of them said anything else.
Without thinking too hard about it, you shifted slightlyâjust enough to make space beside you.
âDo you want to see?â you asked George, lifting the parchment. âYou are part of it.â
That did it.
Oliver straightened, subtle but immediate.
Georgeâs eyebrows lifted, amused. He dropped onto the sofa beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knees brushed.
âCareful,â he murmured, glancing at the text. âIf I start editing too, he might think Iâm stealing his job.â
Oliver scoffed. âYou wouldnât know where to begin.â
George smiledâslow, deliberateâand leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours.
âFunny,â he said, eyes on you now, not Oliver. âYou seem to understand me just fine.â
Your pen paused mid-word.
You felt it thenâhow naturally your body angled toward George, how your attention followed him without effort. How Oliver, suddenly, felt like the third presence instead of the center.
George glanced back at the parchment, pretending to read.
âYou should keep that line,â he added casually. âThe one about instinct. It suits me.â
Oliver cleared his throat. âIf youâre doneââ he said, controlled.
âRelax, Captain,â he said lightly.
Then George leaned back, standing.
âIâll let you finish,â he said, eyes lingering on you. âFor now.â
As he walked away, you realized two things at once:
Oliver had lost his advantage.
And George knew it.
The days that followed slipped into a strange rhythm.
You kept writing. You kept observing.
And George Weasley kept finding you.
Not loudly. Not obviously.
Just⊠inevitably.
In corridors between classes, when you were juggling parchment and ink and suddenly there he was, walking backward in front of you, asking if youâd written something devastating about him yet.
On the stairs, where heâd slow his pace to match yours, leaning against the railing like he had nowhere else to be.
In the Great Hall, where youâd feel his eyes before you ever saw himâlook up from your notes and find him already watching, mouth curved like he knew something you didnât.
Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he didnât.
Sometimes it was just a glance held a second too long, a brush of fingers when he passed you your quill back, a murmured âDonât work too hardâ like it meant something else.
You noticed how easily you laughed with him. How you forgot to watch the time.
And you noticed something else, too.
Oliver Wood hadnât stopped trying.
He checked in about the article. Asked how it was coming along. Offered tea againâalways tea, always warm, always reasonable. His presence was steady, grounding, impossible to dismiss.
You told yourself it was harmless.
You didnât tell yourself who you looked for first when you entered a room.
The next day wind was sharp again when you reached the pitch.
Too sharp.
Too quiet.
The stands were empty.
You stopped short, confusion settling in as you scanned the field. No players. No brooms. No shouting.
âLooking for someone?â
You turned.
George stood a few steps away, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadableâbut softer than you expected.
âYouâre late,â he said gently.
Your stomach dropped. âLate?â
âSnape moved Slytherinâs training up,â George explained. âApparently ambition doesnât like waiting.â
You let out a breath, frustration flashing across your face. âI didnât know.â
âI figured,â he said. Then, after a pause: âYou look⊠disappointed.â
âI needed the notes,â you admitted. âI didnât want to miss it.â
He studied you a moment longer, then nodded toward the path away from the pitch.
âCome on.â
âWhere?â
âSomewhere that isnât freezing,â he said. âIâll walk you.â
You didnât argue.
You walked side by side, the grounds stretching quiet around you. Dusk bled into the sky, and the wind tugged at your hairâbut with him there, it felt lighter somehow, as if the chill was just a brush against skin.
He fell into step beside you, shoulders almost touching yours. You didnât move away.
âCareful,â he said suddenly, low, playful. âDonât let the cold steal all your attention.â
You blinked, caught off guard. âI⊠wasnât thinking about the cold.â
He smirked, leaning just slightly closer, enough that you could smell rain and smoke lingering on him. âGood.â
Your arm brushed his as you adjusted your notebook. A spark ran through your chest, subtle, electric, but unmistakable.
He glanced at you, and in that glance, there was something unspokenâa promise, a challenge, a dare.
By the time you reached the castle, the corridors were quiet, torchlight flickering against the stone walls.
âHuh,â you murmured. âWe missed dinner.â
He smiled softly, almost slyly. âWorth it.â
Inside the common room, the warmth hit you all at once. You dropped onto a sofa near the hearth, parchment on your knees, quill in hand.
George paused mid-step, watching you with a tilt of his head. âNot going to bed?â
You sighed, leaning your head against the back of the couch. âI should. But I I need to write something.ââ
âWell,â he said slowly, âI do happen to be an excellent source.â
You smiled. âUnbiased?â
âNever,â he replied. âBut entertaining.â
He straightened suddenly, posture stiff, expression twisted into a bad imitation.
âAs a Slytherin Beater,â he drawled, âI believe Gryffindorâs success is entirely accidental and deeply offensiveâââ
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
âThatâs terrible.â
âThank you,â he said proudly. âI worked very hard on it.â
You shook your head, smiling as you scribbled something out. âAlright. Weâre not writing about them.â
âGood,â he said. âThey donât deserve the ink.â
The fire crackled softly. The room felt warmer. Smaller.
An idea settled in your chest.
âWhat if,â you said carefully, âI wrote a profile instead?â
George tilted his head. âOf who?â
You met his eyes. âYou.â
He blinked. âMe?â
âThe best Beater on the team,â you said, voice steady. âPersonal angle. No tactics. Just⊠you.â
Something shifted in his expression.
âOnly if the questions are fair,â he said.
You smiled. âNo promises.â
You wrote his name at the top of the parchment.
âFirst question,â you said. âDo you actually enjoy it? The pressure?â
George shrugged. âSome days. Other days I pretend I do.â
Somewhere between jokes and notes, the space between you shrank.
Your knees touched fully. His arm brushed yours. A hand lingered near the edge of your parchment, close enough to distract you, close enough to thrill you.
âDo you have someone?â you asked, just barely above a whisper, as if testing.
George tilted his head. âIs that for the readers?â
You looked up, heart stuttering.
âOr for you?â he murmured, leaning slightly, letting the words hover just for you.
The warmth from him pressed against you, subtle, teasing, impossible to ignore.
He shifted, just a hair closer, close enough that the moment stretched, fragile and electric. Every inch closing, inch by inch, until it felt like there was nothing left between you.
You forgot the parchment. The firelight. The world outside the room.
You were so close.
Too close to stop now.
âOi.â
Fredâs voice crashed into the room like a Bludger.
You jumped apart instantly.
George groaned softly, forehead dropping forward for a split second.
âWoodâs looking for you,â Fred added cheerfully. âHeâs losing his mind about tomorrow.â
George stood, jaw tight. âTell him Iâll be there in a minute.â
He looked back at you.
His expression had changedâstill heated, still chargedâbut softer now. Certain.
âThis isnât over,â he said quietly.
Then he turned and followed Fred out.
You stayed where you were.
Heart racing. Fingers still curled around the quill.
On the parchment, the title stared back at you.
George Weasley: More Than a Beater
You didnât write another word.
Match day. The castle woke up louder than usual.
Doors slammed. Footsteps echoed. Someone was already shouting âGryffindor!â down the corridor like it was a battle cry instead of a greeting.
You barely made it three steps out of your dorm before you felt itâthe electricity in the air, the certainty everyone carried like armor.
They were going to win. Of course they were.
Scarlet and gold everywhere. Scarves thrown over shoulders, laughter spilling between groups of students as if the match was already over. You caught fragments of conversations as you moved through the hall.
âHufflepuff doesnât stand a chance.â âWoodâs been insufferable all week.â âWeâre taking the Cup this year.â
You smiled despite yourself, fingers tightening around your notebook.
You scanned the crowd instinctively.
And found him.
George stood near the stairs, already half in his gear, sleeves rolled up, hair a little wild like he hadnât bothered to tame it this morning. Fred was saying something animated beside him, but George wasnât listening.
He was looking at you.
Your steps slowed without you realizing it.
You meant to go to him. Meant to wish him luck. Meant to say somethingâanything that wasnât unsaid.
You took one step forward.
âHeyââ
âCan I steal you for a moment?â
Oliverâs voice came from your right.
You turned, startled.
He stood close, already dressed for the match, expression focused but softer when he looked at you. Intentional. Grounded. Like heâd planned this.
âItâll only take a second,â he added.
You hesitated.
George was still watching.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just a word. Just timing.
âOkay,â you said.
Oliver guided you a few steps away, just far enough that the noise of the common room blurred into background sound. He stopped near the window, rain streaking the glass behind him.
âI wonât keep you long,â he said. âI justââ He exhaled. âThis match matters.â
âI know,â you replied quietly.
He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around something small.
âWhen we lost the Snitch because of the dementors,â he said suddenly, eyes fixed on yours, âI promised myself Iâd never leave anything to chance again.â
He opened his hand.
A thin leather bracelet rested in his palm, worn soft with age. The Gryffindor lion was stamped into the metal clasp, dulled from years of being touched, trusted.
âIâve worn this every match since,â Oliver continued. âCall it superstition if you want. But itâs never failed me.â
Your breath slowed.
âI want you to have it,â he said.
You looked at the bracelet. Then back at him.
âOliverââ
âJust for today,â he interrupted gently. âIf you keep it on⊠it means something. To me.â
You swallowed.
You didnât think about how it might look. You didnât think about who might see.
You thought about belief. About pressure. About what it meant to carry someoneâs hope.
You reached out.
âAlright,â you said. âIâll hold onto it.â
Oliver smiledârelieved, sincereâand fastened it around your wrist himself, his fingers lingering just a second too long.
Behind you, the noise shifted.
You felt it before you turned.
George stood a few feet away now.
He wasnât smiling.
His gaze was fixed on your wrist.
On Oliverâs hand.
On the space between you that suddenly felt very visible.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Fred clapped George on the shoulder, saying something about warm-ups, about not being late, about Wood losing his mind if they didnât move.
George didnât take his eyes off you.
Something in his expression closed.
He nodded onceâto Oliver, not to youâand turned away without a word.
Your stomach twisted.
You looked down at the bracelet, suddenly heavier than it had been seconds ago.
The match hadnât even started.
And already, something had shifted.
You found him near the locker rooms.
The noise of the castle faded there, replaced by the low hum of voices behind closed doors, the clatter of brooms being moved, boots hitting stone.
George stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing.
You hesitated for half a second.
Then you stepped closer.
âGeorge.â
He looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And for the first time since youâd met him, there was no warmth in his eyes.
âWhat,â he said. Not a question. A statement.
You swallowed. âI wanted to wish you luck.â
He exhaled sharply through his nose. âRight.â
Silence stretched.
His gaze droppedâto your wrist.
The bracelet.
He laughed once, humorless. âDidnât realize we were doing that now.â
âDoing what?â
âCollecting souvenirs,â he said coolly. âFrom captains.â
You frowned. âItâs not like that.â
âIsnât it?â He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. âBecause it looks a lot like that.â
You lifted your chin. âHe asked me to hold onto it. For the team.â
Georgeâs jaw tightened.
âFunny,â he said. âYou didnât ask me.â
âThatâs not fair.â
âNo,â he agreed quietly. âIt isnât.â
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his composure.
âI thought you were different,â he said. âI thought when you looked at meâwhen we talkedâit meant something.â
âIt does,â you said immediately.
âThen why does it feel like Iâm watching you choose him?â
That hit.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. âI didnât choose anyone.â
George shook his head slowly. âYou donât get it. You donât have to say it for it to happen.â
He glanced toward the door, where voices were risingâteammates calling his name.
âI donât have time for this,â he said, already pulling away. âIâve got a match to play.â
He paused.
âAnd for what itâs worth,â he added, not turning back, âI donât give interviews today.â
Then he was gone.
The door shut behind him.
You stood there alone, the echo of his words settling heavy in your chest.
You looked down at your wrist.
The bracelet felt tighter now.
And suddenly, holding onto it didnât feel like support.
It felt like a mistake.
The rain started before the first whistle.
You took your place in the stands, notebook forgotten in your lap.
The roar of Gryffindor thundered around you.
Scarlet and gold banners waved. Someone behind you was already shouting Woodâs name like a prayer.
Your eyes found the pitch.
George mounted his broom, jaw set, shoulders tense. He didnât look at you.
Oliver barked orders, sharp and precise, voice cutting clean through the rain. He looked confidentâfocused in the way that made people trust him.
The whistle blew.
The match exploded into motion.
At first, it was chaosâblurs of colour, brooms slicing through wet air, the thud of Bludgers echoing across the pitch. Rain slicked everything, turning sharp maneuvers into risks.
George played hard.
Too hard.
You saw it immediatelyâthe way he hit faster, more aggressively than usual, timing just a fraction off. One Bludger flew wide. Another clipped a Hufflepuff Chaser.
Oliver shouted corrections.
George didnât answer.
They werenât in sync.
A signal missed. A call ignored. A maneuver mistimed.
You gripped the edge of the bench as a Hufflepuff player slipped past their formation, scoring easily.
The crowd groaned.
Woodâs voice rose, sharp with frustration.
Georgeâs broom jerked in responseâtoo late.
Rain streamed down his face now, plastering hair to his forehead, jaw clenched so tight you could see it from the stands.
You looked down at your wrist.
The bracelet.
It felt wrong. Heavy. Like it didnât belong there.
The match dragged on, tension winding tighter with every near-miss. Gryffindor clawed their way back, point by point, sheer determination keeping them afloat.
Thenâ
A Bludger rocketed toward Oliverâs blind side.
George saw it.
For half a second, everything slowed.
You stood without realizing it.
George swerved hard, slamming the Bludger away just in time. The impact jolted him sideways, rain-slick broom skidding dangerously before he recovered.
The crowd erupted.
Oliver glanced backâreally looked at him this time.
Something shifted.
They moved better after that. Still tense. Still rough around the edges. But aligned.
As if the game forced them to remember why they trusted each other in the first place.
The Snitch appeared near the stands, gold flashing through the rain.
Harry dove.
Seconds stretched unbearably thin.
Then the whistle shrieked.
âGRYFFINDOR WINS!â
The stadium exploded.
Cheers tore through the rain, louder than thunder. You barely registered the noise as players landed hard on the pitch, mud splashing, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter breaking free.
You were already moving.
Down the steps. Onto the wet grass.
Your boots slipped slightly as you reached the edge of the pitch, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the score.
Oliver reached you first.
Water streamed down his face, eyes bright with relief and triumph.
âWe did it,â he said, breathless. âWe actually did it.â
He laughed, hands coming to your arms, grounding himself.
âI told you,â he added, glancing at your wrist. âIt worked.â
You opened your mouth.
Didnât get the chance to answer.
A shadow fell across the grass.
George landed a few feet away.
Rain-soaked. Breathing hard. Exhilaration and exhaustion etched into his face.
Fred clapped him on the back, Angelina shouting something about his save, but George barely heard them.
His eyes found you.
And on the bracelet.
The noise around you dulled.
You couldnât hear what Oliver was saying anymore.
You stepped back gently, slipping your wrist from Oliverâs grasp.
Without looking at him, you reached up and unclasped the bracelet.
Rain slicked it as it dropped into your palm.
You crossed the space between you and Oliver and pressed it back into his hand.
âThank you,â you said quietly. âFor trusting me.â
Then you turned.
George was there.
Close. Too close.
Heat radiated from him through the wet fabric, through the rain.
His gaze swept to Oliver, then snapped back to you.
Something shifted in himâsomething raw, sudden, urgent.
âFuck it,â he muttered.
And he closed the space.
He kiss you.
Not tentative. Not gentle.
The world narrowed to the two of you. Rain streaked over skin and fabric, dripping into hair, turning everything around into a blur of light and sound.
His hands found your waist, firm, claiming. Your fingers twined into the collar of his jacket, gripping, steadying, wanting.
Every glance, every hesitation, every unsaid thing between you collided in that instant.
Somewhere a cheer cut through the rainâbut it was distant, irrelevant.
You didnât hear it. You didnât care.
There was just the press of him, the warmth, the spark of his lips against yours, the unspoken promise hanging in the storm.
A heartbeat stretched, stretched again, as if the rain itself waited with you.
Everything elseâOliver, Fred, Angelina, the pitch, the stormâslid to the edges of existence.
Whatever this had been, whatever lines youâd nearly crossed before, evaporated.
You had chosen.
And so had he.
The castle was quieter later.
Not silentâjust softened. Like it was recovering from everything the day had thrown at it.
You sat at one of the tables in the common room, parchment spread before you, quill moving slower now, more deliberate. Ink stained your fingers. Your hair was still damp at the ends.
George sat close.
So close you could feel the warmth of him even when he wasnât touching youâhis knee brushing yours, his arm resting along the back of your chair like it had decided this was its place now.
You wrote about the match.
About rain and rhythm. About tension and trust. About a team that nearly fracturedâand didnât.
You were finishing the last paragraph when you felt him lean in.
Not to read.
To you.
His breath brushed your ear, warm and unhurried.
âYou always do that,â he murmured.
âDo what?â you asked quietly, eyes still on the page.
âGet that look,â he said. âLike the rest of the world stops existing when you write.â
Your pen paused.
His lips brushed just below your earânot a kiss, not quite. A promise of one.
âYouâre good,â he added softly. âYou know that, right?â
You swallowed, heart picking up pace. âIâm almost done.â
âMmm,â he hummed, amusement threading through his voice. âShame.â
Your fingers tightened around the quill. âWhy?â
âBecause,â he said, closer now, his mouth at your neck, his words a whisper against your skin, âonce youâre finished⊠I was hoping you might pay attention to something else.â
You laughed under your breath, heat rushing to your face. âGeorge.â
He smiled against you. You could feel it.
âJust saying,â he murmured. âThe article can wait five more minutes.â
You leaned backâinto him this timeâletting your head rest briefly against his shoulder.
âFive,â you said. âThatâs all you get.â
He grinned, unmistakably pleased.
You added the final line.
In the end, Gryffindor didnât win because the rain stoppedâ they won because they trusted each other enough to keep flying through it.
You set the quill down.
Georgeâs hand slid to your waist, firm and certain.
âDone?â he asked.
You turned your head toward him.
âDone.â
He kissed you thenâslow, unhurried, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
And for the first time since this had all begun, you knew with absolute certaintyâ
He wasnât going anywhere.
And neither were you.
The Letter in the Quidditch Book
Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader
Summary: You never meant for him to find out this way. A hidden letter, a string of misunderstandings, Fredâs relentless teasing, and Georgeâs own doubts all tangle into knots you donât know how to undo. But when one cold night by the fire finally brings the truth into the open, you learn that sometimes the scariest confessions can lead to the warmest endings.
Warnings: Slow Burn â Mutual Pining / Fluff & Angst & Fluff Again / Mild emotional hurt/comfort / Sibling teasing / First kiss
The Gryffindor common room smelled faintly of smoke from the fireplace and something sweetâsomeone must have smuggled biscuits from the kitchens again.
You sat curled up in an armchair, sipping tea that had long gone cold. Your quill scratched softly against the parchment as you tried to find the right words, though you knew none of them would ever feel good enough.
"Dear George..."
Just writing those words made your cheeks burn. It felt like you were doing something forbidden, something dangerous. But you couldnât take it back.
You had carried this for too longâevery laugh at his jokes that came a little too quickly, every skipped heartbeat when his hand brushed yours, every smile that made the world a little brighter.
A letter filled with months of feelings: the glances, the warmth, the way his presence alone could lift you out of the darkest day. You folded it neatly and slipped it between the pages of a book about the Irish Quidditch team. A perfect birthday giftâinnocent enough that no one would ever guess the secret it carried.
What you hadnât expected was that the hardest part wouldnât be writing the letter⊠but waiting for George to finally open the book.
Days slipped by. Each time you caught a glimpse of George in the common room, laughing with Fred or plotting their next prank, you couldnât help but wonder if he had even cracked the book open. Probably not.
Patience, you told yourself. Patience.
And so, one quiet evening, you sat near the fire with your homework spread across the table. Your tea had gone lukewarm again, untouched as you tried to wrestle with a particularly tricky Transfiguration essay.
The portrait hole swung open, and in came George, Fred, and Lee, laughing together about some prank you couldnât quite hear. Their voices carried through the room, light and mischievous, but when Georgeâs eyes found you, his grin softened immediately.
âHey, howâs the essay going?â he asked warmly, settling onto the couch beside you. His shoulder brushed yours, just enough to make your stomach flutter. âNeed a hand with anything?â
You blinked, cheeks warming instantly. âNo, Iâve got it. Almost done,â you murmured, trying to sound calm even though your pulse had jumped.
Lee flopped down on the other side of you, grinning at George. âGeorge found something good today.â
George raised an eyebrow. âI did?â
Lee leaned closer, teasing. âYeah, go on, read it. â
George laughed softly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. Your stomach dropped into your boots.
âI donât know who itâs from,â he said, frowning slightly, âitâs not signed⊠but itâs addressed to me.â
Your pulse thundered in your ears as he unfolded it. He began to read aloud, his voice casual at first:
âDear GeorgeâŠâ
Your stomach lurched. You tried to look away, but your eyes were glued to him.
âYou are the most handsome, the funniest boy Iâve ever had the pleasure of knowingâŠâ
Your breath caught. That wasnât yours.
ââŠI feel butterflies every time you greet me in the corridorâŠâ
Your hands tightened around your quill. Wait, thatâs not mine.
George continued, oblivious to the turmoil you felt, and your face flushed crimson as each word hit. Your heart hammered so hard it felt like everyone in the room could hear it.
Fred, lounging nearby, leaned toward you just as George reached for a treacle tart from the plate on the table. He kicked your shin lightly, silently asking, Was it you?
You shook your head so fast it was almost comical, mouthing No!
George, still smiling as if nothing had happened, shrugged and licked a trace of sugar from his thumb. âWhen you were younger,â he said, eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief, âdid you ever send notes like that to older boys? Is that how people do it now? Canât just come and talk to me? How am I supposed to know who wrote it?â He leaned back with a small scoff. âNot wasting time on someone so shy.â
The words stung like a slap. You barely managed a muttered âGoodnightâ before gathering your books and slipping upstairs, praying the shadows would hide how shaken you were.
But sleep never came.
The next morning, you hadnât gone down for breakfast. Not yet. Not while the Great Hall buzzed with the clatter of plates, the chatter of students, and the tempting smell of bacon and toast drifting up the staircases. You stayed behind, curled up in the quiet of the Gryffindor common room, waiting. Waiting until the morning rush had passed, until the room was empty, leaving only the soft crackle of the fire.
When the last footsteps faded and silence settled over the empty common room, you took a deep, steadying breath. Heart hammering in your chest, you crept toward the boysâ dormitory, every step measured, every floorboard avoided as if it might betray you.
At the door, you paused, hand on the doorknob, fingers trembling slightly. Then, with one careful push, the door creaked open, and you slipped inside.
Georgeâs bed was unmade, his trunk half-open, papers and books scattered in the charming chaos that was so uniquely his. You crouched down, careful to avoid making any noise, and began rifling through his belongings. Quills, scraps of parchment, textbooks⊠your hands shook slightly as you searched for the Irish Quidditch bookâthe one that contained your letter.
But it wasnât there.
A sharp throat-clearing behind you froze you in place. Slowly, you turned.
Fred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. In one hand, between his fingers, he held your letter.
âLooking for this?â he asked, voice dripping with amusement.
âGive. It. Back!â you snapped, reaching for it, but he held it high, as if daring you to try.
He straightened dramatically and began to read aloud, his voice mock-serious, every word exaggerated as if he were performing for an audience:
âDear GeorgeâŠâ
Your hand shot out again. âFred! Stop it!â
But he ignored you, his grin growing as he continued to read. You gave him a sharp kick in the shin, making him yelp and bend forward just long enough for you to snatch the parchment from his hand.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You clutched the letter to your chest like a lifeline.
âOw! Easy there,â Fred said, rubbing the sore spot, still smirking. âRelax, it was just a joke. I saw you tuck something into his gift, but there was nothing in mine âfigured it had to be something juicy.â
You turned away, too furious and humiliated to answer, storming past him toward the door. But as you shoved it open, you nearly collided headfirst with George.
He froze, eyes flicking between your flushed face and the crumpled parchment in your hands. Concern replaced his usual easy grin. âY/N? Whatâs going on? Are you⊠okay?â
Fred stepped out from behind you, suddenly less smug under Georgeâs questioning gaze. âNothing,â he said quickly, voice casual. Then, with a sly glance at you, he added lightly, âJust a little secret between me and Y/N. Isnât that right?â
George frowned, clearly trying to read the situation. âWhat did you do?â he asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.
Fred clapped a hand on his brotherâs shoulder with exaggerated cheer. âDonât be so nosy, Georgie. Youâll only make her blush more.â
You muttered something under your breath, still fuming, and slipped past them, determined to escape before your embarrassment got any worse. Fredâs eyes followed you with an amused sparkle, while Georgeâs gaze lingered, trying to make sense of your flustered expression.
All day, you avoided them like the plague. You ducked into side corridors, skipped lunch in the Great Hall, and pretended to be deeply fascinated by the libraryâs dustiest shelves. But Fred was persistent, showing up wherever you went.
âYou like him,â he said matter-of-factly, leaning against a bookshelf while you tried to focus on your notes. âSo why donât you just tell him? You heard himâhe hates guessing games. Go up to him and say it. Simple.â
Simple. As if it were that easy.
You buried your face in your arms with a groan. Fred chuckled, unbothered.
George had started noticing. Noticing that Fred hovered around you more than usual. Noticing the way you turned pink whenever his brother teased.
And yet, Fred refused to let it go.
âCome on,â he insisted for what felt like the hundredth time as he flopped into the armchair opposite yours. âYou canât just bottle it up forever. One sentence, Y/N. Thatâs all it takes.â
You shook your head firmly, hugging your knees to your chest. âNo. Fred, pleaseâjust stop. Iâll never say it to his face. I donât have the courage.â
Fred leaned forward, frowning. âWhatâs the worst that could happen?â
Your stomach twisted as you whispered, âWhat if he laughs? What if he says nothing at all? What if he just⊠stares at me like Iâm insane? I couldnât survive that.â
For a moment, Fred was quiet. Then, with a wicked grin, he stood up and crossed to you. âAlright, letâs do a little rehearsal. Pretend Iâm George. You walk up to me, look me in the eye and say, âHi, I like you. Fancy a snog? I know a great spot.ââ
âFred!â you hissed, glaring at him.
He grinned wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. âWhat? Too forward? Fine. Maybe add a flower crown and serenade him with a mandolin while youâre at itââ
âStop.â You said, but he only laughed.
Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair, and for once his teasing smile softened. He reached out suddenly, taking your hand in his. The playfulness melted into something quieter, more sincere. His thumb brushed your knuckles as he met your eyes.
âListen,â he said gently, âIâve wanted to tell you this for a whileâyouâre someone special. Really special. And if you ever wanted to⊠maybe we could get a butterbeer together? My treat.â
Your eyes went wide. It made you laugh, shaking your head.
âIt was much betterâŠâ you said softly, unable to keep from smiling despite yourself.
And that was when the portrait hole creaked open.
George stepped in with Lee Jordan, both mid-conversation, but Georgeâs words died the moment his eyes fell on the two of youâFred still holding your hand, your cheeks flushed, laughter caught on your lips.
Leeâs eyebrows lifted, smiled. âWe wonât disturb you. Carry on.â
Georgeâs jaw tightened in a way youâd never seen before; the easy amusement slipped from his face and something sharper took its place. He didnât speak, but the change made the air between you feel suddenly thin.
Fred, waved a hand. âSit down. Iâll beat you both at Exploding Snap.â He flopped into an armchair with theatrical flair. âSeriously, sit. Iâll smash you.â His grin was outrageous, meant to defuse and distract, and for a second it worked: Lee chuckled and settled, and you let out a small, shaky laugh too.
George sat on the couch beside you, though there was a polite, cautious space between you that twitched at your nerves. Fred and Lee arranged themselves opposite, cards already in hand. The common room hummed low with the dying fire and the soft shuffle of cards. It should have been ordinary. It should have felt safe.
You slid a little closer, almost by reflexâyou wanted the warmth, the closeness âbut as your knee neared his, Georgeâs whole posture shifted. He drew back just enough that the gap widened instead of closing. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but it slammed into you like a cold wind.
For a moment you registered the absurdity: how a simple inch could feel like betrayal. Your pulse jumped into your throat; your hands went clammy on the cards.
You tried to smile, to meet his eyes, to catch whatever had slid away, but Georgeâs gaze flicked down to the table then away again, his mouth a tight line. He was presentâphysicallyâbut distant, like someone whoâd walked into the wrong scene and wasnât sure how to leave.
The game ended in a blur of laughter and shouted curses as Fred theatrically declared himself the undisputed champion of Exploding Snap. You laughed along, but your eyes kept flicking to George, whose expression remained distant, his usual warmth muted.
Fred noticed immediately. âHmm, clearly my victory wasnât impressive enough,â he said with a sly grin. âAlright, next round.â
You glanced at George, hoping he might crack a smile, but he just gave a faint shrug, still staring at the table as if it wasnât even there.
âOr,â Fred continued, undeterred, âwe could practice some dueling spells. I can teach you a new hex thatâs guaranteed to make someone hop on one leg for a minuteâentirely harmless, but oh-so-entertaining.â
Lee chuckled, clearly enjoying Fredâs relentless energy, while you felt a little embarrassed, realizing just how obvious Fredâs attempts were to distract Georgeâand perhaps you too.
Georgeâs eyes barely lifted. He murmured something about needing a âquiet moment,â. With a faint, apologetic glance toward the three of you, without another word, he headed for the stairs to the boysâ dormitory, leaving the game and laughter behind him.
And for the first time that evening, the playful, teasing atmosphere felt heavy with unspoken words, with something waitingâjust beyond reach.
The following days were quiet, almost painfully so. George no longer carried that radiant, easy grin when he walked past you in the corridors. He didnât bump shoulders playfully or tease you lightly as he once did.
Instead, he met your gaze with careful politeness, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. Every encounter left you with a hollow ache in your chestâyour courage failing to bridge the gap between misunderstanding and confession.
You hated it. You hated how wrong everything felt, how impossible it seemed to tell him the truth without feeling as if the world itself would collapse. And yet, the thought of letting him think something elseâthat he had misread your feelingsâwas unbearable.
It was in the library, bent over another essay, that Fred found you. He came skidding around the corner, eyes wide, clearly flustered.
âWeâve got trouble,â he said, voice low but urgent.
You looked up, puzzled. âWhat kind of trouble?â
âAll your fault,â he accused with a wagging finger. âIf youâd just told himâtold Georgeâyou liked himânone of this would have happened.â
âWhat happened?â you asked, alarm creeping into your voice.
Fredâs lips twisted in a grimace. âHe agreed to go on a date with that girlâthe one from the letter. Can you believe it?â He shook his head, exasperated. âHer nameâs Clarisse⊠sheâs⊠not bad-looking, I guessâŠâ
He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
Your heart lurched. âAnd? And what?â you pressed, trying to keep your voice steady.
Fred blinked, âAnd he said yes!â
You felt like youâd been punched in the stomach. âHe⊠agreed?!â
âYep.â Fred grabbed your sleeve and started tugging you toward the exit. âCome on! What are you waiting for? Go stop him! Tell him! Nowâs your last chanceâIâm done helping after this.â
You stumbled along, barely keeping pace. âWhat am I supposed to do?â you murmured, flustered.
âKick that date right out of his head! Say it! Tell him! Now, Y/N!â
By the time you reached the common room, Fred had already asked around. George had leftâlong gone, headed off with some girl.
Now all you could do was wait. Hours trickled by. The sky outside darkened, the fire dwindled to a faint orange glow, and the castle sank into near silence.
It was very late by the time the portrait hole creaked open again. Youâd half-dozed off in the armchair, your knees tucked under you, your head resting on your hand, when the door swung inward and George stepped inside. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, his hair a little damp from the frost in the air.
He stopped when he saw you and blinked, surprised. âY/N? What are you doing here? Why arenât you asleep?â
Because Iâve been sitting here like a fool, waiting for you, the thought flickered through your mind. But instead you straightened a little and managed a sleepy smile. âGot caught up in reading. Lost track of time, I guess. You must be freezing. Sit down, warm up.â
He hesitated only a second before moving to the couch, sinking into it with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his hands together, staring into the flames.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You could hear the faint crackle of the fire, the distant whistle of the wind against the windows. Then, quietly, you asked, âWhere were you?â
George let out a heavy breath, his voice low, almost like he was confessing something to himself. âOn a date.â
Something inside you tightened. You kept your tone soft, even, though your pulse had sped up. âHow was it?â you asked, hopingâagainst hopeâheâd say it had been awful.
He shrugged, still staring at the fire. âI suppose it was fine. Sheâs very nice. ButâŠâ He paused, frowning a little. âI didnât feel comfortable. It was⊠weird.â
Before youâd even realized you were moving, youâd left the armchair and crossed to the couch, sitting beside him. Without thinking, you reached for his hands. âHere,â you murmured, âthis will warm them faster.â
He looked at you thenâreally lookedâand for a heartbeat the room shifted. His gaze softened, darkened, flickers of something unspoken sparking behind his eyes. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your temple, as though he wanted to say something but couldnât.
Then, suddenly, he pulled his hands back and turned to the fire. âI canât,â he said quietly.
You frowned. âCanât what?â
His jaw tightened. âI canât⊠youâre with my brother.â
You blinked, stunned. âWhat? Who told you that?â
âNo one,â he said, finally looking at you again, confusion written all over his face. âI saw you. The two of you. I thoughtâarenât youâŠ?â
âWhere on earth did you get that idea?â you said, almost laughing from the shock. âFred isnâtâheâs just been helping me with something. Thatâs all.â
Georgeâs brows furrowed as the realization sank in. âHelping you?â
You took a shaky breath, your heart hammering. âGeorge⊠thereâs something Iâve been meaning to tell you. For a long time.â
His eyes searched yours, wide and uncertain.
You swallowed hard. âIââ Your voice wavered, but you pressed on. âI like you, George. I really like you.â
For a moment, he didnât move. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosened. The corner of his mouth quirked up, relief flickering in his expression. He reached out, taking your hand again, slower this time, deliberate.
âSay that again,â he whispered.
âI like you,â you said, steadier now.
Something in him broke open at those words. George let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky and disbelieving, before leaning closerâso close the firelight painted his freckles in gold. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, then higher, tracing the inside of your wrist where your pulse raced wildly.
âYou have no idea,â he murmured, voice rough, âhow long Iâve wanted to hear that.â
Before you could reply, his hand slid up to cup your cheek, warm and careful, like he was afraid you might disappear. You leaned into his touch instinctively, and the world seemed to shrinkâjust you, him, and the fire crackling softly beside you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasnât tentative, wasnât shyâit was desperate in its gentleness, like heâd been holding back for too long and finally, finally let go. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of honey and firewhisky, and the way he angled closer made your whole body spark.
Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him nearer, until there was no space left between you. His laugh rumbled against your mouth, half joy, half disbelief, before it melted back into another kissâslower this time, deeper, every second heavy with all the things neither of you had been able to say.
When you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His smile was boyish, radiant, but his eyes burned with something that made your chest ache.
âPlease tell me, why didnât you tell me sooner? And... are you angry about the date? Merlin, Iâm so sorry. I never shouldâve agreed to itâI just thoughtâŠâ His jaw worked nervously. âI thought you and Fredââ
âI wrote you a letter.â you cut in, squeezing his hand.
His eyes widened. âYou did? For me?â
You nodded, cheeks warming. âOn your birthday. I slipped it into that Quidditch book.â
He frowned. âButâI never saw any letter.â
A laugh slipped from your lips, shaky but real. âThatâs⊠kind of a complicated story.â
So you really did write me a letter,â he murmured. âWill you let me read it?â
Your heart thumped hard in your chest. âNo,â you whispered, âbecause you said that you wouldnât waste time on someone too shy toââ
He silenced you with another kiss, firmer this time, leaving you breathless when he finally pulled back. His forehead rested against yours, his voice low, steady. âIf that letter had been yours, I neverâneverâwouldâve said that.â
Your laugh caught in your throat, half relief, half disbelief, but he was smiling now, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. He tugged you closer, teasing, âCome on, Y/N. Show me. What did you write?â
âAbsolutely not,â you shot back, flustered but grinning.
George chuckled, that warm, unguarded laugh of his that made your chest ache. âYouâre going to make me chase after my own love letter? Thatâs cruel.â
âThen I guess youâll just have to live with the mystery,â you teased.
And somehow, in the soft glow of the dying fire, with his arm wrapped around you and laughter tumbling from both your lips, it didnât matter that the letter was still hidden away. Because now he knew. And that was enough.
Some Things George Weasley Doesnât Joke About
Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader
Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.
Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.
Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / Sibling Chaos & Teasing
It started the way most bad decisions usually do.
With laughter.
With noise.
With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.
You werenât the quiet type.
Never had been.
If anything, you were worse.
Loud when you shouldnât be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.
Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Fred liked to call it âa shared lack of survival instincts.â
George called it âfriendship.â
And you just called it home.
You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldnât, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.
Which, most of the time, you did.
Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.
Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.
âYou did what to Ronâs wand?â you asked, breathless.
Fred looked far too pleased with himself. âI didnât do anything,â he said innocently.
George snorted. âThatâs the problem. He didnât do anything. Thatâs when itâs worst.â
You shook your head, wiping your eyes. âYouâre both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.â
Fred tilted his head at you. âAnd youâll be right next to us cheering it on.â
You opened your mouth but didnât get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.
Sharp.
Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.
You didnât even have to turn around to know.
Professor McGonagall.
âMiss L/N,â McGonagall said crisply.
Not angry.
Worse.
Controlled.
You stood up slowly. âProfessor.â
Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: âIâve been informed that your academic performance this term is⊠concerning.â
Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside youâsomething between amusement and âoh this is going to be good.â
You shot him a warning look.
McGonagall continued. âIf your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.â
Silence.
Even Fred stopped smirking.
You swallowed.
âIâll⊠fix it,â you said quickly.
âI hope so,â McGonagall replied. âBecause repeating a year would be⊠embarrassing, for someone of your capability.â
That hit a little harder than you expected.
Then she added: âI will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.â
Fred blinked.
Georgeâs eyebrows lifted.
You, on the other hand ââŠCedric Diggory?â you repeated slowly.
âYes.â
There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.
Cedric Diggory.
Perfect grades.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
Perfect everything you were not.
You exhaled.
ââŠRight.â
McGonagall gave you a look. âYou will begin tomorrow.â
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Leaving silence behind her.
Fred was the first to break it. âWell,â he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. âThatâs your downfall sorted.â
âShut up,â you groaned.
George didnât laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.
Just watching.
Then he smiled.
âMaybe heâs not that bad,â George said.
Fred looked at him like heâd grown a second head.
You blinked. âYouâre joking.â
George shrugged. âMaybe youâll learn something.â
Fred scoffed. âShe wonât survive ten minutes of Diggoryâs voice.â
You threw a pebble at him.
It missed.
Unfortunately.
Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Even if none of you said it out loud yet.
The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very lateâjust enough to make a point.
Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.
You stopped at the end of the table and stared.
âI just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.â You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.
Cedric slid a book toward you. âOpen to page seventy-two.â
You stared at him in disbelief. âNo greeting?â
âI said hello when you walked in.â
âThat barely counted.â
Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. âYou talk a lot when you donât want to do something.â
You narrowed your eyes. âAnd you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.â
âI do color-code my notes.â
âOf course you do.â
Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.
You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.
The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.
That wouldâve been easier.
No, Cedric was patient.
Calm.
Infuriatingly calm.
Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.
By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.
âYou survived,â Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.
âBarely.â
âYou answered everything correctly by the end.â
You froze slightly. ââŠI did?â
Cedric nodded once. âYouâre not bad at this.â
The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.
Cedric just sounded certain like he hadnât doubted it.
You looked away first. âThatâs suspiciously encouraging.â
âIâm trying a new strategy.â
You narrowed your eyes. âManipulation?â
A small smile appeared again. âPositive reinforcement.â
âDisgusting.â
Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.
And for some reasonâ
you smiled back.
The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.
Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.
Fred noticed you first. âWell?â he asked immediately. âDid Diggory bore you to death?â
George looked up from where heâd been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.
You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.
âHe organizes his notes by color.â
Fred made a horrified face.
George snorted softly.
âAnd he says things like âfocusâ with a straight face.â
âThat poor man,â Fred muttered. âHe has no idea what heâs dealing with.â
You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.
The fact that you were still talking about him.
âYouâre smiling,â George said suddenly.
You blinked. âNo Iâm not.â
âYou are,â he replied calmly.
Fred pointed immediately. âOh, she is.â
âI am not.â
âYou fancy the prefect,â Fred gasped dramatically.
You threw a cushion at him.
He caught it easily.
âShut up.â
George was still watching you though.
Quieter than Fred now.
More observant.
âWhatâs he actually like?â George asked.
You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.
Cedricâs quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.
The way heâd looked at you across the table and said: Youâre not bad at this.
Your stomach did something strange.
ââŠAnnoying,â you answered finally.
Fred grinned. âThere she is.â
But George noticed the hesitation.
And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.
Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.
At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.
George just watched.
And noticed things.
Small things.
The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.
It was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
âYouâre spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,â Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.
You looked up from your parchment. âYou spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.â
âThatâs different.â
âItâs really not.â
George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.
Fred pointed at you accusingly. âYou laughed at something he said earlier.â
âIt wasnât that funny.â
âBut you laughed.â
You rolled your eyes dramatically. âMerlin, are you jealous?â
Fred looked scandalized. âOf Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.â
âHe probably irons his socks too,â Lee added.
George stayed quiet.
Because unlike Fred, George wasnât joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.
The next study session was somehow worse.
âYouâre distracted again,â Cedric said calmly from across the table.
âIâm literally reading.â
âYouâve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.â
You narrowed your eyes. âThat sounds made up.â
Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. âYou know, youâre very different when your friends arenât around.â
You blinked. ââŠExcuse me?â
âYou act louder around the twins.â
âThatâs because theyâre loud.â
Cedricâs mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.
You looked down quickly.
âI still think youâre annoying.â
âI think,â Cedric said calmly, âyou just like arguing with me.â
You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.
Cedric noticed the silence instantly.
And smiled.
George was already in the common room when you came in.
Alone.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasnât funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.
He looked up the moment you stepped in.
âYouâre late,â he said.
It sounded like a joke.
It wasnât.
âI had study sessions.â
âI noticed.â
That made you pause.
âDiggory again?â he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.
You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.
âIâve got something for you.â
You squinted. âThat sounds suspiciously like trouble.â
âItâs not. Itâs Transfiguration.â
You stared at it.
âWhat is this?â
âNotes.â
That made you laugh once. âYou donât have notes.â
George raised an eyebrow. âI do now.â
You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasnât just notes.
It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:
âthis part is evil, good luckâ
and
âMcGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your dayâ
You looked up slowly.
ââŠYou did this?â
George shrugged. âDonât sound so shocked.â
âThis isââ You flipped another page. âThis is actually good.â
âI know.â
You narrowed your eyes. âSince when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?â
âSince you started spending all your time in the library,â he said lightly.
The room shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just⊠quieter.
You looked at him properly now.
âGeorgeâŠâ
He cut you off immediately, too fast. âItâs nothing. Just figured you needed help if youâre trying to avoid repeating a year.â
You frowned. âThatâs not why Iâmââ
âYouâre always with him lately.â
Cedric.
The name wasnât said out loud, but it didnât need to be.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. âI went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you donât want to die in McGonagallâs exam.â
âYou read it twice?â you asked quietly.
He shrugged again, but this time it wasnât convincing.
There were faint ink stains on his fingers.
Like heâd been writing for hours.
Like heâd actually sat there and worked.
For you.
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
âYou didnât have to do all this,â you said.
âI know.â
Silence.
Then softer, almost careless again:
âBut I did it anyway.â
You looked down at the notes again.
Then at him.
Really looked.
The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath itâsomething quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.
âYou highlighted half of it,â you said.
âYeah.â
âWith different colours.â
âHelps with memory.â
âThat is the most responsible thing Iâve ever heard you say.â
George snorted. âDonât get used to it.â
You smiled.
And that was the problem.
Because George noticed that too.
His eyes softened just slightly.
âYou know,â he said, voice lower now, âyouâre actually listening to me for once.â
âI always listen to you.â
âNo,â he said quietly. âNot like this.â
Something shifted again.
He reached outâslowly this timeâand turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.
Didnât move away.
Didnât pretend it was accidental.
Just stayed there.
Close.
âStart here,â he said. âIf you can master that section, McGonagall wonât have anything to complain about.â
You nodded faintly, but you werenât reading anymore.
Not properly.
Because George was too close.
His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.
âHere,â he added, tapping a line. âThis is where everyone messes up.â
âI donât think I mess up everything,â you muttered.
A small smile.
âYou do when you panic.â
âI donât panic.â
âYou absolutely panic.â
You turned your head to argueâand found him already looking at you.
Not joking now.
Not teasing.
Just watching.
The air between you changed again.
Slower.
He stopped talking.
You stopped pretending you were reading.
âGeorgeâŠâ you said, quieter this time.
He didnât answer immediately.
His gaze droppedâjust for a secondâto your mouth.
Then back up.
And something in his expression tightened like heâd made a decision he wasnât fully ready for.
âYouâve been gone a lot lately,â he said.
âYou know Iâve been studying.â
âWith him.â
The words werenât sharp.
But they landed like something heavier than anger.
You opened your mouthâ
Nothing came out.
George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.
âI donât like it,â he admitted.
That made you freeze.
Because George didnât say things like that.
Not seriously.
Not like this.
ââŠYou donât like Cedric or?â you asked carefully.
George huffed a short laugh. âNo. I donât like that youâve started looking at everything like itâs somewhere else you need to be.â
Your throat went tight.
Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.
âAnyway,â he added quickly, âI could do this better than him.â
And this time there was no joke at all.
âFor you.â
Your breath caught slightly.
That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.
He was close now.
Close enough that if you moved even slightlyâ
Your knees brushed his.
He leaned in just a fraction more.
His gaze flicked to your lips againâthis time slower.
Intentional.
And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.
His hand slid to your cheek.
Warm.
Real.
And then he kissed you.
It was George in every possible wayâsoft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldnât believe you were there⊠and then something in him finally let go.
The kiss deepened.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.
Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision youâd been avoiding for too long.
George made a quiet sound against your mouthâsomething between relief and disbeliefâand leaned in.
Like heâd been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.
The world narrowed.
Fire crackling somewhere behind you.
Paper forgotten.
Everything else gone.
Just him.
Just warmth.
Justâ
The door slammed open.
ââYOU WONâT BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUSTââ
You both moved apart too fast.
Too obvious.
Fred froze in the doorway.
Looked at both of you.
Slow smile forming.
ââŠOh,â he said.
Long pause.
Then brighter:
âOh, this is bad.â
George leaned back in his chair immediately. âWe were studying.â
Fred nodded slowly. âSure.â
You grabbed the first random book on the table. âTransfiguration.â
Fred raised an eyebrow.
Then grinned wider.
âI leave you alone for ONE evening,â he said, delighted, âand you start⊠bonding academically.â
George sighed.
You stared at the ceiling.
Fred walked further in, shaking his head.
âThis is going to be so entertaining.â
And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:
ââŠWeâre dead.â
đđ«đźđđĄ đ©đšđđąđšđ§
Ko-fi
đźđđđđđ đđđđđđ đ đđđđđ đđđđđđ đđđ đđđ đđđđđ đđđđ đđ đđđđ đđđ đđđđđ đđđđ;)
The first time I learned that humiliation can stick to you like treacle, I was eleven and wearing brand-new black shoes that still pinched at the heel.
Substance F52.8
A/N: this is a love letter to my dearest @houseofhyde, I hope whatever is wrong with me helps cheer you up, my love. I love u <3. The title was Hyde's idea too, the numbers I chose are the diagnosis code for generalized hyperarousal/hypersexualization.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word count: 8.5k Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink? Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.
At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.
two tickets to iron maiden
pairing: dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"
word count: 11.7k
a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.
â main masterlist || bucky's playlist || dirtbag marvel series || đ©đ đ || steve's story â
synopsis: You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girlâall style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbagâloud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. Youâre desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.
two sugars
chapter summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea. word count: 4.0k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: this is sometime post civil war but the avengers are a big happy family :) i just love the idea of medic!reader, and a reader who take cares of bucky even when he thinks he doesn't deserve it warnings/tags: medic!reader, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/injuries, fluff, angst, possible inaccurate depictions of medicine
The quinjetâs rear ramp hissed open onto the compoundâs flood-lit tarmac. Everyone scattered toward post-mission routinesâThor to the kitchen, Natasha to the debrief, and Tony already complaining about âarrow residueâ in his repulsors. Bucky tried to drift with the crowd, jacket pressed close to hide the dark bloom seeping through his side.
âYou can limp faster than that, Barnes.â
You fall into step beside him, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to your elbows, med bag bumping your hip. Bucky answered with his best frown. âTook a scratch, thatâs all.â
âScratch?â You tugged the jacket hem and the fabric stuck to his ribs with an audible peel. âThatâs shrapnel and at least two stitches.â
âGood thing I only need one.â
âMath is not your strong suit tonight. Med bayânow.â
the siren call
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader summary: bucky swore heâd never lose himself again. so why does he keep looking for you in every room, hearing you in every silence, wanting you in every moment? he thinks your powers are making him fall in love, but when the truth comes out, so does everything heâs been holding back. tags: avenger!reader, superpowered!reader, bombshell!reader, mutual pining, buckyâs doing his best but still represses his romantic feelings for you warning(s): miscommunication trope, reader wears a dress, reader drinks alcohol, the avengers are alive and live at the compound with the thunderbolts because i said so, suggestive content (no smut) word count: 12.1k note: i got my start on tumblr writing bucky fics like eight years ago, so i love that iâm returning to my roots lol. i hope everyone enjoys this one!! there will be more bucky fics from me in the future đ«Ą
masterlist
Bucky knew you were a problem the moment you started distracting him during missions. Not that he would ever say that out loud. He didnât say much at all, really, especially not to you.
phantom limb | s.r.
**read touch and go here** âźÂ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at armâs length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall heâs built starts crumbling.
(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america canât fight.)
âź pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader
âź warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content
âź word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)
âźÂ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)
series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2
The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.
manchild,
pairings: steve rogers x f!stark reader mans best friend masterlist synopsis: âHow am I supposed to not settle steve? When-whenâŠâ You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. âIâm never going to be able to find someone if you donât just fucking leave me alone.â warnings: mdni! best friends to lovers, miscommunication, angst, sexual tension, smut (unprotected piv, oral f-receiving, fingering, tummy bulge, dirty talk, possessiveness, dom!steve bc trust the build up, praise, slight dumbification, hair pulling f-m receiving, multiple orgasms, steve begs for a second, size kink, squirting), reader has personal beef with the super soldier serum, mention of reader having dark hair, steve snaps bc reader is playing with his feelings, heavy yearning, an annoying amount of will they wonât they, size difference, age gap (reader is twenty-nine, mentioned once if you do the math), no use of y/n, jealousy, pining, protective!steve, jealous!steve, pettiness, kind toxic toward the end, bucky being a little shit and instigating but also prob the only reason they get together, probably missing some lol. total word count: 10k (not proofread) miaâs love note: gif made by me, please do not reuse! divider credits at the end. this series will follow multiple different readers continuing in each part. example next is tears, steve rogers x f!stark reader, it will be a pt two of this one. same goes for any of the other parts.
You stared blankly at the man in front of you, a fake smile carefully practiced and perfectly placed as you nodded along to words you were absolutely not absorbing. The restaurant was dim and overly intimate, candles flickering between tables like it was trying too hard to manufacture romance. You were sitting across from your fourth Hinge date of the month, posture flawless, dark hair pinned back just enough to look effortless while still screaming intention. Your lips were pursed in that subtle pout that said interested to him and deeply uninterested to anyone who actually knew you.
You lifted your glass of red wine to your glossy lips, letting it linger there as you stared at him through your lashes, mentally anywhere but here.
âAre you listening?â the guy said, his hand tapping the table in front of you.
The sound snapped you back just enough to feel irritation crawl up your spine. The tapping felt condescending, impatient, like you were a dog who had failed to sit on command. Your jaw tightened for half a second before you smoothed it out.
âSorry,â you said lightly, setting your glass down with care. âWhat did you say?â
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. Playing dumb was a skill you had mastered long ago.
âI was saying how my car self drives,â he said proudly, puffing his chest just a little. âHave you ever been in a self driving car?â He leaned forward, eyes flicking briefly to your cleavage. âBecause I can take you for the ride of your life.â
And there it was.
Your pout flattened instantly, expression hardening as the irritation bloomed into something sharper. You didnât even bother hiding it.
âNo thanks,â you said, already reaching for your purse.
You stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor as you slipped your fur coat over your shoulders, the satin of your deep red dress catching the low light. You scoffed under your breath, turning away from the table without another glance.
The guy spun in his chair, calling after you, his voice rising with embarrassment and wounded pride. You didnât slow. You simply lifted your hand over your shoulder and flashed him your middle finger without breaking stride.
Avengers Tower wasnât far from the restaurant, which was one of the reasons you had picked it. The walk did you good. Cool night air kissed your exposed skin, grounding you as the click of your heels echoed against the pavement. By the time you reached the tower and waited for the elevator at the ground floor, your irritation had dulled into dry amusement.
You pulled out your phone and unmatched with the man whose name you had to squint to remember.
Larry.
Horrible name. Horrible date.
Add it to the list.
You laughed quietly to yourself, shaking your head. There was no other reaction left at this point. Your dating life had been a wreck from the very beginning, a series of unfortunate events disguised as romantic opportunities.
There was your college boyfriend who had practically creamed his pants when your dad announced he was Iron Man. You remembered the way his eyes had lit up, the awe turning into something greedy and unsettling. That had given you the ick instantly. So long, Dylan.
Then there was the SHIELD agent who turned out to be a HYDRA mole. A top secret spy who somehow managed to be terrible in bed. Truly impressive in the worst way. Fuck off, John.
The elevator dinged, pulling you from your thoughts as the doors slid open. You stepped inside, sighing as you tucked your phone back into your purse. Your eyes flicked to the keypad automatically.
âWelcome home, Miss Stark,â FRIDAYâs voice chimed overhead.
âHey, Fri,â you sighed. âIs Steve awake?â
âMr. Rogers is awake,â the system replied smoothly.
âBring me to his floor, please,â you said, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the wall.
Steve was your best friend. Your constant. He was always there when you needed a shoulder to cry on, or one of his terrible jokes that you were pretty sure originated sometime in the nineteen forties. He gave the best pep talks, earnest and grounding in a way that made the world feel manageable again.
It also didnât help that he was unbelievably good looking.
His good boy charm landed in that special spot just behind your ribs every time he opened his mouth. The place that stole your breath without warning, that made your heart stutter when he smiled at you like you were the only person in the room.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and you stepped into Steveâs quarters like you owned the place.
If you asked Steve, he would say you just about did.
He loved having you here. It was his favorite thing about your friendship, how comfortable you were with him, how easily you filled the space like you belonged.
He just wasnât sure that was all it was.
Because he was sure, painfully sure, that he was in love with you.
Steve stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing a plate. Shirtless.
You stopped short.
His back was broad, impossibly broad, muscles shifting under skin that caught the warm kitchen light. His shoulders were wide enough that you felt smaller just standing there. He was barefoot, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips, water dripping down his forearms as he worked.
He turned at the sound of your heels.
His eyes widened.
Then, just as quickly, he looked away.
âHow was your date?â he asked, voice neutral but a little too tight.
You set your purse on the island and climbed onto one of the stools, your chin resting in your palm. You stared openly at him, at the way his chest rose with each breath, at the faint cut healing just below his collarbone.
âHorrid,â you sighed. âMen suck.â
He let out a small laugh and turned back to the cabinet, reaching up to put the plate away. The movement stretched his torso, muscles flexing without effort.
âThatâs a broad categorization,â he said.
You hummed. âItâs true.â
He turned to face you, arms crossing over his chest, which only made everything worse. He towered over you, even with you perched on the stool. Super soldier unfairness.
âYou look nice,â he said before he could stop himself.
You smiled. âJealous?â
âNo,â he said immediately.
You leaned forward slightly. âYou sure?â
âI just think,â he said carefully, âyou deserve better.â
Your heart jumped.
You laughed it off. âCareful, Stevie. You sound like you want to volunteer.â
His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening before he could stop it.
âYou offering?â he said back, his tone light but strained, the words leaving his mouth sharper than he meant them to. For one fleeting second, he hoped to stun you. Hoped to see surprise, or hesitation, or something that told him he wasnât alone in this. Something that proved he wasnât imagining the weight between you.
Your throat constricted slightly, breath catching before you could smooth it out. You looked down suddenly, eyes dropping to the counter as if it might offer you safety. Your fingers began tracing meaningless shapes against the cool surface, circles and lines that went nowhere, your body betraying the calm you tried to project.
âDo you want me to be?â you said.
Your voice was softer now, quieter than you intended. Heat crept up your neck, your cheeks flushing despite yourself. You hated how easily he could pull that reaction from you. You hated how quickly your defenses fell around him.
Steve saw it all.
He saw the way your shoulders curled inward just a fraction. The way your fingers stilled after you spoke, as if you were bracing for impact. He saw the vulnerability you never let anyone else see, the one you pretended didnât exist.
And guilt hit him hard.
He knew it wasnât t fair. Not when he already knew how this ended. He knew you didnât feel the same way about him, not in the way he felt about you. He knew it was cruel to let things hover in this space when you had spent the last four months desperately trying to find someone. Putting yourself through bad dates and worse men. It wasnât fair to dangle himself in front of you like the easy option. Like the safe place you could fall into when everything else failed.
And truthfully, he didnât want that.
He didnât want you to settle for him because you were tired or lonely or because he happened to be there. He wanted you to choose him freely. Fully. Or not at all.
âI was just teasing you,â he smiled lightly, forcing the expression into place even though it felt wrong on his face.
He turned away quickly, moving to the sink and starting the dishwasher just to give his hands something to do. The sound of the machine filling with water was louder than necessary. He let out a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.
He didnât see the way your hopeful expression dropped from your face.
âOh, nice one,â you cleared your throat.
The words came out almost flat. You were almost annoyed at his teasing, almost embarrassed that you had let yourself lean into it. But you knew you didnât have the right to be upset. You were the one who teased him constantly. You were the one who enjoyed poking at the super soldier in front of you more than he ever did you.
Still, it hurt.
You stood suddenly, the movement abrupt enough that Steveâs head turned before he could stop himself. His eyes tracked you as you walked closer, every step shrinking the distance between you. You stopped directly in front of him, your back resting against the kitchen island, his back resting against the kitchen sink.
You were close now. Close enough that the air felt heavier. Close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Even standing this near, the height difference was impossible to ignore. He towered over you effortlessly, his presence solid and grounding and overwhelming all at once.
You could feel the heat coming off his body, steady and constant.
âYou ever think,â you said lightly, as if it were just another joke, âthat youâre the reason all my dates suck?â
He swallowed, letting out a short laugh that did nothing to hide the tension in his throat. âI doubt that.â
What he didnât say was that he hoped he was. He hoped you thought about him while you sat across from those men. Hoped you compared them to him. Hoped none of them ever came close.
âHigh standards,â you teased. âYou ruined me.â
He shifted his weight, convincing himself his mind was playing tricks on him. Convincing himself that the way you looked at him didnât mean anything. âThatâs not funny.â
You smiled up at him, open and sincere. âItâs true. I mean weâre not dating, but youâre hands down the best guy Iâve ever met.â
You were laying the bait without realizing it. Offering him the simplest opening. Giving him the chance to admit even the slightest hint of what he felt.
Steveâs breath caught in his throat.
âYeah?â he asked, his stare so intense it made heat bloom across your chest.
âYeah,â you said, uncrossing your arms and leaning back on them.
Steve watched the way your fur coat fell from your shoulders slightly, exposing more skin. The sight made something twist painfully in his chest. He groaned internally, forcing himself to stay still.
âYou text me every day without fail,â you continued, words spilling out faster now. âYou genuinely care how Iâm doing. You know how to dress, which is very hard to come by these days.â
His jaw tightened.
âYouâve bought me flowers every birthday since I met you at twenty three,â you listed off, a small, self conscious laugh slipping in. âYou remembered that I love those bouquets from Lilyâs on Fifth Avenue but that Iâm actually allergic to the babyâs breath so you always get one without.â
You sounded dumb to yourself. No, worse. You knew you were dumb. It had been right in front of you this whole time. You had just been too scared to ruin the one thing that had always felt safe.
âAnd you always come to the rescue when I call,â you finished. âOr when I donât. You just know.â
Your voice softened. âItâs like how am I ever supposed to find someone who sees me like that.â
Steve was at a loss for words.
âI care about you,â he said.
He hated himself for it. That was all he could give you. He couldnât say it was because he loved you so deeply that he memorized every detail. He couldnât say he had been in love with you for six years. He couldnât say that every bad date felt like a punch to the gut.
He couldnât say any of it.
But you didnât hear what he meant.
You heard what he didnât say.
But you donât love me.
You nodded your head slowly. âYou do,â you said almost sadly.
You stepped forward, closing the distance again. Even in your heels, you needed to lean forward to make yourself taller. Your heart broke quietly with the realization that he only cared for you as a friend.
Steve leaned down just enough in response to your movement, instinctive and automatic. Your hand came up to rest on one of his biceps, fingers pressing lightly as if to memorize the feeling. You placed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, gentle and brief but devastating.
âThanks, Stevie,â you said softly. âThis really helped.â
You stepped back before he could speak. Before he could stop you. You turned, grabbed your purse, and walked into the elevator.
âGoodnight,â you said.
The doors slid shut, cutting him off from you, but you still heard Steveâs quiet goodnight as the elevator began its descent.
He stayed where he was long after you were gone, staring at the place you had stood, wondering how two people could feel so much and still miss each other entirely.
Weeks had passed slowly, each day bleeding into the next, yet somehow nothing had changed between you and Steve. Not really. The kiss lingered in your memory like something unfinished, something you replayed in quiet moments when the world was too still. It hadnât t been dramatic or explosive. It hadnât rewritten your reality. It wasnât anything out of the ordinary. Maybe just a tad bit more to the left. Maybe just a little softer than usual. But other than that, it was nothing short of normal.
At least that was what you told yourself.
The two of you had stayed in the same routine you always lived in. He texted you in the morning, short check ins that made your chest ache more than they should. You called him after he was done training, listening to his steady voice ground you when the day felt too heavy. You never spoke about the kiss. Not directly. Not indirectly. It existed in the space between you, unacknowledged but ever present.
Today though, today sucked.
No text from Steve. And no phone call from you.
He was on a mission. Because yes, he was still Captain America. And yes, he still had that self righteous duty to the people. You told yourself that was all it was. Duty. Responsibility. The world before you. You tried not to let the absence gnaw at you, but it did anyway.
You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, fingers fumbling slightly as you placed the backing of your earring on. Your reflection looked composed, put together, calm. It was a lie. Your shoulders were tight. Your jaw was clenched.
âHey babe?â Larryâs voice called from the kitchen. âCan I open this wine?â he asked her.
You sighed, because that was all you seemed to do when Larry was around. A quiet, constant exhale of patience you did not actually possess. You walked into the kitchen, eyes immediately landing on the bottle of wine in his hand. The label was familiar. Too familiar. Steve had bought you that bottle when you graduated your doctorate program. He had remembered the year. The vineyard. The way you smiled when you talked about it.
âNot that bottle,â you said, rushing over to him and taking the bottle from his hand.
âRelax babe, itâs just wine,â he said, trying to take it back from you.
âThereâs a bottle on the counter,â you said, moving out of his grasp.
He sighed, clearly annoyed, and walked over to the bottle on the counter, pouring himself a glass. âArenât you like a billionaire or something? Just buy a new bottle.â
The words landed wrong. They always did.
Why were you putting up with Larry from Hinge?You asked yourself that question more often than you liked to admit. The answer was simple and uncomfortable. Because you decided it was time to settle. And he had never really done anything to you. He wasnât cruel. Not unkind. Just stupid. Utterly useless in the bedroom. Easy.
Larry sighed from above you, a groan leaving his mouth as he let his head fall to your shoulder. His weight pressed against you briefly before he flopped onto his side next to you. He let out a chuckle, satisfied and careless.
âIâm finished, you cum?â
Didnât even know we started. You thought to yourself.
âYea,â you said, rolling over onto your side.
An ounce of spite blew through you then. Not at Larry. Never at Larry. At Steve. Because you were certain, absolutely certain, you would bet all of your very very hefty trust fund that he would last way longer in bed than Larry ever could.
The thought burned hot and sharp, and it pissed you off enough that you decided in that moment that you would drink the wine.
âYou know what?â you said, turning to look at him. âI could buy a million of these bottles and not dent my account.â
You grabbed a wine opener and popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room. You poured yourself a large glass and downed it in one go, barely tasting it.
âItâs so hot when you talk about money like that,â Larry said, setting his glass down.
You giggled lightly, the wine hitting you all at once, warmth spreading through your chest and limbs. You grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss.
It was heated. Mostly on your part.
He struggled to keep up, his hands unsure, his reactions delayed. He talked a big game but never pulled his weight. You groaned into his mouth as you walked him back toward the couch, frustration bleeding into desperation. Straddling him, you lifted his shirt over his head, because if you didnât do it, it just wouldnât get done.
His hands wandered your body greedily, clumsy and insistent. You closed your eyes.
And you pretended.
You envisioned his hands, though smaller, were Steveâs. You imagined strength and certainty instead of fumbling. His sadly unmuscular torso was Steveâs. Broad and solid. Steady. His lips were Steveâs. Warm. Patient. And the low groans that came from his mouth were actually coming out of Steveâs mouth.
The elevator doors slid open quietly behind you.
Steve stepped inside your apartment without thinking, keys still in his hand. He had come straight from the mission. He was tired. Bruised. Still wearing his suit. He had planned to tell you he was back. Planned to apologize for the silence. Planned to stand in your kitchen and pretend everything was normal.
He stopped when he saw you.
âFuck,â you moaned out, grinding on his lap. âSteve.â
You moaned against his neck, the name slipping from your lips without thought, without awareness, stilling as soon as it left your mouth.
Steve froze.
Larry was too caught up in the moment to realize what you had just done. âCâmon babe, whyâd you stop,â he said, tapping you lightly on your ass.
âHuh,â you said, too caught up in your own thoughts. âIâm sorry,â you said, looking at him.
âWhy?â he said.
You didnât answer. You just leaned forward, kissing him again. So lost in pretending it was Steve that you didnât hear the elevator ding or the sound of Steve himself clearing his throat.
Normally, Steve would turn around and leave. He would give you your space. Your privacy. He always did the right thing.
But he didnât like the way the man was touching you. He didnât like the way he didnât ask you if you were okay when you stopped kissing him. And he certainly didnât like the way you moaned his name in that manâs ear and then apologized for it like it wasnât exactly where it belonged.
Steve stayed.
And the silence between all three of you grew heavy enough to break something that none of you were ready to name.
The silence breaks when Steve finally clears his throat.
Itâs not loud. Itâs not aggressive. Itâs deliberate.
A sound meant to be heard.
You donât hear it.
Your attention is still locked on Larry. On the warmth of his mouth pressed against the curve of your jaw. On the way his lips linger like he thinks he has all the time in the world. On the way you are forcing yourself to stay present even though your thoughts are drifting somewhere dangerous and familiar and unwanted.
You kiss him again.
Slow. Distracted.
Your hands rest on his shoulders, light, almost hesitant, like they belong to someone else entirely. Like youâre playing a role you rehearsed but never quite learned to inhabit.
Steve takes one step forward.
His boots hit the floor with a solid, unmistakable sound.
The vibration of it travels through the apartment. Through the couch. Through you.
You freeze.
Your body reacts before your mind does. Your muscles lock. Your breath catches halfway in your chest.
âHoly shit,â Larry breathes, pulling back just enough to look past you. His hands slide from your waist as his eyes go wide, excitement flashing across his face as recognition hits him. âNo way. Babe, is thatâŠâ
Steve doesnât look at you yet.
He looks at Larry.
Still in his Captain America uniform. The star on his chest catches the light. The shield is strapped to his back, worn and scuffed like it has been used exactly the way it was meant to be. His hair is still damp from sweat and rain and effort. He smells like the aftermath of a fight. Like ozone and steel and something burned.
He looks impossibly large standing there, filling the space without trying.
He looks like authority.
Like something immovable.
âYes,â Steve says calmly. âIt is.â
Larry laughs nervously, scrambling to sit up straighter like posture alone might make him impressive. âCaptain America, man. This is crazy. I mean, I knew she said her dad was Tony Stark but I didnât realize you guys were like this close.â
Steveâs eyes flick briefly to where Larryâs hands are still resting on your hips.
His jaw tightens.
You feel it happen like a shift in gravity.
âStand up,â Steve says.
The tone is low. Even. It isnât a request.
It shoots straight to your lower belly before you can stop it. Heat curls there, sharp and unwelcome and painfully familiar.
Larry blinks. âUh, sure. Yeah. Totally.â
He gets to his feet quickly, tossing you to the side in his haste, wiping his hands on his jeans like a teenager meeting a celebrity instead of a man who was kissing you seconds ago. âHuge fan, by the way. Like massive. I mean I grew up reading about you, you know, saving the world and all that.â
Steve doesnât respond.
He steps closer instead.
The distance closes until Larry has to tilt his head back just to look at him. Steve doesnât crowd him. Doesnât raise his voice. Doesnât touch him.
He simply looks at him.
âYouâre going to leave,â Steve says.
Larry laughs again, uncertain this time. âOh. Yeah. I mean. Of course. If you guys need to talk or whatever.â
Steveâs eyes flick to you then.
Finally.
You are still frozen where you sit, heart pounding so loudly you are sure they can both hear it. Your cheeks burn. Your stomach twists. Shame and confusion and something dangerously close to relief crash into each other until you canât tell them apart.
For half a second, Steveâs gaze softens when it finds you.
Just for half a second.
Then it hardens again.
âNow,â Steve adds, eyes back on Larry.
Something in his voice sends heat straight to your core before you can stop it. It isnât anger. Itâs possession. Itâs certainty. Itâs control worn like a second skin.
Larry swallows.
âYeah,â he says quickly. âYeah, okay. I get it.â
He grabs his jacket, still grinning like this is already a story he cannot wait to tell someone. âThis was wild though. Seriously. Nice meeting you, Captain America.â
Steve doesnât respond.
Larry hesitates, then glances at you. âText me?â
You donât answer.
You canât.
Steve watches your silence carefully.
Larry takes the hint and moves toward the door, fumbling slightly with the elevator pad before letting himself out. The doors click shut behind him.
The apartment feels smaller immediately.
Too quiet. Too intimate.
You finally look up at Steve.
Up close, he looks exhausted. There is a bruise blooming along his jaw. A cut near his brow that has already started to heal. His uniform is scuffed, dirty, marked with evidence of a mission he never told you about. You fight the urge to rush over to him, to touch him, to ask if heâs okay.
The look on his face makes you stay planted right where you are.
âYou werenât answering your phone,â he says quietly.
You open your mouth, then close it.
âI came to check on you,â he continues. âI didnât plan on interrupting.â
âI didnât see your texts.â you say.
âI can see why,â he replies.
There is a pause.
His eyes drop, just for a second, to your lips. Then to the flush of your skin. Then to the bottle of open wine he bought you, still sitting on the counter like an accusation.
âYou said my name,â he adds.
Heat rushes through you instantly. âNo I didnât,â you say quickly.
Steveâs mouth twitches, just barely. his jaw clenching in nearly untamed restraint âYou did.â He wished you knew how much effort it was taking him to hold himself back.
You cross your arms, suddenly self conscious. âThat wasnâtâŠâ
He steps closer.
You scoot back once more.
âYou were pretending,â He says, not unkindly. A little annoyed that you thought you could lie to him. His senses were heighten just enough that he could hear your heart skip a beat when you lied.
He knew if you were aware of that fact youâd have another thing to add to the list of things you hated so much about that damn super solider serum.
You swallow.
âI should go,â you say, even though youâre already home.
Steve doesnât move.
âYou moaned my name,â he says again, quieter now. âInto someone elseâs ear.â
Your breath stutters. The look on his face is unlike anything you have ever seen before. Gone is the golden boy from the forties. In his place stands a man who looks like he is being torn apart in ways far worse than anything he has ever survived.
âI didnât - it was a mistake,â you repeat.
He took in a sharp breath âdonât say thatâ he said effectively making you close your mouth.
His gaze is intense, searching, like he is trying to decide how much truth he can allow himself to hear.
âwhat are you doing?â he asks you seriously stepping forward for every scootch back you take on the couch until your in the corner. he drops his shield on the floor lazily the vibranium clanging as he came to stand infront of you. he bent down slightly. you could smell everything, his usually ceder and oak scent mixed with sweat and maybe gunpowder from whoever he was fighting. it drove you insane as you clenched your thighs. âYou joke. You tease. You laugh it off.â
You look away embarrassed.
âAnd then you do that,â he continues. âam i supposed to keep pretending it doesnât mean anything?â
Silence stretches between you.
Heavy. Charged.
Heâs waiting for you to say something. Anything that will snap the last bit of resolve he has left.
âIâm drunk,â you say weakly.
Steve lets out a slow breathy laugh knowing that a glass of wine wasnât enough to get you drunk, enough to give you liquid courage, but you must have forgotten all the times heâd stayed by your side at parties and watched you down numerous drinks mumbling something about having your fathers tolerance to alcohol. âYouâre sober enough to moan my name while feeling up another guy.â
That does something to you.
Something dangerous.
Your chest tightens. Your pulse stutters. The air feels too thick to breathe.
âI didnât ask you to come,â you say.
âNo,â he agrees. âYou never do.â
The words hurt more than they should.
He reaches up, unclips his helmet that was hanging from the back of his suit, sets it down on the coffee table with careful precision. The sound is soft but final.
âYou deserve better than him,â Steve says.
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. âYouâve already told me that.â
âAnd yet,â he replies, eyes never leaving yours, âhere we are.â
You move closer despite yourself, stopping just inches from him. âYou do not get to be jealous,â you say quietly. âweâre just friends.â
Steveâs jaw clenches. âjust friendsâ he says
Another silence. Heavy. Loaded.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops back to his side before he stands up to his full height.
âYou shouldnât settle,â he says.
Anger courses through you. He keeps saying that. Over and over. Like a warning and a promise he refuses to fulfill.
âThen maybe you should stop showing up halfway through my mistakes,â You counter pushing him back, he barely moved from your force but ever the gentleman he is he took a step back on his own accord. âThis is your fault you know? You-you come in and save me everytime I might need you or - or when I donât even know I need you, you remember everything about me, you care about meâŠâ The word care came out of you mouth with a vicious poison âHow am I supposed to not settle steve? When-whenâŠâ You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. âIâm never going to be able to find someone if you donât just fucking leave me alone.â
The words land like a punch to his face. His eyes darken. âI wonât apologize for wanting you safe,â he says.
âI was safe,â you say.
Steveâs gaze flicks to the door Larry just left through. âNo,â he says. âYou were distracted.â
âOh so now this is my fault!â You yell at him.
Youâre certain the rest of the team can hear you screaming from downstairs. Itâs probably only a matter of time before Sam or Natasha comes running up the stairs to make sure everything is okay.
You step away from him to the other end of the living room.
âYES!â He says following your every movement. âYou let these men in here like you donât care what could happen.â
âNOTHING WAS HAPPENINGâ you say so incredibly frustrated. âYou know what?â you say with a scoff âif Larry canât come here maybe iâll just go fuck him at his place. See how safe I am then.â
You walk past Steve, your shoulder hitting his side as you pass him.
His hand reaches out grabbing your upper arm tightly. Not tight enough to hurt. But tight enough to make you stay.
He lets out a shaky breath. âGo to bedâ
âWhat are you my grandpa?â You say roughly pulling your arm out of his grasp âIâm so done with this.â
You donât even bother to wait for the elevator.
You grab your purse.
Your fingers shake as you click on Larryâs contact. You wait just long enough for Steve to hear you say, âYea baby? Itâs me, can I come over?â
Over the next few weeks, you hadnât spoken a word to Steve.
Not really.
You existed in the same space, breathed the same recycled air, passed him in hallways and common rooms and kitchens, but you didnât give him anything. Not your voice. Not your attention. Not even the courtesy of eye contact most days.
You barely glanced his way when you passed him in the main living quarters. You didnât ask how his missions went. You didnât comment when he came back bruised or bleeding or exhausted, uniform torn, knuckles split, jaw tight with things he never said. You didnât sit next to him on the couch during movie nights or linger in the kitchen when he poured his coffee in the mornings, even though he still poured an extra mug out of habit before catching himself.
No, you were way too stubborn and way too fucking petty for your own good.
Because the moment Bucky Barnes walked back into the compound one random afternoon, you clung to the man like a lifeline and didnât let go.
You supposed it was the equivalent of sliding into your exâs best friendâs DMs.
Trying to bang your super soldier best friendâs scarier and bigger super soldier best friend.
You gave yourself a headache just thinking that thought.
But one thing had become painfully clear to you that night.
Steve fucking Rogers did, in fact, have some kind of feelings for you.
Whether he was into you or just wanted to fuck you, you werenât sure.
You didnât care.
You were pissed.
Pissed because the night you went to Larryâs house, you found yourself in a rather unpleasant situation with him and one of his roommates, and Steve wasnât there to save you. You had to figure it out yourself. You had to leave. You had to make yourself safe with your own hands shaking and your heart pounding in your ears, keys clenched between your fingers like weapons.
Pissed because Steve had been right.
And you hated being wrong.
So yeah, you leaned into Bucky a little bit more than usual.
Not enough to make him uncomfortable.
But enough for him to raise an eyebrow in amusement.
It happens in the common room.
Bucky drops his bag by the couch, freshly back from a mission, the dull thud echoing in the open space. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, brushing the collar of his jacket, falling into his eyes when he moves. His beard is starting to grow in too, rough and dark and doing something unfair to his already dangerous face. Things you usually loved on Steve. When his hair grew longer on the sides and his beard grew in after a rough couple of days, when he stopped trying so hard to look like a symbol and just looked like a man.
âWell damn,â you say lightly, stepping into Buckyâs space without hesitation. âYou disappear for a few weeks and come back looking like that.â
Bucky smirks, slow and knowing. âLike what?â
You reach up without thinking, fingers hovering just shy of his hair, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth. âLike you finally stopped letting Sam bully you into haircuts.â
His laugh is low and surprised. âI hate my hair long.â
You grin, unapologetic. âI love it.â
Buckyâs eyes flick over your face, curious now. Amused. âThat so?â
âYeah,â you say, leaning back against the couch cushions, angling your body toward him in a way that is very intentional. âMakes you look less like an assassin and more like someone Iâd absolutely love to make bad decisions with.â
Across the room, Steve freezes.
Heâs pretending to listen to Sam. Pretending to look at something on his phone. Pretending not to notice the way youâve angled yourself into Buckyâs space like you belong there.
But he notices.
Of course he does.
âGuess I canât help it. Something about a man who doesnât try so hard,â you flirt, voice easy, casual. You let your gaze flick pointedly past Bucky, just long enough to make sure Steve sees it.
Then you look back at Bucky and smile.
âAnd the beard,â you add, voice softer now, more deliberate. âThatâs new too, right?â
âStill growing it out,â Bucky says. âThink Iâll keep it.â
âYou should,â you say immediately. âI love when it gets like this.â
His eyebrow lifts. âYou love it, huh?â
âYeah,â you say, fingers grazing his jaw this time, a light touch that lingers just a second too long. âMakes you look older. Rougher. Hotter.â
Bucky catches the shift immediately. His gaze slides to Steve and back to you. âYouâre poking the bear.â
You tilt your head innocently. âWhat bear?â
âThe one pretending he doesnât care.â
You laugh quietly. âOh. That one.â
You reach out and tug lightly at the collar of Buckyâs jacket. âYou grew it out more on the sides too,â you add. âLooks good on you.â
âCareful,â Bucky says, voice dropping, playing along now. âYou keep talking like that and Iâll start thinking you mean it.â
You shrug. âMaybe I do.â
Steve clears his throat from across the room.
Hard.
Buckyâs smile widens just a little. âSee,â he murmurs. âBear.â
Steve finally looks at you.
You donât look away.
Instead, you smile.
Itâs sweet. Sharp. Weaponized.
Later, it only gets worse, your fault entirely.
You sit beside Bucky at a team dinner, knees brushing, shoulder pressed into his arm like itâs the most natural thing in the world. You steal food off his plate without asking. You laugh at his jokes, loud and unrestrained. You lean in when he talks like his voice is something you want to catch in your mouth and keep there.
âYou always this charming,â you tease, nudging his metal arm. âOr is this just for me?â
âOnly for you,â Bucky says easily.
Steveâs fork bends in his hand.
âwhen was the last time you danced?â you ask Bucky suddenly.
Bucky blinks. âWhat?â
You stand, offering him your hand. âCome on. Your buddy over there has been saving a dance for a woman whoâs definitely long dead,â Steve gives you a heated look but you smile, unbothered. âI know you used to dance back in your day. besides I need to burn off some energy.â
âSince when do you dance?â
âSince Iâm trying not to commit murder.â
That earns a laugh.
Bucky takes your hand.
Steve stands at the same time. âWe need Barnes for debrief.â
Bucky doesnât let go of you. âIt can wait.â
You squeeze his hand. âYeah, Stevie. It can wait.â
The nickname lands like a slap.
Later, when you finally cross paths alone in the hallway, the tension snaps tight enough to hurt.
Steve blocks your path.
âYouâre doing this on purpose,â he says.
You fold your arms. âDoing what?â
âYou know exactly what.â
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. âBeing friendly?â
âYouâre flirting with him.â
You smile. âJealous?â
âI donât get jealous.â
âLiar.â
His jaw tightens. âYouâre playing with fire.â
You step closer. âFunny. You didnât seem to mind this much when I was playing with someone else.â
His breath stutters. âThat was different.â
âHow?â
He doesnât answer.
You lean in just enough for him to smell your perfume. âThatâs what I thought.â
The silence between you is thick.
Heavy.
Angry.
Unfinished.
And neither of you backs down.
You donât stop.
Thatâs the problem.
If anything, once you realize Steve is watching, really watching, you lean harder into it.
Steveâs hand tightens around his coffee mug the next morning.
Natasha watches the whole thing with open amusement.
Bucky glances at Steve again, then back to you. He lowers his voice just enough to make it intimate. âYouâre really laying it on thick today.â
You shrug. âMaybe Iâm just honest.â
âUh huh.â
âYou donât mind,â you say lightly.
Bucky chuckles. âNot at all.â
Steve sets his mug down a little too hard.
âYouâre hovering,â he says flatly.
You donât even look at him. âAm I?â
âYes.â
Bucky turns slightly, putting his body just enough between you and Steve to make the message clear. âWeâre just talking.â
Steveâs jaw flexes. âYouâre touching.â
You smile sweetly. âYou never complained before.â
That does it.
Steve steps closer, presence heavy and undeniable. âYouâre doing this on purpose.â he says again.
You finally turn to face him. âDoing what?â you reply in a mock voice.
âComplimenting him,â Steve says. âLike that.â
âLike what?â you ask, blinking innocently.
âYou know exactly what,â he snaps.
Bucky clears his throat. âTo be fair, sheâs not wrong.â
You grin. âSee?â
Steveâs eyes cut to Bucky. âStay out of it.â
Bucky lifts his hands. âHey. Iâm just standing here looking handsome.â
You laugh, leaning into Buckyâs side. âYou really are.â
Steveâs voice drops. âThatâs enough.â
âNo,â you say calmly. âItâs really not.â
âYou donât get to parade him around just to get a rise out of me.â
You step closer to Steve now, close enough that he can see the challenge in your eyes. âIâm not parading anyone. Iâm just appreciating.â
âBullshit.â
You tilt your head. âIs it?â
His voice tightens. âYouâre listing off every single thing I know you like about me.â
You pause.
Just for a second.
Then you smile.
âFunny,â you say. âYou noticed that.â
Bucky lets out a quiet breath behind you. âOh boy.â
âYou grew your hair out,â you continue, eyes locked on Steve now even though your hand stays resting on Buckyâs arm. âYou let your beard grow in. You stopped wearing white shirts and started wearing darker colors. Youre doing all the things you know i like.â
Steveâs chest rises sharply.
âAnd now youâre mad,â you add softly, âbecause someone else is doing it better.â
Bucky shifts, clearly enjoying this far too much. âI wouldnât say better.â
You glance back at him. âDonât be modest.â
Steveâs control frays.
âYou think this is funny,â he says.
âNo,â you reply honestly. âI think itâs exhausting.â
He steps closer. âThen stop.â
âWhy?â you ask. âBecause it makes you uncomfortable?â
âYes.â
âGood.â
The word lands sharp.
Bucky straightens. âOkay,â he says, gentle but firm. âMaybe we all take a breath.â
Steve doesnât look at him. âYouâre enjoying this.â
Bucky shrugs. âA little.â
âWhy?â
Bucky meets his gaze steadily. âBecause youâre both idiots.â
You snort.
Steve finally looks at Bucky. âYou think this is helping?â
Bucky nods. âYeah. Actually.â
Steve frowns. âHow?â
âBecause,â Bucky says simply, âyouâve been circling each other for years. And sheâs poking you because sheâs mad she likes you and that you wonât just say it.â
You scoff. âI am not.â
Bucky gives you a look. âYou absolutely are.â
Steveâs voice drops. âSay what.â
Silence stretches.
Your heart pounds.
Bucky sighs. âSee. This is the part where I exit before one of you throws something.â
You grab his sleeve. âDonât you dare.â
He smiles at you softly. âYou donât need me to piss him off. You already have him right where you want him.â
Steve exhales slowly, eyes never leaving yours. âWhat do you want.â
You swallow.
Then you straighten your shoulders. âI want you to stop pretending you donât feel anything.â
His jaw clenches. âAnd I want you to stop using Buck as a pawn in your childish games.â
You glance at Bucky. âSorry.â
Bucky grins. âWorth it.â
Steve takes another step closer. âYou keep flirting with him because itâs safer than admitting you want me, admitting iâve been right this whole time.â
You bristle. âDonât tell me what I want.â
âThen stop doing this,â he says quietly.
You hesitate.
Then you lift your chin. âMake me.â
The room goes dead silent.
Bucky mutters, âFinally,â and slips away, leaving the two of you standing there, angry and charged and seconds away from something neither of you can outrun anymore.
Both of your chests heave heavily with each heated breath you share. Steve steps forward, his hand reaching out to grab the back of your head, bringing you in for a heated kiss. He has to bend down slightly and angle your head upwards in order to make it comfortable for you. You let out a shocked gasp at the movement; Steve takes the opportunity to run his tongue along your bottom lip.
The two of you are the only people left in the common room, but still, as the kiss grows heated and his hands roam across your skin, touching wherever his hands can explore, seemingly memorizing your skin.
You let your hands hurriedly explore every crevice of Steveâs muscular body, a moan slipping out of your mouth when he wraps his hands on the bottoms of your thighs and lifts you up effortlessly.
You break the kiss, your chest heaving. âWhat are you doing?â you ask.
Steve walks you toward the elevator, pressing the button and stepping in when the doors open. âIâm trying really hard to be a gentleman right now and take you up to my room,â he says roughly, not looking down at you, but his hands tighten.
You shudder at the thought of his composure breaking. An idea pops into your head as you lean forward, your tongue running up his veiny neck and your teeth biting down on his ear lobe. âI never asked you to be a gentleman,â you say lowly into his ear.
He lets out a laugh, stepping out of the elevator. âIâm not doing it for you,â he says. âYou donât deserve nice me right now.â
âNo?â you say as he all but throws you back onto his bed. He stands at the end of it.
âNo,â he says.
Steve's eyes darken with hunger as he towers over you, his broad frame casting a shadow across the bed. He yanks his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the chiseled planes of his chest and abs, every muscle honed from years of fighting. Your gaze drops to the massive bulge straining against his pants, and heat pools between your thighs at the sheer size of him. He notices, a smirk curling his lips. âLike what you see, baby? This cock's all yours tonight, if you can handle it.â
Before you can respond, he grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. His large hands grip your hips, pulling your ass up as he strips off your clothes roughly, shirt torn open, pants shoved down your legs until you're bare and exposed. You arch back instinctively, but he slaps your ass hard, the sting making you yelp. âStay still, sweetheart. You're mine to play with now.â
He drops to his knees behind you, his breath hot against your skin as he spreads your thighs wide. Without warning, his fingers part your folds, two thick digits plunging into your soaked pussy. There was nothing gentleman like in the way he was acting right now. but fuck if you didnât love it, it almost felt poetic, Steve Rogers was Americaâs golden boy, you knew your father often teased him for probably still being a virgin even a hundred years later. Turns out, Steve fucking Rogers is most definitely not a virgin and fucks nothing like you imagined the Captain America would. You cry out, clenching around the intrusion as he curls them deep, stroking that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. âFuck, you're dripping for me already,â he growls, his voice laced with possession. âThis tight little cunt was made for my fingers, wasn't it? Just mine, no one else. So greedy, sucking me in like you can't get enough.â
You nod frantically, pushing back against his hand in an attempt for more, but he tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to arch further. The pull sends a jolt straight to your core, and you whimper as he pumps his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with rough precision. âThat's it, take it like a good girl. My good little slut, getting all wet and dumb for me.â The praise mixes with the dirty words, making your mind fuzzy, thoughts scattering as pleasure builds. âLet me ask you something,â he groaned into your ear, his back pressed against your arched back. His fingers slowed inside of you, hoping to stop your orgasm before it could crash over you. âAll those manchilds you went out with, could they make you feel like this?â He asked you.
âUh,â you said trying to think âno - no Stevie.â You said trying to roll your hips back but his pelvis held your lower abdomen against the edge of the bed.
He laughed. He actually laughed in your face, âI havenât even fucked you yet.â he said his fingers speeding up inside of you âThey make you cum?â He asked you.
You shook your head hoping your honesty would work in your favor. He hummed âAdmit you moaned my name and iâll let you cum.â He said.
Your eyes rolled back into your head when he hit that perfect spot with his fingers. Just as fast as he found it he stopped suddenly, you yelled out. âI did, I did! Mâsorry Stevie, couldnât stop thinking- oh fuckkkk, couldnât stop âmaging it was you I was kissing fuckkk.â You said his fingers started their ministrations again.
âSuddenly such a good girl huh,â He said leaning down and biting your shoulder, âcum for meâ He said.
Your first orgasm crashes over you suddenly, walls fluttering around his fingers as you soak his hand. âSteve, oh godâŠâ you gasp, but he doesn't stop, scissoring his fingers wider to stretch you, prepping you for what's next. âOne down, baby. You're gonna come so many times for me tonight, until you can't even think straight. pay back for all those asshole you brought around me.â
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, and you whine at the loss, but then his mouth is on you. Steve's tongue dives into your pussy, lapping at your release like a man starved. He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking it relentlessly while his hands knead your ass, spreading you open. You buck against his face, grinding down as he eats you out with filthy enthusiasm, his stubble scraping your inner thighs. âTaste so fucking sweet,â he murmurs against your folds, the vibration making you tremble. âAll mine. No one else gets this pussy.â
The possessiveness in his tone pushes you toward the edge again. You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling hard, urging him deeper. He groans into you, the sound rumbling through your core, and rewards you by thrusting his tongue inside, fucking you with it while his nose bumps your clit. Your second climax hits harder, legs shaking as you scream his name, juices flooding his mouth. He drinks you down, not letting up until you're a quivering mess.
Finally, he rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You hear the rustle of his belt, then his zipper, and when you glance back, your eyes widen at the sight of his cock springing free, thick, long, veined, the head flushed and leaking. It's huge, bigger than anything you've taken, and the size of it ignites something in you, a thrill of fear and want twisting in your gut. âSteve, it's... too big,â you breathe, but your pussy clenches emptily, betraying your words.
He chuckles darkly, stroking himself as he climbs onto the bed, positioning you on your back. âOh, you can take it, baby. I'll make it fit - stretch this pretty hole until it's molded to my shape.â He grabs your hair again, tilting your head back for a bruising kiss, his tongue claiming your mouth just like he claimed your pussy. You taste yourself on him, moaning as he lines up his cock at your entrance.
With one hand fisting your hair and the other pinning your hip, Steve thrusts in, unprotected, raw, the thick head breaching you inch by inch. You gasp into his mouth, the stretch burning so good, your walls yielding to his girth. âFuck, so tight,â he grits out, eyes locked on yours. âLook at you, taking my big cock like a champ. That's my girl, nice and full for me.â The praise soothes the edge of pain, and you relax, letting him sink deeper until he's buried to the hilt, his balls pressed against your ass.
He stills for a moment, both of you panting, but then he pulls your hair harder, making you arch as he starts to move, slow at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein dragging along your insides. âGonna ruin you for anyone else,â he whispers hotly against your ear. âThis pussy's mine now. Say it.â
âYours,â you whimper, lost in the sensation, your mind going blissfully blank as he picks up speed. Each thrust bottoms out, his cock so deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach. Steve presses his hand down on your lower stomach, âFuck baby, gotta see this.â He says changing the hand on your heads position so he was lifting your head forcing you look down at where your bodies met, specifically the space above it. And there it is, the faint bulge in your tummy with every plunge, visible under your skin as he rearranges your guts. âStevie fuckâ you manage, voice slurred with pleasure.
His eyes drop back to it, and he groans, pressing a hand back over the swell. âSee that? That's me, owning you from the inside out. My huge dick making you all swollen and dumb.â His words hit you as he says it, your thoughts dissolving into nothing but the feel of him pounding you, the wet slaps of skin on skin filling the room.
You come again around him, third orgasm ripping through you, milking his cock with spasms. He doesn't slow, fucking you through it, his grip on your hair tightening until tears prick your eyes. âGood girl, coming on my cock. So pretty when you're falling apart.â But then you tug his hair in retaliation, pulling him down for a messy kiss, and he growls, hips snapping harder. The dual pull, your hands in his hair, his in yours, drives him wild, his thrusts turning brutal.
Your fourth climax builds fast, body oversensitive, and you babble incoherently, âSte- ah- v...â barely able to form his name as he rails you into the mattress. âThat's right, get all fucked out for me,â he pants, sweat dripping from his brow. âCan't even say my name? Just a dumb little hole for my cum now.â The dirty talk pushes you over, and you shatter, vision whiting out as you squirt around him, soaking the sheets.
Steve follows with a roar, burying deep and flooding your pussy with hot spurts, claiming you completely. He collapses half on top of you, both heaving, his cock still twitching inside.
You couldnât form a coherent thought but you knew in the morning youâd pat yourself on the back for being right about that super soldier stamina.
Steve's massive frame still hovers over you for a lingering moment, his cock twitching one last time inside your overfilled pussy before he pulls out with a slow, deliberate slide. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper softly, your body clenching around nothing as a warm gush of his cum spills from your stretched folds, trickling down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you. Your mind is a hazy fog, every nerve ending buzzing with the aftershocks of those relentless orgasms, leaving you limp and boneless, eyelids heavy as sleep tugs at the edges of your consciousness.
He shifts immediately, the dominant fire in his eyes softening into something warm and protective. âEasy, baby,â he murmurs, his voice a low rumble now stripped of its earlier growl, replaced by gentle concern. He brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light tenderness. You're too spent to respond coherently, just a soft hum escaping your lips as you nuzzle into his palm, seeking the comfort of his touch.
Scooting back, Steve stands up and walks to the bathroom grabbing a towel from the cupboard. He wets it quickly in the bathroom sink, the sound of running water a distant lullaby in your fuzzy state. Returning, he kneels between your parted legs, his broad hands careful as he lifts one thigh to clean the sticky mess between them. The cool dampness of the cloth against your sensitive skin makes you shiver, a faint gasp slipping out, but he soothes you with a kiss to your inner knee. âI've got you, sweetheart. Just relax, let me take care of my girl.â
He works methodically, wiping away the evidence of your passion, the slick remnants of your releases, the faint redness from his earlier grips, the cum still leaking from your puffy entrance. His movements are unhurried, reverent almost, as if he's worshiping the body he just claimed so fiercely. Every swipe is gentle, avoiding any pressure on your swollen clit or tender walls, and he murmurs praises under his breath - âSo beautiful like this, all soft and spent for meâ - his words wrapping around you like a blanket.
Once you're clean, he discards the towel and pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in his world. Your head lolls against his shoulder, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, and he rocks you slowly, one arm banded securely around your waist while the other strokes your back in long, calming sweeps. âYou were incredible, you know that?â he whispers, lips brushing your temple. âTook everything I gave and more. I'm so proud of you.â
The exhaustion crashes over you fully now, your limbs heavy, thoughts drifting like clouds, but his warmth keeps you anchored. He reaches for a bottle of water on the nightstand, unscrewing the cap with one hand before tipping it to your lips. âSmall sips, doll. Gotta keep you hydrated after all that.â You manage a few swallows, the cool liquid easing the dryness in your throat, and he smiles down at you, eyes crinkling with affection.
As he sets the bottle aside and tucks the covers around you both, pulling you flush against him under the sheets, his hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then lifts his gaze to meet your half-lidded one. âI love you,â he says simply, the words raw and sincere, carrying the weight of everything unspoken during the heat of the moment. âMore than anything. You're everything to me.â
Your heart swells despite the sleepiness weighing you down, a sleepy smile curving your lips as you squeeze his hand weakly. âLove you too, Stevie,â you mumble, voice thick and slurred, but the truth shines through. âSo much.â
He exhales a contented sigh, drawing you closer until there's no space between you, his chin resting atop your head. âSleep now, baby. I'm right here always.â His fingers resume their lazy patterns on your skin, lulling you deeper into rest, the world fading to the rhythm of his breathing and the safe harbor of his arms.
© 2025 miasvelvetvoid, divider credit: @ithemes & @saradika-graphics
messy
âŠMain Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŠ
âŠsummary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smutâŠ
âŠwc: 10.9kâŠ
âŠAuthor's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!âŠ
Youâre not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, theyâre a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. Itâs a part of the job, to see whoâs here. What kind of interviews youâre going to be able to get, whoâs already closing in on who, whoâs snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If youâre smart about thisâand you always areâyouâre going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
phantom limb | s.r.
**read touch and go here** âźÂ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at armâs length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall heâs built starts crumbling.
(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america canât fight.)
âź pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader
âź warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content
âź word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)
âźÂ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)
series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2
The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.
loathe isnât strong enough
angst | betrayal | slowburn | smut | masterlist
endgameâthunderbolts!bucky x ex-avenger!reader
synopsis: Stark Industries took everything from you, and you're determined to get your revenge backâby killing Tony Stark. The plan was simple: infiltrate the Avengers, gain trust and get Tony alone. You didn't anticipate how you'd fall for Bucky Barnes, having to break his heart in the worst way possible. Years later, you're faced with him again, but if you can't forgive yourself, how can he?
tags: ANGST. slowburnish. betrayal. hurt!comfort. smut; hatefucking, crying during sex. reader is morally grey. violence; mention of blood, guns. panic attack. trauma bonding. kinda found family. unreliable narrator.
wc: aprox 19k (longest fic Iâve ever written???)
a/n: life got in the way but hey, Iâm back! This is not proofread, and i need to get this out cause itâs consuming me and i kinda hate it but fuck it, we ball. Glossing over the blip here so itâs left more for interpretation.
đĄđđąđâ đđđđ (đđąđđđŠ đđđđđđ )
pairing: bucky barnes x f!nurse!reader
summary: You think Bucky may have an intense, innate hatred for you - something he is powerless to fight. You couldn't be more wrong.
warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication, idiots in love, description of medical environment & gunshot injury (non-graphic), cursing, angst with a happy ending, medical malpractice (seriously), nurse!reader written by someone who prob knows about as much about biology as a newborn
a/n: this was inspired by merry crush-mas by @unificsation - if you would like to see a much better version of the 'i think he hates me but he's actually in love and socially inept' trope, look no further!
dt @tw1sters who listened to me complain about writing this for far longer than what should be socially acceptable and read some bits i was unsure about. you are likely the only reason i finished this fuckass fic đ„
Handful
Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.
âž PAIRING & WC: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader â 3K âž WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication!!! âžÂ A/N: i was reading dear @heldbybarnes' delicious firefighter bucky and got hit with inspo to write this in an hour at 2am. just my good ol friends miscommunication and yearning! hope you enjoy, any comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated <3
†main masterlist
You meet Bucky by accident. Setting off the fire alarm in your building when youâre reverse searing a steak that billows smoke like itâs nobodyâs business until it touches your finicky little thing. The alarm blares loud, waking up the entire building judging by the way your neighbors are complaining through your walls â even the ones above you.Â
Youâre wincing in apology as you open up your windows and your door, standing on one of your rickety dining chairs and attempting to shut the damn thing up.Â
Thatâs when he comes in.Â
Booked Solid
Pairing: Congressman Barnes x Reader Word count: 4.6k Warnings: SMUT, p in v (doggy style), oral (f receiving), fingering, jealousy, established relationship, secret relationship, Bucky Barnes being down bad for you. Summary: It's entirely your fault that people think Bucky is still available, but that doesn't mean that you have to like it. +fran: this is in the same universe as undisclosed relations, can be read as a standalone. read all my congressman barnes works here dividers by @/bhavihelps
Before he met you, early mornings in his apartment were quiet.
Bucky went out for his runs pretending the sheer stillness of the place didn't make an itch bloom in the back of his brain.Â
Sometimes the condo felt too big, even though it wasn't huge, it also wasn't a shoebox.Â
Since the night in his office, though, he wakes up around 6:45am to the sound of his kitchen being used and, if he asked you, the sound of hearts breaking all over D.C. in the process.Â