Summer lovin

Harry potter, Marvel, Top Gun, JJ, Rafe, and more

[trolostodos]

Mastelist

Harry potter

Fred Weasley

Good enough to be loved by you; P2

James Potter

Nothing yet...

Sirius Black

Nothing yet...

Top gun

Jake Seresin

Nothing yet...

Bradley Bradshaw

Finding hope again

Wednesday

Ajax Petropolus

Nothing yet...

Marvel

Steve Rogers

Nothing yet...

Bucky Barnes

It's not your fault p2

Pietro Maximoff

Nothing yet....

[imaginingmanyfandoms]

i’ll be leaving with you | jake seresin

summary: you've loved bradley bradshaw for years, watching him choose well - not you for years. jake seresin loves you so much he's willing to put his needs aside to help you with rooster if that means you won't take a job offer that takes you off the island.

warnings: angst, fluff, smut (p in v, oral f recieving) bradley is kind of a douchebag, jake is yearning, jake down so bad, reader is female

a/n: first top gun fic, hope yall are still in the market

"I once heard a rumour that pretty girls aren't supposed to sit outside of a party by themselves." Jake smiles, that easy, charming smile he always had for you. "But that's just a rumour."

He slides beside you, tucked in close, passing you a beer, acting nonchalant when your fingers brush against his.

Jake has perfected the act of pretending that you're not everything he's ever wanted. But he's hasn't mastered the art of letting go. He knows, he knows that you're meant to be his, that you were made for him. He's almost positive he wished for you over birthday candles once.

"What're you doing out here, sweetheart?"

You don't answer, but your eyes lead his, landing on Rooster with some leggy redhead tucked between his legs, he smiles easily while she plays with the collar of his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt.

"He's an idiot," Jake sighs, "and you deserve better than him anyway."

You shrug.

You'd known Bradley for years. You both went to the same university, where you took medicine, becoming a doctor. You fell in love with him at school, but never tried anything, always thinking it was never the right time. But anytime you thought maybe you should move on, Bradley did something, just enough, to keep you hanging on.

Jake's eyes narrow over the ocean. He knows Bradley knows about your feelings. They've never talked about it, but how could Rooster not know.

Jake's been watching Rooster string you along for the better part of a year, and it makes him sick. How could Bradshaw just, waste away his time like that? The perfect woman, smart, funny, kind, beautiful. A fucking doctor for crying out loud - who better to be with a Navy man? Someone who understands that there's risks in life, someone that understands how precious time is.

"You should make him jealous," Jake finds himself saying, surprising both you and him.

"What?"

"You know," Jake continues, not sure where the words are coming from. "Make him jealous, make him make a move."

"Oh yeah? And how exactly would I do that? I've been on dates and he never cared, he's seen me kiss guys, and he just... he doesn't care, Jake. He doesn't want me."

Jake frowns. "I told you. He's an idiot."

"They offered me a job in Parkland Memorial Hospital in the emergency room."

Alarm bells ring in Jake's head. You can't be talking about... leaving? Leaving. Leaving!?

"I'm thinking about it - thinking space might do some good, I can finally, finally just... get over it."

"You can't just leave," Jake says, hand gripping the railing so hard one of his knuckles crack.

"I can't keep this cycle up, Jake." You look at him, his tense jaw, how his eyes stay focused at one point in the distance. There's no denying how beautiful Hangman is. Your eyes flit over to Rooster, who's pulling the girl closer. You look away before you have to see them kiss. "I'm tired."

"I'll help you," he says, and he's once again unsure where the words are coming from. But if making Rooster make a move is the only way Jake gets to keep you in his life, then he'll do it. He can't lose you. He won't. "And if it doesn't work in a month, I'm sure that job'll be there for you, or a better one."

You don't answer, and Jake takes that as a maybe.

Anything, anything would be better than you packing your bags.

The next day, you're sitting in your office on base, finishing sending in inventory for the medical supplies you need.

Not too much happens on base, anything really bad ends up sent to the hospital with you in the back of the ambulance providing care. It's not that exciting - which is good, exciting work for a doctor usually means someone is seriously injured.

But here you are, asking for more gauze and tape, and that's okay too.

A knock on the door followed by, "Hey doc," breaks you out of your trance, and Jake comes strolling in, small smile on his lips as he glides over, leaning on your desk beside you. "How are you feeling today?"

"Right as rain, Jake."

"Mmm," he mumbles, looking at the papers on your desk, before running his gaze over your face. He's noticed that your lips have been holding a soft pout for weeks, like you've given up on a dream. It makes his blood boil. He wants to fix it. He leans back a bit, arms crossed on one foot crossed over the other, and he keeps his eyes on you. "You think more about that job offer?"

You sigh, "No, not really. It's ... hard. I want to make the decision that's best for me and not base it off of Bradley." Your shoulders slouch, "but I - I just have no idea what to do. All my friends are here, I love my job."

"So stay," Jake says, "Don't run from where you are over Chicken."

For the first time, ever, you don't tell Jake not to call Bradley that. You just smile, finally looking up at Jake. He takes the moment head on, and leans towards you. One hand on your desk, the other on the back of your chair, legs spreading wide in a way that makes your breath hitch - but if Jake notices he doesn't comment on it.

"There are lots of things here that can make things better, you know."

You're so close to him.

You've never been this close to him.

No one ever understood the friendship you two have. Nat thought it was odd, the way that Jake seemed to gravitate towards you, always finding you a sea of people, like he was magnetically drawn to you. But he never made a move, never talked about you in ways he's talked about other women, never expected you to fall at his feet. And rarely ever laid down the moves he so easily threw at beautiful people. Nat noticed recently that Jake's been on a dry spell - and doing absolutely nothing to change it. Even when women threw themselves at him, he just smiled politely, and got you another drink.

Unfortunately, you saw this as platonic - how? No one knows. Everyone else can see it for what it is. Payback and Fanboy have a bet going about who confesses first, you to Bradley or Jake to you. Fanboy bet on you confessing, Payback on Jake. Coyote wants Jake to get the girl. Bob silently hopes you find a nice, stable man outside of the military because he adores you and doesn't think either Hangman or Bradley deserve you. While Natasha and Halo just want you to be happy.

"Jake, I..."

The door opens, and both of you snap your attention to the person, Bradley, obviously, walking in.

He hesitates, eyeing the closeness between you guys suspiciously.

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

You say no the same time Jake says yes. And you both look at each other, smiling like you're sharing an inside joke.

"Did you need something, Rooster?" Jake asks, and you hit his chest playfully.

"Come in, Bradley. Everything okay?" You ask, pushing up from the desk and gliding around Jake's arm, which makes the chair roll back and he has to catch himself, praying you didn't see that.

"Yeah..." he starts, "I just have this... uh," Brad looks at Jake. "Can I maybe talk to you privately?"

"Of course," you nod, "Jake?"

"I'm going," he rolls his eyes. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, I'll see you then."

"I'll bring you something."

Jake smiles, winking at Bradley, who is still looking at you with confusion written over his expression.

When Jake leaves, Bradley's eyes trace over you - looking for something.

"What's wrong?" you ask, looking him over for injuries.

"It's nothing just... I have a really bad sunburn on my back is all, wanted something for it," he explains, and you move to the cabinets to get some cream for him.

"I should still look at it," you say, "take your shirt off."

As he does, he talks, "what was Jake in here for?"

"You can't ask me that. Turn around," you spin your fingers, and he obeys.

"Right, yeah," he mutters, "didn't really seem like a clinical thing though."

"Bradley, stop." You look over the burn, it's red sure, but doesn't really seem that bad. With gloves on, you rub some of the ointment over it. It should make you blush maybe, but this is your clinic, and your job, and you don't take the moment as anything more than what it is. Being a doctor. "Just put this on again before bed, and in the morning if you need it. If it doesn't go away, come back. But it looks fine."

Bradley nods, but doesn't move. Doesn't put his shirt back on.

"You didn't say goodbye last night."

"Huh?" you ask, "I didn't see you all night, I didn't think I had to."

"Oh, you don't, I guess, but..." he looks down, "you usually come say bye."

"Me and Jake head out early," you explain, shrugging, indignation rising in your chest. Who was he to complain? He was wrapped up in someone else anyway... were you meant to tap him on the shoulder and wait for their lips to break apart just so you could say goodbye to someone you hadn't even spoken to that night?

"Together?"

"Yeah, he wanted to make sure I got home, I had a bit more than normal." You move to your desk, filling out a sheet to add to Bradley's file. It doesn't really need a sunburn update, but you do it anyway, for something to do with your hands under Bradley's intense stare.

"Right, okay..."

"Is that okay?"

"Of course it is, I'm just... checking in on you, that's all." Bradley finally puts his shirt back on. "Do you, are you going to the gala next week?"

"Yes," you say, instantly, too instantly.

"Me too," he says, "I was thinking we could go together."

"Oh?" your hand stills, your heart races. Is... is he asking you out? Did Bradley Bradshaw fake the pain to come to your office? Is this really happening? All these years of pining, and yearning, are they ending? You almost say yes, but then he speaks again.

"We used to go to stuff like this as friends all the time, and I thought... It would be fun to do it again, is all, better than standing around alone. My date bailed when she saw me take home this girl last night - she was so pissed off, you should hear the voicemail she left."

Your heart shatters.

It's so loud and painful you're almost sure he can hear it.

"I already have a date."

You say it before you can think about it. It comes out in a snap and you can't take it back.

"Oh," is all he says.

"Yeah," you say, trying to find the excuse out of this, you land on, "Jake asked me to go with him."

"Hangman? You can't be serious." You can practically hear Bradley roll his eyes as you tuck the paper into his file.

"Why not?"

"He's... he's Hangman!" Bradley has never raised his voice to you before, and he doesn't yell, but the tone he uses is something you've never heard directed at you as he says, "you're going to be Hangman's date!?"

"What's so bizarre about that?" you ask, turning to face him finally.

"He's not good enough for you and you know that."

You both stare at each other, arms crossed, angry faces mirroring each other. This is as close as you've come to a fight, ever. Usually you would back down, but you're... offended, on Jake's behalf. Jake has always been a perfect gentleman to you, and a great friend. He's been an amazing friend to you, actually.

"Jake is wonderful. Now if you don't need anymore medical attention, I have work to do."

You answer leaves no room to argue. Bradley leaves - without saying goodbye, one might point out, and closing the door harder than he needs to, enough to make your shoulders flinch. His attitude left a bad taste in your mouth, and you don't like it at all.

Rooster comes back to the group hot headed and ready to blow.

The air is tense, made more tense every time Jake cracked a joke, or answered a question, or did anything.

When Mav leaves them for a moment to talk to Cyclone about something, Nat finally asks what the problem is.

"Ask Bagman," Rooster mutters, rolling his eyes.

Jake scowls, "Hey, what the hell did I do?"

"You're taking her to the gala?" Rooster crosses his arms, and pouts like a schoolboy. No one has to ask who he's talking about.

An easy grin lands on Jake's face, and it only irritates Rooster more. Jake, being the guy he is, goes along with it. He never actually asked you - but absolutely would love to have you on his arm for the night. So he's all too happy to play along. He's all too happy to be your date.

"And what's the problem?" is all Jake asks.

"You're my fucking problem!"

"Well," Jake shrugs, "you snooze, you lose, brother."

Rooster is quick to anger. And pushes Jake before the others can grab him. Jake just laughs, walking a few steps back and out of Rooster's reach.

"Don't get mad at me for wanting her," Jake says, and it's earnest, he means it, they all know he does. "You just don't want anyone else to have her in case you change your mind, and honestly, Chicken? That's so messed up."

"You don't know anything." Rooster pushes Fanboy off, but he stays close by, in case Rooster lunges again.

"I know that she is special, and I know that she deserves the world. And I know that you could never give that to her, so I will." Jake glares at Rooster. "And I'll do it better than you ever could, and I'll do it fucking gladly. Because being in her orbit, well that's a goddamn honour, and I will not be squandering it like you did."

Nat and Bob share a look that says... damn - maybe Jake is the one. Everyone is quiet. Rooster is breathing heavily, jaw ticking in anger, but Jake is cool as can be, not worried in the slightest. Coyote puts a hand on Jake's shoulder, and the two share a smile.

When Mav returns he senses the tension, but he doesn't say anything about it, just gets back to business.

And both Rooster and Hangman both have you on the mind.

At lunch, Jake shows up with two meals in hand.

You're at your desk again, looking over paperwork when he strolls in, just happy to see you.

"You're in luck, Doc," he says, "they're serving your favourite today."

A bright smile crosses your face when he sets the food down. Jake hesitates, only briefly, and decides it's okay to lay a soft kiss on your hairline as he hands you your meal.

"Thanks, Jake," you sigh, "I like... I like when you come here for lunch."

His heart flips. His cheeks feel warm and he knows the tips of his ears are turning pink at your admission.

"I like coming here," he says softly, pulling up a stool to sit beside you.

"It must be nice to get away from the chaos for a bit."

He shrugs, "I don't mind the chaos, I just like spending time with you."

"Big softie," you smile.

"Don't let the others know."

A knock on the door makes him tense, but he relaxes when Nat comes into the room. He thought maybe Rooster was coming to talk you out of going with Jake to the gala.

"Hey Doc," she says, "Hey, Bagman."

"Nix," Jake says, "she's not doing walk-ins, she's taking her lunch."

You hit him on the arm, laughing. "He doesn't speak for me, you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm fine, I actually just came by to invite you out later. Me, Halo and some of the other girls are going for drinks later and thought you might like to come."

"Oh," you say, "that sounds great!"

"Perfect, I was hoping you'd say that." Nat looks at Hangman, who isn't being annoying, miraculously, and he's just unwrapping your food before his own, like it's the most normal thing in the world. She can't help but note how much different he is when it comes to you, and it's... endearing, in a way. "We'll swing by your place to pick you up."

"Just text me the time," you say, "I can't wait, I need a girls night."

"Anytime."

Natasha leaves, hurrying to find Bob because she needs to debrief both the fight, and Jake sitting at your table setting up your plate immediately. It was almost domestic, and she needs to talk about it.

"You know what happened earlier?" Jake asked, and you shook your head. "Rooster pushed me after finding out I'm going to be your date next week."

"He pushed you? Oh, I'm so sorry Jake, I should've asked first but it just came out," you flush, looking him over like he'd told you that he was pushed down a flight of stairs.

"No, it's okay," he smiles, "would you like to go with me? It'd be an honour to take you."

"You don't have to," you rush, "I swear, I can just tell him I was lying. I don't know why I did that."

"Stop apologizing. I'm asking you because I would like to go with you. It would be fun."

"As friends?"

Jake looks at his plate, then you. "I mean yeah, we are friends. But it would still be a date. I pick you up, I get your drinks, we dance. Just because we're friends doesn't mean you're not getting the full treatment."

Something clicks in your head.

You're not entirely sure what.

But there are butterflies in your stomach, and it just feels... easy. Like how you wanted it to feel when Bradley asked you. With Jake it's, nicer. It feels better. It feels right. You don't know what it means, but you like it. You like being around Jake.

"I'd love to."

"Good," he smiles, "now eat, before one of those knuckleheads needs something else."

Jake gets a call at one in the morning.

He wants to ignore it, but he worries that it's his mother. He worries even more when he sees your picture across the screen.

"What's wrong?" he answers, heart pumping when he hears little sobs from your end of the line.

"I'm scared," you whisper. "I got too drunk, Jake, please."

"Please what? Where are you? I thought you were with Nat?"

Jake's already getting out of bed, moving to get into the pants he discarded earlier.

"Rooster and Fanboy showed up, crashing girls night. And it was fine," you hiccup, "but then Nat wanted to leave and Brad begged and whined for me to stay, so I did. And then he disappears, like, almost immediately. And Fanboy left with a girl and..." you whimper, "and I'm drunk and I can't find Rooster. Will you, would you please come get me? I'm sorry to ask but..."

His reply comes out immediately, "I'll be there in 10, stay where the bartenders can see you." And Jake's ears ring at the name Rooster. You rarely call any of them by their call signs. But he doesn't think he's ever even heard you say Rooster. It feels like the first crack in the dream. It feels kind of like hope.

Jake speeds to get to you.

You didn't listen, maybe you couldn't have because you're stumbling, Rooster has an arm around you outside the bar, he's holding you up and doing a piss poor job because Jake can see how unsteady you look from his truck.

He puts it in park right by the door, stopped in a no parking zone and ignores the annoyed look from the bouncer, immediately coming to your side.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks, brushing your hair off your face and looking you over, making sure you've got your bag and assessing whether to take you home or to the hospital. Dramatic, maybe, but with you it's important. He's actively ignoring Rooster's stupid face. He keeps the focus on you, and away from Bradshaw, because he doesn't trust what would come out of his mouth.

"Jake," is all you say, practically falling into his arms and out of Rooster's.

He holds you tightly, fully supporting you and not letting you fucking wobble around.

"What are you even doing here? I've got it. I was just about to get her into a cab."

"No, I will get her home safely, since you left her in the fucking dust, Chicken." Jake eyes the girl rolling her eyes and waiting for Rooster, and his anger hits a boiling point. "What? Were you just gunna roll her into the cab and fucking hope she makes it to her front door okay?"

"Jesus, Hangman, sorry if I don't want to ruin my night just because someone else got too drunk."

"Ruin your - !? You're pathetic, Rooster." Jake catches you as your knees wobble out from under you, and he picks you up, hands braced under your knees and behind your back, holding you close as you snuggle into his chest, humming happily.

Rooster's jaw ticks at the way you seem ... comfortable, in Jake's arms. Bradley was convinced what you and Jake were doing was just ... fun, flirting. This seems... more real than he was expecting. When Jake starts walking away without another word, Rooster feels extra indignant.

"She'll never love you the way she loves me, you know!" Rooster yells.

But it falls on deaf ears.

Because Jake loves you so unconditionally that it doesn't matter. He will be what you need. Even if it dismantles him in the process.

Jake gets you settled in the passenger seat, makes sure your seatbelt is done up before getting into the driver's seat. Rooster and the girl are gone before he pulls out of the lot, but he can't think about that now, he just drives steady and slow, not wanting to make you feel any worse.

It's so irritating, watching Bradshaw act like such a loser. And he only seems to do it to you, which is just extra irritating. He can't stand it.

The drive to your apartment isn't far, he parks and makes his way to your side, fishing the keys out of your purse before hanging it off his arm, strong forearms cradling you to carry you bridal style to your door. He makes it seem easy, the way he unlocks the door and brings you into your place. He locks the door behind him, and brings you into the bathroom, setting you on the toilet, making sure you're steady before continuing his work. He puts your purse on the counter, pockets your phone, and grabs a couple make up wipes to take the makeup off. He's as gentle as can be, even when you're grumbling and groaning, about fireball and lemon drops.

"Can I have this?" you ask, fingers pinching the shirt he's wearing. "Looks mighty comfy."

"You want the shirt off my back, huh?" he chuckles, but takes it off. "Anything for you."

You hum happily, peeling your shirt off without warning, and Jake trains his eyes to the ceiling. They feel like they're made of concrete the way he has to keep them up and off you.

"All clear, Lieutenant," you say, cheesy grin on your face, but his breath hitches, and he coughs to cover it up.

"Let's get you to bed," he says, helping you up again, and letting you walk on your own.

"Thanks for coming to get me," you whisper, sliding into bed. "I got really nervous and I just... I thought you'd be a safe person to call."

"I'm glad you did," he says, tucking the blanket up to your chin. Mostly for comfort, but also because knowing you're laying in nothing but his shirt right now was an image he didn't know he'd ever be able to get out of his head. "I just want you safe and happy."

You hum in response, easing into the pillow, eyes closing and breaths already getting slower. He starts moving to leave, and you eye him again, pout on your lips. He looks like an angel, shirt off, hair messy from sleep, soft smile on his face.

"Jake?" you whisper, "will you please stay in here with me?"

"Oh uh, yeah, okay," he says, shuffling over and crawling into bed with you. He keeps his jeans on, because taking them off while you're in the bed and drunk just doesn't feel ... right.

You don't seem to mind, you just snuggle into Jake's chest, hand splayed across his abs and it makes his stomach somersault under your touch. You fall asleep instantly. Jake hesitates, but rests his chin again your hair, letting himself pretend, just for tonight, that he has you.

The night of the gala, Jake feels sick.

You look ... beautiful.

No one has ever looked as beautiful as you since... well he thinks ever. And he knows that tonight is the night - in one way or another. Maybe Rooster will confess, or maybe you'll take the job offer. Either way, Jake is probably going to lose you tonight.

But it doesn't stop him from holding out his elbow to you, smiling softly at you and leading you into the party.

Rooster can't keep eyes off of you.

His date, the redhead from the bar all those nights ago, clings to his side like she belongs there.

And you see that, but it doesn't twist you up inside.

Like, maybe she does belong there. And maybe you belong here.

Jake's been a perfect gentleman the entire evening. He holds a palm over your lower back as you laugh and chat with Nat, he grabs you a new drink as you give Bob a big hug and compliment how well he cleans up. He pulls you closer when Coyote asks you to save him a dance, making you and Javy laugh.

And then he leads you to the dance floor.

He spins you gently, just as he knows you like, he holds you close and keeps his eyes on your face as he sways you to the music.

At some point between Jake spinning you softly and dipping you at the end of the song, you realize that you're not concerned about where Rooster is. Another slow song starts and Jake brings you back up, holding a hand securely around your waist, the other holding your hand and he just dances, eyes on you the whole time, smile soft, and warm. And you realize... you're not putting on a show, you're just dancing, and you're happy, and you want Jake to pull you close again.

And he does pull you; so close his nose brushes yours and his breath, whiskey coated and a hint of spearmint gum, fans over your lips. You can’t help but feel drawn in, you want to be drawn in - you want Jake. Not as a consolation prize, not as anything other than the man he is.

“Can I cut in?” Rooster asks, startling the pair of you. “Can we… can we dance?”

"Uh..." you start, ready to say no, but Jake she kisses your hairline, and it feels like goodbye, not permission.

"Don't spin her too fast," Jake says, eyes avoiding you, "she hates that."

And he slinks away without another word, grabbing a drink and finding Coyote in the crowd - not looking back at you once, because he can't bear to see it. Coyote gives him a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder - but he's got nothing to say.

Rooster holds you the same way Jake did; but it's not as warm. It doesn't feel as... right.

"You look beautiful," he says finally, and it's no less awkward. The compliment not making you blush the way Jake's do. Not anymore.

"Thanks, Rooster."

"I don't... I don't know when you started calling me Rooster but I thought, I thought I was always Bradley to you."

"Your friends all call you Rooster."

"You're not just my friend though," he whispers, "you know that, right?"

"But I..." you start, then stop, eyes flicking to the door and you watch helplessly as Jake walks through it. Your eyes find Rooster's again and your heart plummets. Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't he what you wanted?

So why is your body desperate to go follow Jake?

"I have to go," you rush, dropping Rooster's hand, but he doesn't drop his from your waist. "Jake went outside, I want to find him. He's my date, I want..." This is the moment, the moment you choose. "I want to go find Jake."

"Is this... do you love him?" Rooster asked.

"I don't know," you answer, honestly, "but I know that he's who I want to spend the rest of my night with."

"I always kinda thought that... I always thought it would be me and you ending up together, you know? Just... I didn't realize that I love you until now."

It was all you wanted to hear.

But...

"I have to go," you whisper.

...all you can think of is Jake.

Rooster's eyes fall to the floor, his stomach sinks even lower than that. "You really do look beautiful."

"Thanks uh, Bradley," you start shuffling your dress up so you don't step on it while you're walking, "see you at work!"

When you find Jake outside, he's leaning against the wall, hand braced above his head like something is causing him pain. You clear your throat and scare him, trying not to laugh as he clutches his chest, not finding it nearly as funny as you.

He looks you over quickly, lipstick still intact, no Chicken trailing behind you.

“How uh, how did that go?”

“Rooster told me he loves me.”

Jake smiles sadly. “That is… awesome. Yeah, it is, it’s great.”

“Jake…”

“Don't say my name like that,” he sighs, “you might have to call me Hangman now, actually, you know what - you have to call me Bagman.”

“Jake...” you chuckle.

“Oh my god,” Jake mutters, heart flipping in his chest, throat tight with regret. He’s just lost what little of you he had and you insist on torturing him by saying his name so fuckin' pretty. Like you're the only one who knows how to say it at all.

“I told him no.”

This makes Jake's eyes snap to yours, and his brow furrow. “What?”

“I told him no, I told him I came here with you and,” you smile, Jake malfunctions. So you close to gap, running a hand up Jake's neatly pressed dress whites, “and I’ll be leaving with you.”

“Me?” he whispers, unsure.

“You,” you smile softly, and the corner of his lip turns into a smirk, anyone else would think it's cocky, but you know he’s nervous, you know him, better than anyone. “If you want me to.”

“Baby,” Jake whispers, hands finding your hips over the soft fabric, and they grip you tight enough to hold you steady. “I want you so badly I was willing to let another man have you just to keep you on the island.”

Your hand slides up more until your fingers are softly against the side of his face, and he looks down at you like there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

That's the difference. Rooster only wanted you because he thought he lost you, thought you would be steady and waiting forever and suddenly you weren't. But Jake... he was willing to lose you if that's what would make you happy. Jake wants you because he loves you, because he’s afraid of wasting one second with you. Like the thought of not having enough time makes him ill.

“If I kiss you now,” Jake whispers, “It's real. I want you. I want everything. All of it, slow mornings, birthdays, holidays, parents asking when they're getting grandkids, all of it.”

“It's real,” you promise. “Kiss me?”

“Yes ma'am.”

When he kisses you, it's exactly right. Like the end of a romcom where the girl is swept off her feet by the real hero of the story.

He kisses you so softly, every move intentional and reverent. He doesn't rush. Just moves his lips against yours like he's exactly where he wants to be. His hands stay steady on your waist, while your thumb rubs softly against his cheek. His tongue rolls lazily into your mouth and you moan, and you can almost feel the smirk on his mouth as he nips your bottom lip, pulling away to rest his forehead on yours.

His eyes are glassy, relieved, filled with adoration as he looks at you.

"Do you want to go dance some more, baby?"

The pet name rolls off his tongue like it belongs there, and you shake your head no.

"I want you to take me home," you say, placing another chaste kiss on his mouth. He smiles, letting go with one hand and letting the other slide around to your lower back, leading you back to his truck without a second thought. There would be a lifetime of chances to dance, but that's not what you need right now.

Right now, you just need him.

"Jake, please," you moan, hands thread through his hair as he devours you like a man starved. "Just want you."

He pulls away for a second, fingers still moving inside you, and he kisses the inside of your thigh. "Stop rushin' baby girl, we got all night. And I'm still hungry."

"Baby, baby please."

He grunts, pained to decide between drawing another orgasm out of you with his mouth or giving into your pretty, pretty begging.

He was never one to deny you.

Jake crawls up your body, trailing kisses across your stomach, chest, neck as he does, before settling comfortably in between your legs. As he kisses you, you taste yourself, and you moan against slippery lips, hands wrapped around his broad shoulders like a lifeline.

"I'll be going back for more later," Jake says, making you laugh against him, tucking your face into his shoulder.

"Perv."

"If that's what it makes me, so be it."

His hand moves between you, grabbing himself to line himself up with your centre, and he drops his head against your shoulder at the feeling. So wet, and tight, and warm - he knows he won't last. It's been too long and you're, well, his dream.

"Please," you mutter, biting into his shoulder, begging for all of him, and he sighs, pushing into you.

You both gasp, the feeling of him stretching you so perfectly, no pain, no discomfort, just two people that were made for eachother.

The movements start slow, pulling back only a few inches to push back him, he wants to stay inside you, to feel you around him the rest of his life.

And then he slowly picks up the pace, listening to your moans to find the right spots inside you, the right tempo that makes you close your eyes and arch your back. He's learning every sound you make, committing it all to memory.

Jake’s hips stutter against yours, it takes everything in him to keep his composure, to stop himself from filling you with cum the second he’s inside you.

“Baby this is… you’re a dream - baby, fuck, you’re so fucking perfect, i can’t … you feel so, so good baby.”

“Jake,” you mewl, “Jake it feels so good - makin’ me feel so good”

“Yeah, baby? You like it?”

“Love it - love you.”

Jake hips stutter again, and he stills. Large palms brushing over your forehead, moving damp hair away from your face, and his smile is soft, reverent.

“I love you too,” he whispers, slotting his lips against yours in a sensual, languid kiss, and his hips move again, slow, deliberate, controlled. "I love you so much." He angles himself deeper, hiking one of your legs over his waist and around his back, letting him sink fully into you, both of you moaning in tandem. "I'm sorry baby, it's - it's too fuckin' good, I'm not gunna be able to hold out."

"That's okay," you moan, "it's okay, let go. I want you to feel good."

"I feel so fucking good, baby."

"We have all night," you wink, "we'll go again."

He doesn't need anymore coaxing, he stills inside you, spilling deep, groaning against the curve of your neck, the vibrations sending a chill down your spine. He doesn't move, stays locked deep inside you, fanning kisses along your neck.

Eventually, he pulls out, and he hisses with over sensitivity. In his wildest dreams, this is always where he ends up, wrapped up in you. Not even just the sex, but the closeness of having you near, of being able to kiss you as he pleases, of not having to worry about needing his hands on you.

As you lay tangled in the sheets, your hit with a moment of clarity. Of everything you must have been putting Jake through the last week, and it feels akin to how you felt. His steady breaths a comfort you didn't know you needed, and you nuzzle closer into his side, with him happily making room to draw you in closer.

"I'm sorry," you say, guilt gnawing at your heart.

"What for?"

"For..." you sigh, "For asking you to help me with Rooster, I... I wish I fell for you in a better way, I wish it wasn't sullied by the drama."

"It's not sullied," he says, rolling over to face you, hand sliding under you to hold your cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of it. He smiles. "I don't feel like a second choice, I feel so, stupidly, insanely happy. I do not care how we got here, I'm just happy we're here."

"Are you sure that you won't, resent me?"

"I would do anything for you," he says after a moment, "I don't care that you used to love Bradshaw, I don't. I love you, I loved you unconditionally, and patiently, and it all worked out. Love is messy, baby." He kisses your nose. "Love you," he kisses your forehead, "love you," he kisses your cheek, "love you."

And he kisses you fully, slowly, pouring every ounce of love he has to give into you. And you sigh, content, comfortable, madly in love with Jake fucking Seresin of all people, with his cocky attitude and boyish grin that makes you feel alive. He fills your cup. He leaves room for you on busy days. And he never, ever strings you along for anything, ever. To him, you are the only feasible answer. To him, you are everything.

And to you, he is what home feels like. He is where warmth stems from. He's not just exciting, and handsome (so fucking beautiful really) but he's sturdy.

You pull away first. "I love you, Jake."

He just smiles, and brings you in for another kiss.

And another.

And another.

And then he groans as he rolls back on top of you, ready to promise you forever.

But you're both happy to start with tonight.

The rest of your lives can come one day at a time. And you'll face them all together.

bonus: epilogue

Rooster nurses his drink while his date talks his ear off about, what exactly? He doesn't even know.

His eyes drag back over to you, as they have all night, as has everybody’s, and he can't help the sigh that leaves him. You're a vision in white, the most beautiful bride anyone has ever seen.

And he's not the groom.

Hangman is.

Rooster looks at his date and feels a mix of resentment and guilt. She’s perfectly lovely, in a dress that exactly fits the theme and colour scheme, and she’s been kind to all of his friends. But she's not you.

He looks at you again, and watches Jake pick you up and twirl you slowly, holding you close to his body. Rooster's stomach drops the same way it had at the gala all those years ago.

Then Jake kisses you. Rooster clenches his jaw and looks away quickly. His date follows his previous line of sight and she sighs, finishing her drink and excusing herself.

Rooster doubts she’ll return to the table.

He doesn't care.

Just takes another sip of his drink, watching miserably and wondering how this even happened.

How Jake stole you away.

How Rooster didn't notice until it was too late.

But on the dance floor, Rooster hasn’t entered Jake’s mind once. His thoughts were completely consumed with you, trying to memorize exactly how you look, right now, at your wedding, to him. This is the best day anyone has ever had.

“I love you, Bagman.”

He laughs, head thrown back and carefree, enjoying what will one day be considered one of the greatest highlights of his life.

“I love you too, Mrs. Seresin.”

[superbassbuck]

honor him | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ gladiator!bucky x servant!reader

⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact

⭐︎ word count: 6k

⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.

synopsis: Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.

← previous fic | main masterlist

The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.

There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.

It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.

You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.

“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”

“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”

Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”

In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.

You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.

Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.

Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.

The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.

“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”

Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”

You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.

Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”

The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.

When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.

Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.

“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”

Bucky does not answer the herald.

You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.

“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”

A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.

“This one.”

You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.

Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.

The herald stands confused beside him.

“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”

The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.

“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”

Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.

“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.

“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”

“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”

The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.

“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”

But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.

“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.

You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”

Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.

“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”

Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.

Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.

Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.

You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.

He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.

“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”

Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.

As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.

“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.

“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”

Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.

“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”

With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.

Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.

Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.

But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.

“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”

This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.

Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.

He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.

He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.

“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.

The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.

He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.

“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.

You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”

Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.

The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.

“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Now, you are just as confused as he is.

You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.

“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”

Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.

You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.

“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”

Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.

That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”

You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.

“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”

You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.

“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”

Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”

“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.

You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.

Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.

“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”

He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.

He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.

He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.

“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.

A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.

You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.

He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.

You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.

“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”

At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.

You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.

“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”

You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.

“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”

Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.

“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”

He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.

“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.

Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.

One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.

“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”

The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.

Control.

Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.

“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”

A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”

He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.

“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.

Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.

“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.

He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.

“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”

Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.

He pauses at the sound.

“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”

His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.

One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.

You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.

“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”

You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.

“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”

So, you do.

You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.

“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.

Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.

He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.

For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.

“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”

His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.

“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.

“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.

After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.

With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.

“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”

He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.

“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”

“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.

“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”

Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.

His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.

“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.

Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.

He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.

His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.

Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.

“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”

Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.

You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.

“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.

Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…

“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”

He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.

The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.

“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”

His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.

“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”

“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”

You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.

The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.

Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.

Finally, you grant him permission.

Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.

He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”

You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.

His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.

“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.

His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”

The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.

“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”

The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.

“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”

Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.

His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.

He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.

Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.

You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.

“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.

He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.

“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”

You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.

Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?

He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.

“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”

You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.

As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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[townsendbaby]

Engineering

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader (y/n)

Summary: Dean gets jealous when he sees his girlfriend spending more time with guys in her engineering group.

Word Count: 1,622

Version with Logan can be found here

Dean had always pictured engineering students one way. Scrawny, sleep-deprived, and socially awkward. The kind of guys who wore the same hoodie four days in a row and argued with professors for fun.

So when Y/N mentioned she was meeting her project group almost every afternoon, he never thought twice about it.

“They’re all in my design group,” she’d say, scrolling through pages of CAD drawings on her laptop.

Dean would nod from the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest.

“Cool.”

“Ben reserved a study room.”

“Sounds good.”

“Emma’s bringing coffee.”

“Mhm.”

“Ryan thinks our calculations are wrong.”

“Tell Ryan he’s wrong.”

Y/N laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll let him know.”

That was that.

—

A week later, Dean had just finished practice when he decided to surprise her.

He bought her favorite coffee. Grabbed an extra muffin. Walked across campus with that easy confidence he always had.

He spotted her outside the engineering building before she spotted him. She stood in a loose circle with five other students.

Four guys.

One girl.

The girl was explaining something while waving a mechanical pencil around. One guy had safety goggles hanging around his neck. Another balanced a laptop under one arm. The third was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired… Dean slowed.

“…Huh.”

The last one laughed at something Y/N said and bumped her shoulder lightly.

She bumped him back.

Dean’s eyebrows pulled together.

That…

That wasn’t what he’d expected.

Not even close.

These weren’t the stereotypical engineering nerds he’d imagined.

They looked… normal. Athletic, even.

The tall guy honestly looked like he could’ve been on the basketball team. Dean immediately disliked him. Not for any real reason. Just on principle.

Y/N looked up then. Her face lit up.

“Dean!”

She jogged over, project calculations forgotten the second she reached him.

“You brought me coffee.”

“You forgot to text me back.”

“I was in lab.”

She took the coffee with a grin before looping her arm through his.

“Oh! Guys, this is Dean.”

Dean offered polite smiles as names were exchanged.

“Ben.”

“Ryan.”

“Noah.”

“Emma.”

“And Lucas.”

Lucas.

Right.

Tall Guy.

Dean shook his hand. Firmly.

Lucas smiled. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally?

Dean’s eyes flicked toward Y/N.

She noticed.

“Oh, I talk about you all the time.”

Dean relaxed a little.

“…Oh.”

Emma smirked.

“We know way more about hockey than we ever wanted to.”

The group laughed.

Dean laughed too.

But something had shifted.

—

After that he started noticing things he’d somehow missed before.

Her phone buzzed constantly.

Ryan: Can someone check the MATLAB file?

Emma: Meeting got moved to five.

Ben: Don’t forget the presentation boards.

Nothing weird.

Nothing inappropriate.

Just… frequent. Maybe even too frequent.

One evening they were making dinner together when Y/N looked over from the vegetables she was chopping.

“Hey?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you walk me to class tomorrow morning?”

Dean checked his schedule automatically.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“I’ve got early practice.”

“Oh.” She smiled anyway. “It’s okay.”

He hated the tiny flicker of disappointment she tried to hide.

“But…” he continued, “…practice ends around noon.”

She looked back up.

“I can pick you up after your afternoon lab.”

Her smile returned immediately.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d love that.”

Dean leaned over the counter and stole a kiss.

“Done.”

—

The next afternoon, he parked outside the engineering building ten minutes early.

He figured he’d wait.

Maybe they’d grab dinner afterward.

Students poured out of the building in groups.

Then he saw her. Y/N emerged through the doors laughing with her project team. She wasn’t carrying anything. Because Lucas was. Balanced in his arms was a massive prototype made of aluminum and acrylic, easily the size of a microwave. Dean watched Lucas adjust his grip.

Y/N reached to take part of the weight.

“I’ve got it,” Lucas said.

“It’s heavy.”

“So?”

“I go to the gym.”

Dean was already out of the truck.

Y/N looked up.

“Dean!”

Lucas turned.

Dean walked over with an easy smile.

“Hey.”

He glanced at the project.

“Looks heavy.”

Lucas laughed.

“It weighs a ton.”

Dean held out his hands.

“I got it from here.”

Lucas hesitated for half a second before handing it over.

“Careful.”

Dean lifted it.

Definitely heavier than it looked.

“…Yeah,” he admitted. “You weren’t kidding.”

Y/N smiled up at him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He carried it all the way to the truck.

Lucas waved.

“See you tomorrow.”

“You too!” Y/N called.

Dean shut the tailgate a little harder than necessary.

—

He tried. God, he tried to be chill. He really did.

When she talked about her classmates, he listened. When she laughed at stories from the lab, he laughed too. When she complained about deadlines, he sympathized.

But then she’d casually say things like:

“Ben and I stayed until midnight fixing the code.”

Or

“Ryan walked me back to my dorm because it was raining. I called to let you know, remember?”

Or

“Emma says Lucas practically lives in the machine shop.”

And every single time something twisted in his chest.

He didn’t like it. He liked it even less because none of them had actually done anything wrong.

Dean lived outside of campus and if y/n waited for him to come pick her up it would have been 40 mins minimum. And Ryan not letting his girlfriend walk alone to her dorm was a solid reason, especially that they talked on the phone beforehand.

Or fixing a code. There was nothing wrong with that. It was just an assignment.

But it still bothered Dean. And he tried his best not to let it.

—

Finally, one Friday, Y/N looked over from her notes.

“We’re all studying in the library.”

Dean looked up.

“Oh?”

“You wanna come?”

He almost said no. Then he heard himself say, “Yeah.”

—

The engineering library was its own universe. Whiteboards covered in equations. Half-built robots sitting on tables. Students arguing over code like it was life or death.

Their group had taken over an entire study room. Dean squeezed in beside Y/N. For the first ten minutes, he understood approximately three words. Then the conversation somehow became even more confusing.

“No, your finite element analysis assumes…”

“It doesn’t if you redefine the boundary conditions.”

“That’s literally not how stress concentrations work.”

“It is if…”

Emma groaned dramatically. “You people are impossible.”

Everyone laughed. Y/N laughed hardest. Dean smiled politely. He had no idea why it was funny.

An hour later, Lucas leaned over Y/N’s shoulder to point at something on her screen. Not in a weird way. Just because they were looking at the same laptop.

Still…

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Ryan reached across her to erase part of the whiteboard. Ben tossed her a highlighter without looking.

Everything was so… comfortable. They had their own rhythm. Their own jokes. Their own language.

Dean suddenly understood what it felt like to be on the outside.

—

The walk to Y/n’s dorm was quiet. Y/N bumped his shoulder.

“You’re thinking.”

“A little.”

“What about?”

He exhaled through his nose.

“I owe you an apology.”

She frowned.

“For what?”

“I didn’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“When girls throw themselves at me after games.”

She stayed quiet.

“I always told you they didn’t matter and they don’t.”

“I know.”

He looked down at the sidewalk. “But… today I spent two hours watching four guys who are smart, funny, attractive…”

She opened her mouth.

“No, let me finish.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I spent years assuming engineering was full of awkward nerds.”

“It can be.”

“It is not your group.”

She smiled despite herself.

“They’re… annoyingly well-adjusted.”

Y/n smiled quietly and continued to listen.

“And they’re around you all the time.”

“Dean…”

“I know you love me.”

“I do.”

“I know they’d never disrespect our relationship.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“I know you’ve never given me a reason to doubt you.”

“I haven’t.”

He nodded.

“I know all of that.”

A beat passed.

“I’m still ridiculously jealous.”

Y/N stared at him for a second before breaking into a smile.

“Aww.”

He groaned.

“Don’t ‘aww’ me.”

She stepped closer until their hands brushed.

“You finally understand.”

It was similar to how y/n felt with all the girls circling around Dean at the start of their relationship. After a while she got used to it and continued to fully trust Dean. It’s not like she didn’t before, it was simply complicated to ignore their presence when those girls were part of Dean’s every day life.

“I really do.” Dean reached to hold y/n’s hand.

She laced her fingers with his.

“It sucks, doesn’t it?”

He laughed.

“It really, really does.”

She rested her head briefly against his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth…”

“Hm?”

“The guys all think you’re terrifying.”

Dean looked down at her.

“They do?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

She grinned.

“Lucas asked if it was okay to carry the prototype because he didn’t want you to think he was flirting with me.”

Dean blinked.

“He… what?”

“And Emma told him, ‘Relax, if Dean wanted to punch you, he would have done it a long time ago.’”

He snorted.

“Would I?”

She looked up at him with a teasing smile.

“Probably.”

He considered it.

“…Yeah.”

She laughed.

Then, before she could step away, Dean slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“You’re still walking out of engineering with me whenever I’m free.”

She smiled.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

She leaned up just enough to kiss his cheek.

“Because no matter how smart those boys are…”

She smiled against his skin.

“You’re still my favorite person to come home to.”

And somehow, that made the knot in Dean’s chest loosen just enough to finally let him breathe.

[asillyblogrs]

john logan x fem!reader

wc: 1.5K

warnings: none!! pure fluff ❤︎⁠.

summary: john and you get into an argument which ends up in a competition of who will get jealous first.

a/n: this is my first fanfic, so i apologise if there are some mistakes. i hope you guys enjoy this, love mal.

you wouldn't label your situation with John Logan as dating... more like in a situation ship?, hooking up?— whatever it was you couldn't quite name it, so you leave it be as it was.

"are you guys back talking?" a familiar voice behind you cut your thoughts short.

"no Allie, we are not." you say as you were applying some lipstick on your upper lip to join the party at the Hockey house

"Ugh! c'mon, you guys are basically the it couple on campus." she said while sliding the other pair of cowboy boots onto her leg.

uh huh... a couple.

That's what other people thought of us— or perhaps just Allie and Hannah...

and Garrett...

and Dean...

and Tucker—

and... the list stops at John.

"hey guys, come on, let's go or we will be late!" Hannah said as she unlocked the dorm's door

"coming!" Allie said as she took one last look of herself in the mirror "let's go" she held my arm out of the door.

The front door hadn’t even closed before the bass hit your ears like a physical punch. The living room was a blur of people and flying solo cups. The air smelled like sticky spilled rum and late-night pizza. Every time the beat dropped, the entire house seemed to shake, carrying a roar of laughter right through the ceiling.

In the kitchen, stood the hockey boys.

Garett, who just waved at us— probably signaling for his girlfriend, Hannah, to come join him.

Dean, flashing a big smile that perfectly traced his dimple at Allie to probably do the same.

Tucker just waved and smiled.

But your eyes were scanning the room for one particular person...

Hannah nudged you in your arm, pointing towards the back of a familiar person who was wearing a backward cap and the number...

22.

shit

"TRY TO HAVE FUN, OKAY?" Allie and Hannah yelled in your ear before heading towards their men.

you nod before quickly turning your attention to number 22, who had half of the women of the party swooning over him— basically drooling, while he was laughing.

your heart skipped a beat when your eyes locked. His were slowly going down your body, as if he was updating his data memory while you just stood there.

you can't lie, your outfit today was different from the past ones.

Something twisted in your stomach when you saw him laughing after a girl leaned into his ear and said something, while not breaking eye contact with you.

was he trying to make me... jealous?

you scoff at the sight.

let's play game then.

you headed towards the kitchen— furiously, downed a drink to forget this magnificent night then took your place on the dance floor.

you didn't just step on the floor; you claimed it. As the bass dropped low, your hips caught the rhythm instantly. your arms raised slightly, hands riding the rhythm of the air as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. You kept your eyes locked on his, your chin slightly tilted down, letting a faint, knowing smirk play on your lips before a pair of hands slid down your waist behind you.

you could feel hot eyes burning on your skin as the guy in front of leaned in closer to your neck. his breath fanning warmth against your pulse point. Every instinct screamed at you to pull back, but you were completely paralyzed—not by the proximity of the man in front of you, but by the weight of the gaze locked onto you from across the room.

You didn't even need to look up to know who it was.

As the song changed to a different one, the guy whispered in your ear "wanna take this upstairs?" a lazy smirk was already forming on his face "uhh... no sorry, i gotta go." you said quickly, turning on your heels to break away into the crowd.

You took two steps before a heavy hand caught your wrist "why so fast?" the guy yanked you back against him, his chest slamming against your back as his fingers dug into your hip. "you don't just walk away when i'm talking to you, love."

His other hand began to slide up your waist, getting touchy, his breath hot and intrusive against your ear. "don't play hard to get, sweetheart." you whimpered "we both know you want this."

Before you could even scream, a shadow blurred past you, and a fist cracked straight across the guy’s jaw with a sickening crack.

John.

The force sent him reeling sideways, his grip tearing off you as he crashed hard into a nearby table, bottles shattering on impact. "fucking touch her again" he growled, another heavy blow cracking against the guy’s jaw, pinning him completely to the floor.

He yanked the guy up by his collar just to slam him back down, his chest heaving, his eyes that could kill.

"Shit" Garrett and Dean murmured as they left whatever they were doing to come be the heros they were.

"Stop! John, please stop."

Your voice broke, a sharp sob tearing through your throat as the sound of knuckles meeting skin echoed over the music. You screamed his name again, begging him to listen, but he was completely deaf to the crowd.

"Look at me!" he demanded, his knuckles dripping as he shook the dazed guy violently. "You so much as think about her name, and I will tear you apart. She is not yours to touch. Ever"

He pulled back his fist to land another brutal strike, but two sets of hands suddenly grabbed him from behind.

"Lo, stop! That's enough!" Dean hauled him back by his shoulders, straining against his weight.

"He's out, man, let it go!" Garrett yelled, wrapping an arm around his chest to physically pry him off the guy.

Before you could stumble any closer, Hannah and Allie rushed to your side, hands grabbing your arms to grab you back from the mess

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Allie gasped as they pulled you against them "What happened? Did he hurt you?" her eyes scanning down your neck to your wrists.

"I'm fine, Allie." You gently pushed her hands off your wrist " Don't worry about me."

John thrashed against their grip, shoving them off. His chest was heaving, his breathing ragged, but he didn't care about his friends, the crowd, or the guy bleeding on the floor.

His dark eyes snapped directly to yours, studying your face for a fraction of a second.

Without another word, he turned his back on the chaotic mess, the shattered glass, and the crowd, striding heavily toward the staircase at the back of the room.

"Wait—where are you going?" Hannah called out.

but you didn't care to answer.

You completely tuned out Hannah’s voice, your focus snapping entirely back to his broad back as he shoved past the remaining onlookers.

You wrenched your arm out of Allie’s grip, ignoring her startled gasp behind you, and started moving.

"hey!" Allie yelled from behind but you heard Dean murmuring "let them solve their shit."

By the time you reached the top of the stairs, the chaotic noise from the party below had dulled into a distant, muffled thrum. The dimly lit hallway stretched out before you, cool and quiet, except for the sound of your own ragged breathing.

He was waiting at the end of the corridor, his towering frame practically filling the doorway. Without looking back at you, he stepped inside, leaving the door heavy and half-open in an unspoken invitation.

You didn't hesitate. You pushed through the threshold, stepping into the dim quiet of the room.

Behind you, your hand reached out and pushed the door shut until the latch clicked firmly into place, cutting off the rest of the world entirely.

" what the fuck was that!?"

The words tore from your throat the second you faced him ,your voice shaking with raw shock and fury. You stepped right into his space, shoving your hands hard against his chest.

"You almost killed him, John! In front of everyone! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

He didn't sway. He stood there, completely still, letting the impact of your hands fall against him.

"i am fucking talking to you, John." you lowered your voice.

"i don't fucking care about that jerk." he growled, eyes meeting yours.

you scoff, "you don't care?"

"You almost beat him to death! You could've ruined your life, your season—everything!" you yelled again, your voice cracking as you ou shoved his chest again, stepping right back into his face.

"You think I give a single fuck about hockey right now?" he roared back "You think I care about a fucking season when he had his hands on you?!" he wiped his face off with his hands "fuck."

"That's not the fucking point, Logan!" you screamed, your chest heaving, the anger and panic boiling over completely. "You're acting like you own me! We aren't even together, John! We are nothing!"

The word hit the quiet room like a physical blow.

shit

"what the fuck do you mean by nothing?" he stepped closer, breathing heavingly.

don't worry, I will be making a pt2 soon!! hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing it.

[loveyoubunchies]

The Briar Exclusive

John Logan x journalist!reader

Summary: Sports was not the beat you covered. But when your peer gets sick you agree to take over one of their interview with a hockey teammate heading to frozen four. Slight conflict of interest when John Logan seems to like you and you have a strict rule about source boundaries.

Warnings/notes: None!

A/N: So fun to write and I'll definitely be making a part 2 to this! Let me know what you think

Main Masterlist

One day you’d be the first person to interview the officer of the latest crime case. Or you’d be the one to break the news of a government scandal. Or even put out such a well written profile of the newest person in the spotlight that people talk about the article more than the person itself.

One day.

Instead you were stuck interviewing cocky athletes because the Briar Pages sports writer, Harry, decided to take a chance on the New Mexican and Thai fusion place. It ended with you getting a text that had you in the hockey arena and Harry’s head in the toilet.

The Briar Pages have been doing a profile on a member of the hockey team every week leading up to their much anticipated Frozen Four game. This week was supposed to feature the one and only, number 22, John Logan. 

It wasn’t that you hated sports journalism. You had respect for the reporters attending games, doing play by plays, and trying to grab an interview after a win or lose. 

You just majorly prefer not to be the one doing it. Especially interview college athletes that already have an ego larger than their bodies. You had done it once, as one of your first assignments at the paper, and the football player was so rude and also did not give any answer of substance that you decided to steer clear of the athletic column as much as possible. The nail on the coffin was your personal bias against hockey, the sport. You much prefer a soccer game rather than trying to track the tiny puck across the ice. But no use in complaining now. If you were going to be a real journalist you would have to cover the hard stories. Not that interviewing a college kid was hard compared to the war stories you read daily but everything in perspective. 

The practice was still going on when you arrived early to the arena. It was weird to come by the place so empty, no fans screaming their heads off, no fighting on the ice. The players were doing basic shooting drills that seemed to be more uplifting and fun rather than harsh. Hopefully that meant John Logan would be in a good mood. You found interviewees more talkative when they had a good day. 

You sat yourself in the front row which was the closest you probably ever been to the ice so you could actually see the puck gliding back and forth. Someone gave a final crack at the puck, making it soar into the net easily causing some cheers from the teammates.

“Nice shot Logan,” the coach approved, “I think we can wrap up practice now.”

You made a mental image of the scene and quickly jotted some notes down on the scenery for your article. The players skated off the ice chatting about their plans and eager to shower off. No one really paid any attention to you except for Dean Dilarentis, number 44, whose head literally swiveled when he spotted you sitting on the bleachers. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” he called out with a grin.

You could not tell if he was being helpful or flirting mainly because of how attractive he was. But you saw the way he acted off the ice. Cocky and arrogant men were another thing you stayed away from.

“I’m here to interview John Logan for the Briar Pages,” you replied.

“Oh shit yeah I did mine two weeks ago,” he said.

You knew that. One because you read every article in the Briar Pages and two because the girl had been secretly hooking up with Dean weeks prior to the interview which was a major conflict of interest that made you and the other editors spiral. Sure she still wrote a pretty unbiased article as a profile could be but the fact she kept her hook ups a secret from everyone was a massive red flag. While some people would think college journalism isn’t that serious, you firmly believed in placing boundaries now. 

You just gave him a nod.

“Well Logan should be out in a bit,” Dean said, “I’ll let him know to hurry up in the shower.”

“Thanks.”

You went over the questions Harry sent you. They were mostly things about how he felt the team was playing, areas of improvement, other competition. You decided to add a few of your own questions out of your own curiosity, hoping it would paint a more colorful image of the hockey team.

Soon you heard feet shuffling and looked up to see the man of the hour. John Logan.

You had to admit that he was a lot more handsome up close. His hair was still a bit damp from the shower, curling at the ends. He was dressed in an all blue sweatsuit with the Briar hawk mascot embroidered on the left pec bringing attention to the hard plane of muscle peaking out from behind the jacket. You blinked, cursing yourself for checking out your subject. 

“You don’t look like a Harry,” Logan joked, his own eyes raking over your figure.

You scoffed and introduced yourself, “Harry’s sick so I’ll be doing the questions today.”

“Fine with me,” he grinned, dropping his duffel bag and taking the seat next to you.

You placed your phone in between the two of you on the bleachers, creating a small barrier in case Logan tried to get too close and balanced your notebook on your lap. 

“Do you mind if I record this?” you asked, standard procedure.

“You’re all good.”

So you hit play and began with your first question.

“So tell me the basics about yourself? Your name, age, major, and position you play I suppose.”

He chuckled and answered, “I’m John Logan but everyone calls me Logan. I’m 21 and a business major. And I’m one of the starting defensemen for Briar’s hockey team.”

“And how do you think your hockey season has been going so far?”

“Great,” he shrugged, “Qualifying for the Frozen Four was definitely a signal that we are one of the top teams in the league. Have you come to any of our games?”

“Umm no,” you admitted, which had Logan’s face flickering in confusion, “But congrats on your qualification in the Frozen Four. What was that like? Describe how you were feeling.”

“I mean it was a lot all at once. I knew we had a fair shot. You know the team is definitely strong but there’s always room for error. I guess it’s hard to explain since you weren’t at the game but the crowd…”

He trails off, clearly itching to speak more but is hesitant.

“So explain it to me.”

“I guess on the ice it’s really easy to get in your head. I mean I’m literally wearing a helmet that limits my vision to only see the puck. So when the buzzer rings, I think that’s when I finally process all the cheering and screaming from the crowd. It’s a pretty awesome feeling especially since it’s all these people who don’t even know you personally but they’re cheering for you. For the school.”

You gave a nod, thinking about his answer and what you were going to ask next.

“When you say people don’t know you personally but still cheer for you, how has being a hockey player affected your experience as a Briar student?”

His eyes flicked to yours in some sort of amusement as if it were a subject that’s been eating him up inside. 

“Wow that’s a good question,” he said, which made you mentally pat yourself on the back. 

You gave him a moment to gather his thoughts before he let out a sigh.

“I mean I’m really lucky. I’m here on a hockey scholarship so I don’t even know if I’d be at a college if it weren’t for hockey. I have so much love and appreciation for the sport and the team. Coach Jenson is truly one of the best and these guys I’ve grown up with since freshman year. So being on the team is an invaluable experience.”

You waited for the but.

“But also I’m just a regular student at the end of day, which maybe sometimes it’s hard to think that especially when my face is plastered everywhere. Sometimes maybe people forget that, even I do, so sometimes it’s hard.”

You were shocked at his vulnerability thinking you were going to have to pry a bit more. You read the article about Garrett, that boy gave next to nothing about his life.

“Can I ask you to elaborate what areas might be hard? Is it work balance or socializing?”

“Oh I guess the university is really good about supporting student athletes. Most of my professors are pretty accommodating. Hockey season is kinda in between semesters so pre-season is rough with all the finals but the actual start of the season is nice since we’re easing into the new semester.”

“About socializing, I mean I got a great social life,” he grinned, “I guess it’s mostly affected my dating life which I’m not sure if I’m allowed to talk about?”

“You’re allowed to talk about anything. We’re an independent student newspaper so I won’t purposely censor you,” you said.

You’ve heard stories about the infamous player John Logan was and seeing him in person you had every right to believe them. He sure was handsome and now hearing about his passion for the game and watching him practice you could see why he attracted so many girls. You would not fall victim thought!

“Yeah I guess,” he scratched the back of his neck, “Dating is interesting for sure. You never know if someone wants to be with you because they like you or of the jersey you wear. So I guess that’s made me a bit more conscious of who I surround myself with.”

“Are you dating anyone?” you asked, sort of unsure if that was an appropriate question but you wanted to know if he had a girlfriend as that could change the article.

“Why do you want to know?” he said flirtatiously causing you to slightly recoil.

You remained professional and resisted the urge not to roll your eyes as you explained, “Just wondering if you found people who like you for you.”

“I definitely have. The guys on the team are truly my closest friends. I met a couple other dudes through various classes and parties. So it’s nice knowing people like me for who I am off the ice.”

“And what do you like to do when you’re not playing hockey?”

“I love video games,” Logan grinned, “I love action movies. I do really enjoy hockey though. Sometimes I’ll dabble in some street hockey when it’s warmer out. I’m working at my dad’s garage so I guess I’m also pretty handy.”

You glanced down at his hands, noticing the callouses forming from the hours of work and practice. Huh you didn’t expect him to be a handyman.

“Speaking of family, how do they feel about all your success?”

You notice his body tense at the question. But you waited for him to answer before prying further. You never wanted to make a source feel uncomfortable. 

“My sibling, Jules, is super supportive,” Logan began with a sigh, “They’re always pushing me to be better and hanging with me at the rings when I want to run late night drills.”

You nodded, scribbling a few notes.

“My parents are supportive I guess,” he said, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, “As supportive as they can be. I don’t really come from a wealthy background like most people at Briar so there are just different expectations for me back home.”

“Can I ask what these expectations are?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” Logan sighed, eyeing your phone that was recording the whole thing.

Well if this were any other story you might dig further but he was just a college student like you. It felt wrong to force him to air out all his problems.

“Understandable,” you nodded, “So what is your favorite thing about hockey? Why choose this sport out of all the others?”

“That’s a good question,” Logan chuckled, clearly a bit more relaxed, “I mean my dad used to take us skating at this small pond in our town. And the sensation of gliding on the ice was no other. There was an after school program called the Hurricanes that I signed up for since my parents worked late and that was my introduction to the game.”

“What’s it like playing hockey? Explain it to someone who has never played,” you said.

“Oh man, it's everything. The rush of skating on the ice while you’re chasing this small puck. Sports are I guess a bit silly but hockey when you’re working with your team and training all up to that moment the puck shoots into the net. There’s no other rewarding feeling.”

“Do you have any top hockey moments? In college and outside of college?”

“I mean this frozen four qualifier was pretty big. I think getting my first collegiate goal is also up there. It made me realize that maybe I do deserve to be here. As for outside of college,” he hummed thinking, “I won my high school championship which I supposed at the moment felt really big. There were a couple games that my friends and I would just play on the weekends and it was always a good time.”

“That’s nice,” you found yourself saying, “You mentioned some of your other hobbies earlier. Are any them close to giving you the same fulfillment to what hockey gives you?”

“You got a hair sticking out,” Logan said, reaching out to tuck it away before you could react.

You felt your cheeks grow hot as his fingers grazed your cheeks. This was totally unprofessional! You cleared your throat, leaning back to create some distance between the two of you so he couldn’t hear how fast your heart was beating.

“Sorry umm I guess? It's a weird thing cause hockey seems like such a separate part of my life. I mean it's my whole life in some ways so I don't think there's really anything that comes to close," he said, "But I guess my hobbies give me other types of fulfillment. The garage work is pretty therapeutic. I like working my own car cause it's something for myself.”

“A handyman,” you hummed, trying not to imagine him all greased up tinkering on a car.

You followed up with a few more questions Harry had written. More about specific plays and how the team was doing. Sports language that you definitely were having Harry translate for you. Logan answered them all with a smile. There were some moments you both shared a laugh about a story you recounted or a quiet rebuttal you threw in to keep the conversation flowing. You were slowly starting to realize why everyone called this man charming. But you needed to stay focused. You were here for business not a boyfriend.

You glanced at your phone. The time read nearly an hour after the two of you started. 

“Oh I guess those were all the written questions,” you chirped, “Do you have anything else you wanna add or ask me?”

“Nah,” he shook his head, “I mean can I ask what’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah I mean what you’re studying, what you’re into.”

You couldn’t tell if he was being friendly or trying to flirt so you gave a quick answer.

“I’m studying journalism and I like a lot of things but this interview is about you not me,” you said.

“What if I wanted to get to know you more?” his eyes twinkled, leaning closer so that now you could smell his shampoo.

You leaned back and put your notebook away.

“I would say that would go against the basic laws of journalism,” you sighed, “I don’t like to fraternize with my sources.”

“Oh come on it’s only for the school newspaper,” Logan grinned until you gasp, “Which is a lovely publication.”

“It’s the principle of the matter,” you huffed, tossing your bag over your shoulder and recited the same speech you said after every interview, “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I’ll be sure to send you a copy of the article once it’s out.”

You walked out without looking back even though you really had enjoyed Logan’s company. There was no point in dwelling on the situation. You were a regular student and he was going to be on the front page of your paper. It was best to forget about it all and just write the damn article. And maybe tell Harry to be more cautious of what he consumes.

Meanwhile Logan watched your high ponytail sway as you navigated out of the rink. He had a stupid grin on his face as he wondered how you felt about source boundaries in a party setting.

[darlingmito]

Latching on to you ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Love island au masterlist

pairing!! john logan x reader

warnings!! general LI drama, arguments, swearing, breakdowns etc (will update as i write)

note!! hi, i'm super happy for the support the original post had :') im making this a short series. i have planned around 10 parts and ill be posting them hopefully during the next two weeks.

PARTS

0.0 Meet the islanders

0.1 A bombshell has entered the villa

0.2 The date

0.3 New couple?

more to come…

[flostate]

It’s Hard Being Casual.

(Prologue)

⤷ Brother’s best friend!Bucky x female!reader {College AU}

.ᐟ Warnings/tags : College AU, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Shared History, Yearning, Happy Ending (maybe), Bad grammar or spelling mistakes.

꒰ Summary ꒱ : You’ve always known Bucky Barnes. He’s your older brother’s best friend, your first crush, and the one person you’ve never quite been able to let go of. College changes everything. Suddenly the lingering looks last too long, the touches mean too much, and you’re left wondering if you’ve imagined it all… or if he’s finally looking back.

꒰ Word count ꒱ : 1k (give or take..)

꒰ Notes ꒱ : Hi everyone! This is my first ever fanfic, so any advice is appreciated, thank you and I wish you all the best. <3 (also chapter 1 coming soon..)

꒰ Credits ꒱ : Dividers, Casual by Chappell Roan (more specifically the tiny desk version).

There are people who arrive in your life with a grand entrance. A beginning you can point to years later and say, that’s where it all started. Then there are people you can’t remember meeting. The kind who become so woven into the fabric of your childhood that separating them from your memories feels impossible, like trying to remember your first breath or the first time you heard your own name. James Buchanan Barnes belonged to the second kind. You couldn’t tell anyone when he became part of your story because, as far as you were concerned, he’d always been there. Before you knew what missing someone felt like. Before you understood that growing up meant leaving pieces of yourself behind. Before you learned that sometimes loving somebody was less like falling, and more like quietly becoming.

If someone asked you about your childhood, you’d probably tell them about summers. Not because they were extraordinary, but because they seemed endless. The sun never disappeared before nine, someone’s radio was always drifting through an open kitchen window, and the pavement outside your house stayed stained with faded chalk drawings no matter how many times it rained. Your mom was forever shouting that the screen door would break if it kept being slammed every five minutes, though nobody ever listened.

It was always the three of you.

You. Steve. Bucky.

Not in that order, of course. You always came trailing behind, your shoes untied, convinced your legs were just as long as theirs. They were three years older, which when you’re six and they’re nine, feels less like an age gap and more like an entirely different lifetime. They spent afternoons turning the neighbourhood into battlefields while you struggled to keep up, every stick transformed into a sword, every tree a watchtower, every scraped knee proof that you’d fought just as hard as they had. You were forever chasing after them, determined not to be left behind.

The truth was, they always looked back.

Somewhere along the way, Bucky stopped calling you by your name. There wasn’t a reason for it, not one either of you could remember anyway. One day he called you Bug, and from then on, that was simply who you were to him. You’d asked where it came from more times than you could count, usually after Steve rolled his eyes and complained that it didn’t even make sense. Every single time, Bucky would just shrug, that familiar crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just suits you,” he’d say, like that was explanation enough. Eventually, you stopped asking. It became one of those things that had always existed, like the creaky step outside your bedroom or the scratch on his bike that he’d sworn he’d fix one day. Nobody else ever called you Bug. Not Steve, not your parents, not your teachers. Somehow, it belonged to Bucky alone, and hearing it in anyone else’s voice would’ve sounded wrong. You can’t remember the last time he called you Bug. There wasn’t a final goodbye to the nickname, no moment where either of you decided you’d outgrown it. It simply disappeared somewhere between childhood and growing up, so quietly that neither of you noticed until it had already become another one of those things that only existed in memory.

Maybe that’s why the things that stayed with you were never the important ones. They were the quiet things. The overlooked things. The kind that should’ve disappeared with time but somehow never did. His shoes abandoned by the front door because sooner or later he’d be back for them anyway. The sound of his laugh carrying across the garden before you were old enough to understand the joke. The way he’d steady the back of your bike when you insisted you didn’t need help anymore, jogging behind you until you found your balance.

“I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

You couldn’t have been older than eight the first time he said it. Maybe he’d said it a hundred times after that. Funny how memory works. It never keeps the things you expect it to. It forgets birthdays and school lessons and what you had for dinner last Tuesday, but it remembers the exact way someone looked at you after you fell over. It remembers the sound of laughter drifting upstairs long after your parents thought you’d gone to sleep.

Mostly, it remembers people.

You think that’s the cruelest part about growing up. Nobody tells you that one day you’ll start mourning things that never felt important while they were happening. The last summer everyone was home at the same time. The last movie night in your parents’ living room before somebody had work in the morning. The last time Bucky wandered into your house without knocking because he’d long since become family. You never recognise the last time while you’re living it. You only realise years later, when you’re packing your childhood into cardboard boxes, and you find an old photograph tucked inside the back of a drawer.

Steve’s missing his front tooth.

You’re standing in the middle because you’d cried until they let you join the picture.

Bucky’s looking somewhere off camera, laughing at something you’ll never remember.

You stare at it for longer than you mean to.

Not because you miss being a child.

Because you miss how uncomplicated love used to be before you knew there were some people you weren’t supposed to fall for. Before your heart started keeping secrets from the people who knew it best.

The strange thing is, there was never a moment you could point to. No lightning strike. No single conversation. No day that split your life into before and after. Whatever changed between the two of you did so quietly, disguising itself as another ordinary afternoon until one day it was impossible to remember a version of your life where he hadn’t already become something more.

[flostate]

It’s Hard Being Casual.

(Prologue)

⤷ Brother’s best friend!Bucky x female!reader {College AU}

.ᐟ Warnings/tags : College AU, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Shared History, Yearning, Happy Ending (maybe), Bad grammar or spelling mistakes.

꒰ Summary ꒱ : You’ve always known Bucky Barnes. He’s your older brother’s best friend, your first crush, and the one person you’ve never quite been able to let go of. College changes everything. Suddenly the lingering looks last too long, the touches mean too much, and you’re left wondering if you’ve imagined it all… or if he’s finally looking back.

꒰ Word count ꒱ : 1k (give or take..)

꒰ Notes ꒱ : Hi everyone! This is my first ever fanfic, so any advice is appreciated, thank you and I wish you all the best. <3 (also chapter 1 coming soon..)

꒰ Credits ꒱ : Dividers, Casual by Chappell Roan (more specifically the tiny desk version).

There are people who arrive in your life with a grand entrance. A beginning you can point to years later and say, that’s where it all started. Then there are people you can’t remember meeting. The kind who become so woven into the fabric of your childhood that separating them from your memories feels impossible, like trying to remember your first breath or the first time you heard your own name. James Buchanan Barnes belonged to the second kind. You couldn’t tell anyone when he became part of your story because, as far as you were concerned, he’d always been there. Before you knew what missing someone felt like. Before you understood that growing up meant leaving pieces of yourself behind. Before you learned that sometimes loving somebody was less like falling, and more like quietly becoming.

If someone asked you about your childhood, you’d probably tell them about summers. Not because they were extraordinary, but because they seemed endless. The sun never disappeared before nine, someone’s radio was always drifting through an open kitchen window, and the pavement outside your house stayed stained with faded chalk drawings no matter how many times it rained. Your mom was forever shouting that the screen door would break if it kept being slammed every five minutes, though nobody ever listened.

It was always the three of you.

You. Steve. Bucky.

Not in that order, of course. You always came trailing behind, your shoes untied, convinced your legs were just as long as theirs. They were three years older, which when you’re six and they’re nine, feels less like an age gap and more like an entirely different lifetime. They spent afternoons turning the neighbourhood into battlefields while you struggled to keep up, every stick transformed into a sword, every tree a watchtower, every scraped knee proof that you’d fought just as hard as they had. You were forever chasing after them, determined not to be left behind.

The truth was, they always looked back.

Somewhere along the way, Bucky stopped calling you by your name. There wasn’t a reason for it, not one either of you could remember anyway. One day he called you Bug, and from then on, that was simply who you were to him. You’d asked where it came from more times than you could count, usually after Steve rolled his eyes and complained that it didn’t even make sense. Every single time, Bucky would just shrug, that familiar crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just suits you,” he’d say, like that was explanation enough. Eventually, you stopped asking. It became one of those things that had always existed, like the creaky step outside your bedroom or the scratch on his bike that he’d sworn he’d fix one day. Nobody else ever called you Bug. Not Steve, not your parents, not your teachers. Somehow, it belonged to Bucky alone, and hearing it in anyone else’s voice would’ve sounded wrong. You can’t remember the last time he called you Bug. There wasn’t a final goodbye to the nickname, no moment where either of you decided you’d outgrown it. It simply disappeared somewhere between childhood and growing up, so quietly that neither of you noticed until it had already become another one of those things that only existed in memory.

Maybe that’s why the things that stayed with you were never the important ones. They were the quiet things. The overlooked things. The kind that should’ve disappeared with time but somehow never did. His shoes abandoned by the front door because sooner or later he’d be back for them anyway. The sound of his laugh carrying across the garden before you were old enough to understand the joke. The way he’d steady the back of your bike when you insisted you didn’t need help anymore, jogging behind you until you found your balance.

“I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

You couldn’t have been older than eight the first time he said it. Maybe he’d said it a hundred times after that. Funny how memory works. It never keeps the things you expect it to. It forgets birthdays and school lessons and what you had for dinner last Tuesday, but it remembers the exact way someone looked at you after you fell over. It remembers the sound of laughter drifting upstairs long after your parents thought you’d gone to sleep.

Mostly, it remembers people.

You think that’s the cruelest part about growing up. Nobody tells you that one day you’ll start mourning things that never felt important while they were happening. The last summer everyone was home at the same time. The last movie night in your parents’ living room before somebody had work in the morning. The last time Bucky wandered into your house without knocking because he’d long since become family. You never recognise the last time while you’re living it. You only realise years later, when you’re packing your childhood into cardboard boxes, and you find an old photograph tucked inside the back of a drawer.

Steve’s missing his front tooth.

You’re standing in the middle because you’d cried until they let you join the picture.

Bucky’s looking somewhere off camera, laughing at something you’ll never remember.

You stare at it for longer than you mean to.

Not because you miss being a child.

Because you miss how uncomplicated love used to be before you knew there were some people you weren’t supposed to fall for. Before your heart started keeping secrets from the people who knew it best.

The strange thing is, there was never a moment you could point to. No lightning strike. No single conversation. No day that split your life into before and after. Whatever changed between the two of you did so quietly, disguising itself as another ordinary afternoon until one day it was impossible to remember a version of your life where he hadn’t already become something more.

[biglychee]

Can you please do a story like a one-sided enemies to lovers where the reader thinks bucky hates them so they automatically just not like him but they eventually learn that..that's just how bucky looks. He always looks upset and angry all the time so it wasn't directed at them, he's just like that.

Face Value

$ log - you were convinced bucky barnes was a cold, arrogant agent who despised you — so you made it your personal mission to hate him right back. it took an assignment in riga, a broken sensor, and a remarkably good bowl of soup to realise that his intentions were far warmer than you ever imagined. $ warn --sfw --fluff --gn!reader --awkward!cutie!bucky --enemies-to-lovers(one-sided) --miscomm(heavy) $ wc -w 8.7k $ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes # authors-note = okay I went crazy-style on this, enjoy! # note = stuck in the safehouse together with only one bed trope. he's so adorable, though.

0001 — one

The first time you met Bucky, he looked at you as though you’d keyed his car.

You’d been at the compound for all of three hours. You still had your lanyard on, alongside the new-hire packet tucked under your arm because nobody had shown you where to put it.

Upon walking into the common area kitchen to fill a water bottle, you found him already there — leaning against the counter with a mug in his left hand. The moment you stepped through the door, he turned his head and simply — stared.

It wasn't a glance, nor was it a polite scan-and-dismiss. It was a full, sustained, unblinking stare — brows drawn tight, jaw set, and his mouth pressed into a flat line. It was as if you’d interrupted something sacred, as though your mere existence in the doorway was an affront to whatever silent communion he’d been having with his coffee.

"Hi," you said. "I'm —"

"I know who you are." He took a sip, never once blinking. "Welcome."

It was the least welcoming greeting you’d ever received. The word came out as if he were legally compelled to say it — as though someone had a gun to his back, mouthing say the nice thing whilst he white-knuckled his way through the syllable.

You filled your water bottle in silence, fully aware of him watching you before you finally made your escape.

That, as far as you were concerned, was the entire thesis of Bucky: hostile on arrival, aggressive on eye contact, and thoroughly allergic to basic human warmth.

Case closed.

Nothing about the compound gave you any reason to revise that opinion.

Over the following weeks, you accumulated evidence much like a prosecutor building a trial — methodically and without the slightest interest in the defense. He glared at you across the briefing room table, just as he did in the lift. He glowered at you in the corridor while you were simply trying to reach the gym, continuing the routine once you were inside.

On one occasion, he held a door open for you. This might have passed for a kind gesture, had his expression not suggested he was actively weighing up whether to slam it shut on your hand. Passing through quickly, you muttered a thank you, subsequently spending the next ten minutes wondering what you’d done to personally offend a hundred-and-six-year-old super soldier.

To make matters worse, this treatment seemed exclusively reserved for you.

Sam gave Bucky relentless, industrial-grade grief on a daily basis, receiving nothing worse than a tired sigh in return. Natasha spoke to him in brief Russian phrases that made him almost  — almost — soften around the eyes. Steve, naturally, could coax out something adjacent to a smile, provided the lighting was right and the conversation touched on baseball.

You, meanwhile, received the murder stare.

Consequently, you took the only reasonable course of action: you decided to hate him back. Nothing loud or dramatic — you were a professional, after all. Yet if Bucky insisted on looking at you like you were gum on his tactical boot, you were more than happy to match his energy. You ceased saying hello, just as you stopped making eye contact. Whenever his name arose in briefings, your gaze remained glued to the nearest screen, offering nothing beyond what was strictly required.

In your professional opinion, it was a perfectly proportional response. He had started it, after all.

Except, as it turned out, he hadn't started anything at all.

0010 — two

Steve, for all his tactical brilliance, possessed the interpersonal radar of a golden retriever at a dog park. Which is to say: he assumed everyone was having as good a time as he was, believing that if they weren't, they simply required a more intriguing chew toy.

"I want you two running point on Riga," he said, tapping something on his tablet without looking up. "Buck, your ground coverage coupled with their aerial support makes for a clean overlap. No blind spots."

You felt your left eyelid twitch.

"Seems efficient," Bucky remarked from across the table. He spoke in that low, even tone you had long since catalogued as dangerously neutral, which was, in reality, merely his natural way of speaking.

"Incredibly efficient," Steve agreed, radiating the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely loved logistics. "You'll insert here, sweep the perimeter in tandem, and report back. Forty-eight hours, tops."

You opened your mouth to suggest — diplomatically, calmly, and with exquisite professionalism — that perhaps literally anyone else on the roster might prove a better fit. Clint. Wanda. A reasonably trained Labrador. However, Steve was already moving on to exfiltration windows, whilst the moment sailed past like a ship you hadn't boarded.

Bucky glanced at you across the table. Although you didn't look back, you could feel it regardless: the stare. That ever-present, searing, what did I do to you in a past life stare, which you had fully reinterpreted as I am imagining your demise in vivid detail.

Riga was cold and grey, smelling faintly of rain-wet concrete. Bucky crouched behind a low wall, running through the sweep route as though he had memorised every sewer grate in the Eastern Bloc. Which, to be fair, he probably had.

"If we cut through the service corridor on the east side," he said, tracing a line on the projected map between you, "we avoid the camera cluster at the northwest junction. That shaves off thirty seconds and gives us a cleaner sweep."

It was a good call — objectively and tactically sound. Naturally, you hated it.

"Alternatively," you countered, "we take the northwest junction. The camera cluster has a six-second rotation gap offering more than enough cover, whilst saving us from rerouting through a corridor we haven't physically cleared."

Bucky looked at you. There was that look again: that infuriating, immovable expression. "The corridor's been cleared on satellite."

"Satellite isn't boots on the ground, a fact I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate."

A brief pause followed. He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, like a cat processing new information it had already deemed irrelevant.

"Right," he said simply. "Northwest junction. Six-second gap."

There was no argument, no pushback, and no retaliatory escalation. Desperate for him to fight you on it — to give you something concrete to push against — you were met instead with immediate agreement. He adjusted and moved on. You couldn't even determine whether his baseline glare had shifted, as it remained entirely one temperature: a perpetual overcast with no forecast of change.

Infuriating.

Taking the northwest junction proved successful; the six-second gap worked seamlessly. Bucky offered no comment afterwards, a silence you promptly interpreted as resentful, even if, by any objective measure, it was merely quiet efficiency.

By hour thirty, you had swept two-thirds of the perimeter, flagged three points of interest, and exchanged roughly forty words that weren't operationally necessary. Bucky held position whenever required, adjusted without complaint when you called an audible, and covered your flank with the mechanical precision of someone who had been doing precisely that for the better part of a century. 

When you snapped at his suggestion to double back on the north quadrant — "We've already cleared that, so unless you want to walk the same block a third time, let's finish before the century's out" — he studied you for a long moment, uttered a brief "Copy," and carried on.

By every metric that mattered, you worked brilliantly together. That was easily the most annoying aspect of the entire operation.

Steve's check-in crackled through the comms at hour thirty-six. "How's it looking out there?"

"Clean sweep," Bucky reported. "On schedule."

"Good to hear. Really good. You two are a natural fit, so I'm going to keep this pairing going."

The line clicked off before you could object.

Somewhere across the rooftop, Bucky shifted his weight without making a sound, having never once felt the need to fill a silence. You, meanwhile, were mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to Steve regarding the actual definition of the word natural.

The extraction window opened at dawn. It was a simple retrieval — collecting an intel package from a secure drop followed by a confirmation sweep for surveillance, wrapping up before the city woke up properly. It was the kind of job that barely qualified as a mission, resembling more of an errand, assuming your errands typically involved fake passports and a concealed weapon in your waistband.

Bucky moved through the drop site with an efficient, practiced quiet. Covering the perimeter, you tagged two potential cameras before feeding him the all-clear. He retrieved the package, confirmed the seal, and stowed it without ceremony.

"Clean," he reported over the comms.

"Obviously," you shot back, unable to help yourself.

The walk to the vehicle spanned six blocks through early-morning foot traffic. Bucky fell into step beside you — maintaining not a companionable proximity, but rather the tactically sound distance of a partner keeping visual range. Keeping your eyes fixed forward, you occasionally caught the peripheral flicker of him looking over, despite his efforts to look straight ahead as well.

At the fourth block, he spoke. "You did good work on the north sweep."

You nearly tripped. It wasn't a physical stumble, but rather a sudden jolt behind your ribs, as the compliment arrived so entirely stripped of inflection that it took a full three seconds to confirm it wasn't an insult.

"Thanks," you replied, as though the word were costing you money.

He offered a single nod before looking ahead once more. His expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the exchange — neither when he spoke, nor when you responded, nor now. It was the same furrowed brow, the same hard-set jaw, and the same general aura of a man who held a personal grievance against the concept of sunlight.

Walking the remaining two blocks in silence, you climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of Riga without incident.

In the passenger seat, Bucky stared out of the window, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

In the driver's seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, contemplating how deeply, profoundly, and cosmically unfair it was that Steve had designated your personal nemesis as your ideal work partner.

Bucky glanced over at you once more. You caught it in the corner of your eye — the slight turn of his head and the weight of his attention settling on the side of your face like a physical presence.

He looked away a moment later. Had you been watching, you might have caught a fleeting micro-expression that, on a more animated face, could have passed for confusion: a subtle narrowing of the eyes accompanied by a barely-there tilt of the head. It was the physical equivalent of a quiet huh.

Yet you were not watching. You were driving, nursing your resentment, and dreading the next mission you would inevitably be shackled to him for.

Bucky turned his gaze back out of the window.

Feisty, he thought, though not in explicit words. It was more of a general registration of facts: Teammate. Competent. Annoyed for some reason. Right then.

He let the matter drop.

0011 — three

The second phase of Riga went sideways on account of Bucky, and he had the decency to admit it — which made the entire situation infinitely worse.

It should have been straightforward. The intel package retrieved from the drop site pointed to a secondary location: a warehouse on the industrial fringe of Vecriga, flagged for potential weapons caching. Steve wanted confirmation before committing a full team, meaning it remained just the two of you — still purely recon, still strictly a matter of looking and reporting.

Bucky took the south entrance whilst you took the north — a standard split providing clean coverage without anything overly elaborate. Having swept your half in twelve minutes and tagged two points of interest, you reported clearly, subsequently waiting for his confirmation.

It failed to arrive.

What came instead was the muffled crack of a door being forced open from the inside. This was followed by three seconds of silence that felt significantly longer, before Bucky’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and flat: "Contact. Four hostiles, south corridor. I tripped a sensor."

You were already on the move. "You tripped a sensor?"

"There was a secondary grid. It wasn't in the schematics."

"So check for a secondary grid!"

"I'm aware of the oversight." A brief pause ensued, accompanied by the sound of distant, contained gunfire. "Heading to you. Thirty seconds."

He burst through the connecting corridor like a freight train with security clearance — fast, controlled, without a single wasted movement, yet carrying four exceptionally motivated hostiles funnelling in behind him. He had dropped two already, though the remaining four had evidently summoned reinforcements.

"An oversight," you hissed, falling into position beside him behind a concrete support column. "You call six armed hostiles an oversight?"

"I call the sensor an oversight; the hostiles are merely a consequence." Checking his magazine with a mechanical click, he remained as calm as a man sorting his morning post. "I ought to have caught it. That's on me."

There it was: no excuse, no deflection, and no complaints about incomplete schematics or how it could have happened to anyone. It was simply a clean, unvarnished admission of fault, delivered with the same flat affect he applied to everything else — as though accountability were merely another line item on the operational checklist.

You wanted to strangle him.

You wanted to seize him by the front of his tactical vest and shake him until something other than that granite composure gave way, purely because he had no right to be so utterly reasonable about it.

How dare he own his mistake with quiet professionalism when you had been actively gearing up for a proper row?

You had an entire speech prepared — reckless, sloppy, typical — only for him to dismantle it in two short sentences by simply agreeing with you.

"I'm going to kill you," you said.

"After the hostiles," he replied, which might have passed for a joke, had his face offered any confirmation.

They advanced in pairs. The warehouse consisted entirely of long sightlines and sparse cover — a layout ill-suited for defence and even worse for retreat, leaving forward progression as the sole option. 

Bucky moved left, drawing fire toward the heavier cover near the loading bay, whilst you veered right to utilise the elevated walkway for a tactical angle. For thirty seconds, the response was clean and coordinated — the precise sort of synchronisation Steve would have had framed and hung on a wall.

Then the third pair flanked wide, resulting in one of them getting behind you.

You heard it before you saw it: the scrape of a boot against the metal grating of the walkway — far too close and coming from the wrong direction. Spinning round, you fired and caught him in the shoulder, yet his momentum carried him forward as a burst from his automatic weapon chewed through the railing to your left.

Dropping off the walkway to avoid the spray — rolling through a two-metre fall purely on instinct — you came up in the open on the warehouse floor, stranded between two columns of cover with nothing but concrete dust and bad options.

The remaining hostile on the upper level held the high ground. You could see him repositioning, his barrel swinging round to track your movement. Meanwhile, the nearest cover stood four paces away, which was roughly two paces more than you had time for.

At that moment, Bucky hit you from the side like a wall with a pulse.

It wasn't a tackle, nor was it a shove. It was something altogether more deliberate: his arm wrapping round your waist as his body pivoted to place himself between you and the muzzle flash, dragging you both behind the nearest column in a single, brutal motion that briefly lifted your feet off the ground. Your back struck the concrete just as his chest slammed against yours. His left arm braced against the wall beside your head, his metal fingers digging shallow grooves into the surface with a sound guaranteed to haunt your next several attempts at sleep.

He fired over your shoulder without once looking away from you. Two shots rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the floor above.

Silence settled over the warehouse like dust after a demolition.

You were breathing heavily; he was not.

His heartbeat against your collarbone remained steady, measured, and offensively calm — the resting rhythm of a man whose circulatory system simply refused to acknowledge combat as a cardiovascular event. His face sat inches from yours as he scanned past you, his eyes tracking the upper walkway, the exits, and the corners, conducting a very focused threat assessment.

You, on the other hand, could register nothing else.

He was warm, which served as your first entirely unhelpful observation. Beneath the Kevlar, the grime, and the faint metallic tang of discharged rounds, he felt warm, broad, and solid in a manner resembling architecture rather than a person.

Your hands were resting on his vest again — a recurring habit you genuinely needed to address — and from this distance, you could see that his eyelashes were dark and unreasonably long. Furthermore, a small scar sat at the corner of his jaw that you had never previously noticed, owing to the fact that you had never been this close, alongside the small detail that you hated him.

You hated him — that remained vital. You were furious.

He had tripped a sensor, dragged you into a firefight, and then possessed the sheer audacity to throw himself in front of a bullet meant for you as if it were nothing. Protecting your body with his was apparently just another Tuesday to him, and now he stood there with his arm caging you in, his ridiculously muscled chest pressed against yours, leaving you absolutely, categorically, and without question hot, bothered and —

"Clear," Bucky said, looking down at you.

The stare remained identical to always — completely unreadable — except that from seven centimetres away, it felt less like I want you dead and more like I am looking at you because you are here and I am thorough. "You good?"

"Peachy," you managed.

Stepping back, he holstered his weapon. He offered you a single, efficient once-over — not lingering or appreciative, but rather a simple field check akin to inspecting a piece of kit after a drop — before turning to clear the rest of the warehouse.

"Sorry about the sensor," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.

You stood there for a moment, back pressed against the column, vest askew, with your heart executing something architecturally unsound in your chest. Your face felt hot, your hands felt foolish, and somewhere amidst the wreckage of your higher reasoning, a small, traitorous voice pointed out that pure American muscle was not a phrase you ought to be associating with a man you'd spent months despising.

You instructed the voice to shut up. Naturally, it refused.

By the time you caught up with him at the south exit, you had reassembled your composure into something functional, if not entirely convincing. Bucky crouched by the door, checking the exterior. As you approached, he looked up with that exact, unchanging, immovable expression and said, "We should report the secondary grid to Steve. My error; I'll log it."

"Damn right you will," you replied, albeit with significantly less venom than intended.

He nodded once before turning his attention back to the door, completely failing to notice that your ears were bright red — because Bucky, as a rule, simply did not notice things like 'ears'.

0100 — four

The safehouse was Steve's idea, because of course it was.

"Sit tight," he instructed over comms, speaking with the serene authority of a man issuing orders from a heated facility several countries away. "The firefight flagged local attention, so I need twenty-four hours to reroute extraction without drawing eyes. There's a safehouse logged in the system — Bucky, you know the one off Avotu iela?"

"I know it," Bucky replied.

"Great. Supplies should still be stocked from the last rotation. Hunker down, stay off the radar, and I'll have you out by tomorrow evening."

The line went dead. You stared at the comm in your hand as though it had personally betrayed you.

Twenty-four hours. In a safehouse. With Bucky Barnes.

Steve would answer for this. Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day, in a time and place of your choosing, Steven Grant Rogers would look you in the eye and reckon with the cumulative consequences of his logistical enthusiasm.

The safehouse was a third-floor walk-up in a residential block that looked like every other on the street — beige concrete, narrow windows, and a front door requiring a keycode that Bucky punched in from memory without hesitation.

Inside, it was sparse in the way all safehouses were sparse: functional furniture, blackout curtains, a bathroom with aggressive water pressure and no hot water, a kitchen stocked with tin cans and dry pasta, alongside, inexplicably, a full spice rack.

There was only one bedroom. However, you had yet to discover that detail.

Bucky executed a sweep of the flat in under two minutes — checking windows, exits, sightlines, and the building's stairwell — before returning to the main room with a nod that signified clear and absolutely nothing else.

Having taken up position at the far end of the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, you watched him move through the space with the efficiency of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms he didn't wish to be in.

"I'll make something," he said, already opening cupboards.

"I'm not hungry."

Your stomach growled with immaculate comedic timing. Bucky paused, hand on a cupboard door, yet he offered no comment and made no attempt to smile. He simply resumed opening the cupboard, which was somehow far worse than if he had laughed outright.

He proceeded to make soup.

You didn't know what you had expected — something perfunctory, perhaps, assembled with the same grim pragmatism he brought to everything else. A tin of broth heated in a pot, perhaps with some pasta thrown in for caloric necessity.

Instead, Bucky stood at the narrow safehouse cooker and diced an onion with a knife never intended for onions, moving with the quiet focus of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and had no intention of explaining why.

He sautéed garlic — actual garlic, peeled and minced, from a bulb he had found in the crisper drawer alongside potatoes that had no right being that fresh in a safehouse. He added tinned tomatoes, a selection of dried herbs from the inexplicable spice rack, the potatoes cut into even cubes, and a splash of something from a bottle bearing a Czech label that might have been vinegar, wine, or lighter fluid.

It smelled incredible.

You watched this unfold from your position at the counter — still with arms crossed, still glaring — feeling the mounting indignation of a person whose nemesis was failing to behave according to the established narrative.

Enemies did not make soup. Enemies did not dice onions with careful, practised hands. Enemies did not stir a pot with a wooden spoon, taste from the rim, and subsequently add more salt with the measured consideration of someone who understood that soup was a dish worth getting right.

He set a bowl in front of you without ceremony before sitting down across the narrow table with his own and picking up his spoon.

You glared at the soup. The soup failed to glare back, sitting there instead and steaming gently, smelling like something a grandmother would make if she’d happened to have a vibranium arm and the emotional range of a concrete wall.

You ate the soup.

It was — and you would take this to your grave before admitting it aloud — delicious. The potatoes were tender without being mushy. The broth possessed depth — actual depth, featuring layers of flavour that had no business existing in a meal assembled from safehouse scraps by a man who looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to participate in civilian life.

Across the table, Bucky ate in silence, just as you ate in silence. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic alongside the distant hum of Riga's evening traffic filtering through the blackout curtains.

You were glaring at him over the rim of the bowl.

You knew you were glaring and found yourself unable to stop. Every spoonful felt like a personal offence — not owing to the soup, which was infuriatingly above reproach, but purely on principle. He had no right to be good at this. He had no right to sit there, eating soup he had made with his own two hands — one of which was made of metal and had attempted to kill multiple heads of state — looking for all the world like a man entirely at peace with his evening.

He wasn't at peace with his evening; he was simply eating soup.

Yet he did notice you were quiet — quieter than usual, which was quite a feat given that your usual baseline around him sat somewhere between terse and legally admissible silence. Glancing up once, he caught the edge of your expression, filing it away as he filed most things about you: without reaching any conclusions whatsoever.

Rough day, he thought. The warehouse was a lot. The sensor business rattled them. Fair enough.

It had not occurred to Bucky, at any point in the preceding months, that your hostility towards him was personal.

Having considered and dismissed several theories — that you were private, focused, cold towards everyone, or merely adjusting to the team — he had landed on the most generous possible interpretation every single time. The notion that you simply didn't like him, specifically as an individual, had never crossed his mind, as Bucky did not assign himself enough importance in other people's emotional landscapes for that to feel plausible.

You finished the soup, as did he. Taking both bowls to the sink without asking, he washed them by hand, thorough and unhurried, whilst you sat at the table staring at the back of his head, trying desperately to maintain the structural integrity of a grudge that was developing hairline fractures.

He dried the bowls, put them away, and wiped down the counter.

You hated him — obviously. However, the soup had been exceptionally good, and the counter was immaculate.

"I'll take the first watch," he said, settling onto the couch with a clear sightline to the front door.

"Fine."

"Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long extract."

"I know."

He looked at you. You looked away first — a new development, and one that neither of you chose to examine.

0101 — five

The bedroom situation revealed itself with the slow, inevitable horror of a punchline that ought to have been obvious from the start.

There was a single bed: full-sized, pushed against the far wall, and made up with military corners alongside a single wool blanket that looked as though it had been government-issued during a war — quite possibly the one Bucky had personally fought in. Accompanying it were a single pillow, one nightstand, and an overhead light with a pull chain that lent the entire space the ambience of an interrogation cell.

You stood in the doorway whilst Bucky remained directly behind you. Neither of you spoke for a long, damning moment.

"I'll take the floor," he offered.

"No."

"It's not a problem. I've slept on worse."

"I said no." Turning round — a mistake, as it turned out, given his proximity — you had to look up to meet his eyes, which were performing their usual trick of boring into you as if you owed him money. "I'll take the floor. You take the bed."

Bucky's brow furrowed. Or rather, it furrowed further — it was already permanently set that way by default, yet it deepened to a degree you hadn't previously known was architecturally possible. "That doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"You're smaller than me. The bed is more efficient for —"

"I don't care about efficiency, Barnes. Take the bed."

"I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor."

"You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing the floor. Independently. Of my own volition."

This was — a fact you were distantly aware of even in the moment — not actually about chivalry, comfort, or any rational metric of who ought to sleep where.

It was entirely about the fact that Bucky had suggested the bed, and you would rather lie on cold hardwood until your spine fused than accept a single accommodation from a man who had spent months staring at you as if you were a code he was trying to crack, only to decide you weren't worth the effort.

Bucky looked at you, and you looked back at him. The standoff held for a stretched, ridiculous beat — two highly trained operatives with a combined century of combat experience, thoroughly deadlocked over a mattress.

"We could —" He stopped, recalibrated, and started again carefully, in the manner of a person approaching a suggestion they already know will go badly. "We could share it."

"Absolutely not."

"It's a full. There's room."

"There is not room."

There was, objectively, room.

A further eleven minutes of negotiation ensued — eleven minutes that could have been spent sleeping, maintaining perimeter awareness, or doing literally anything other than arguing about a bed with a man whose face hadn't changed expression once throughout the entire exchange.

In the end, the solution was reached not through compromise, but through mutual exhaustion: you on the left side, him on the right, with a gap between you wide enough to accommodate a respectably sized third person, or possibly a coffin, which felt appropriate.

You lay on your back, rigid, arms at your sides, staring at the ceiling. The blanket covered you to mid-chest. Although your boots were off, everything else remained on; you were certainly not changing clothes in a safehouse with Bucky on the other side of a bed you were sharing against every instinct you possessed.

He lay on his back, equally rigid, with hands folded over his stomach as he too stared at the ceiling. The blanket covered him to the waist. Having removed his jacket and gloves but nothing else, the plates of his left arm caught the ambient glow of the streetlamp outside in the dim light filtering through the window.

Silence followed — a long, heavy, weighted silence.

Steve Rogers, you thought, with the focus and clarity of a prayer, I am going to find you, and I am going to make you understand what you've done. When the history books document your demise, they will note that it was thoroughly deserved.

Somewhere beyond the curtains, Riga hummed its quiet nighttime hum. A car passed, a dog barked, and the kitchen refrigerator cycled on with a low rattle that settled into white noise.

Bucky shifted. Not towards you — if anything, he pressed further into his own edge, as though attempting to grant the gap between you additional square footage through sheer force of will. The mattress dipped slightly with the movement before settling into stillness once more.

More silence followed. You could hear him breathing — a steady, measured rhythm suggesting either deep calm or trained control. Unable to tell which, it bothered you that you were listening closely enough to wonder.

"Can I ask you something?"

His voice was quiet. It wasn't soft — Bucky didn't do soft, or if he did, you had never been granted access to it — yet it was low and careful. He directed his gaze at the ceiling, speaking in the manner of someone who had determined that eye contact would prove a tactical error.

"What?" you said, flat and with your guard firmly up.

A pause followed while he chose his words with the deliberation of a man disarming a device he didn't fully understand — which, in a sense, he was.

"Why do you glare at me?"

The question landed in the dark between you like a stone dropped into still water: simple, direct, and genuinely, painfully confused. It was neither accusatory nor hurt, but merely curious — like a puzzle he had been turning over in his hands for months and had finally decided to open here, in the dark, lying on his back and addressing the ceiling, having apparently calculated that looking at you while asking would make whatever was already wrong significantly worse.

You didn't answer immediately, far too blindsided by the fact that he had noticed. This was insane in retrospect because, of course he had noticed — you had been glaring at the man with the intensity of a sustained laser for the better part of six months.

"Why do I glare at you?" you repeated, as though the question had been delivered in a language you didn't speak.

"Yeah." Still staring at the ceiling, still careful. "I've been — I don't think I've done anything to you. I've tried to run through it, and I can't find the point where I —" He paused. "I've been professional. I've followed protocol, and I've done everything by the handbook. Yet you look at me like I've murdered your cat."

"Because you glare at me!"

It came out louder than intended. You felt the bed shift as he reacted —not flinching, but merely offering a slight turn of his head, which he immediately corrected back to facing the ceiling. "You've glared at me since my first day at the compound. You looked at me like I'd committed a federal crime simply by walking into the kitchen. Every briefing, every corridor, every — you just stare at me, Barnes, as if I've personally wronged your bloodline. So yes, I glare back. What did you expect?"

Silence.

A long, heavy silence.

The sort of silence that possessed a distinct shape.

"Oh," Bucky said.

A single syllable, loaded with the slow, dawning weight of a revelation he hadn't seen coming, precisely because it had never once occurred to him as a possibility.

You heard him exhale through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but something in between that sounded like a man arriving at a destination he wished he hadn't.

"That's —" He stopped, then started again. "That's just my face."

"What?"

"That's how I look." His voice had grown careful again, though in a different register now — less disarming-a-bomb and more confessing to a crime he hadn't realised he'd committed. "Sam told me about it last year. He said I — the word he used was intense. I've been working on it."

A beat passed.

"Apparently, I have not been successful," he added, with the quiet devastation of a man confronting a failed self-improvement project. "My sincere apologies."

You lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling Bucky had been using as a conversational safe harbour, feeling the entire scaffolding of the last six months begin to buckle.

That was simply his face.

The glare, the stare, the flat, searing, unblinking hostility around which you had constructed an entire narrative of enmity — it was merely his face. It wasn't directed at you, nor was it directed at anyone else. It was simply the natural resting state of a man whose features had been frozen, thawed, wiped, reset, and reassembled enough times that they had settled on murder as their factory default.

He had been working on it. Sam had told him, and he had tried. He had been making an active, conscious effort to look less like he was plotting the downfall of everyone in his immediate vicinity, yet the gap between his attempt and his result was apparently so microscopic that you hadn't detected a single pixel of difference.

"Barnes," you said slowly.

"If it helps, I — it's not intentional. It's not — I'm not thinking hostile thoughts when I look at you. I'm usually not thinking anything specific. I'm just..."

"Looking."

"Looking. Yeah."

Another silence descended, though this one differed markedly — less loaded and more bewildered, representing the shared quiet of two people arriving at the same understanding from opposite ends of a very long, highly unnecessary misunderstanding.

"I owe you an apology," you said, the words tasting like something you ought to have uttered months ago, which made them harder to get out, not easier.

"You don't."

"Barnes, I've been horrible to you."

"You've been direct." He said it as though he meant it — not being generous or diplomatic, but simply accurate, by his measure. "I've had worse."

"That's not a particularly high bar."

"It's an honest one."

You lay there with that thought for a moment, letting the recalibration settle.

Every interaction — every terse exchange, every ignored greeting, and every pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence beyond operational necessity — replayed in fast-forward with the new context overlaid. Each one landed differently, and considerably worse. He had held doors open for you, complimented your sweep work, and made you soup. In return, you had met every gesture with the warmth of a closed fist, simply because his eyebrows didn't move the way you thought they should.

"I should also probably tell you something," Bucky said, still addressing the ceiling.

His voice had shifted once more, and had you not been lying close enough to hear the minute changes in his breathing, you might have missed the new tension within it. It wasn't discomfort or reluctance, but rather something closer to the careful steadying of a person about to step off a ledge they had been standing on for longer than planned.

"What?"

"I like you."

The words hit the dark ceiling and hung there, suspended, whilst your brain ran them through several rounds of processing, returning an error every time.

"I —" He cleared his throat. "I like working with you. Your tactical instincts are — the northwest junction call was good. It was better than my call. Furthermore, the way you handle aerial overwatch possesses a precision that — it makes my job easier, which isn't something I say about many people. I actually like that you argue with me, too. Most people don't; they either defer or avoid, whereas you just — " He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling with his right hand. "You come straight at it."

He was rambling.

Bucky — who usually communicated in sentence fragments, silences, and single-word affirmatives — was rambling. The words spilled out in a steady, almost helpless stream, as if he had uncorked something he didn't know how to reseal. The ceiling received the full force of it, given that he still hadn't looked at you and, at this point, probably couldn't.

"And the — the attitude. I know it was directed at me, and I understand that now, but even before I understood it, it didn't bother me. I thought it was simply how you were with everyone. I thought, they’re sharp, they’re focused, and they doesn't waste words, and that's —" He paused, swallowing hard. "I like that. I like all of it. And — you're not going to believe this — the glaring. Even the glaring. You commit to it. There's a — you're very —"

He stopped, breathing out as the sentence died a merciful death somewhere between his intention and his ability to articulate it.

"I don't care if you snap my ears off," he said quietly. "I never have."

On your side of the bed, behind the safety of the gap that now felt less like a demilitarised zone and more like the only barrier preventing you from doing something irreversible, you stared at the ceiling as the universe rearranged itself.

He liked you.

He liked you.

Bucky — whom you had spent six months hating with the dedicated focus of a doctoral thesis, whom you had categorised, filed, and sealed under enemy with absolute certainty — liked you.

He had liked you, quite possibly the entire time. He had appreciated your tactical calls, your aerial work, your stubbornness, and your glaring — which he had apparently found more charming than threatening.

This recontextualised every single moment you had ever shared into something so fundamentally different from what you had believed that your brain was essentially executing a factory reset in real time.

The Big Bang, as they said, originated from a single point of infinite density before expanding outwards in every direction at once. This felt remarkably similar, except the point of infinite density was Bucky saying I don't care if you snap my ears off in the dark, whilst the expansion represented every assumption you had ever made about him detonating simultaneously.

He had gone quiet. The ramble had passed itself, leaving him lying there, still aimed at the ceiling, presumably regretting every word he had spoken while steeling himself for whatever you were about to throw back at him.

The gap between you felt enormous — and suddenly, completely absurd.

0110 — six

You rolled over.

Not gradually, nor cautiously, and certainly not with the measured calculation of someone who had spent the last several hours maintaining the maximum possible distance from the man beside them.

You simply turned, crossing the gap as though it had never existed, before propping yourself up on your elbow on his side of the bed — close enough that your shadow fell across his chest.

Bucky went very still: the sort of still that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact that his entire operating framework for this interaction had just been upended without warning. He had been braced for a multitude of possible responses — silence, anger, dismissal, or a scathing deconstruction of every word he had just uttered — yet certainly not this. He had not anticipated you being right there, leaning over him and looking down at him with an expression he had never before seen on your face, leaving him without a filed reference for it.

You were smiling.

It broke something in him — not loudly or dramatically, but with the quiet internal shift of a gear slipping into a position it hadn't known existed. He had seen you focused, furious, mid-combat, mid-argument, and mid-glare. He had catalogued every version of your face that you had ever shown him, yet none of them — not a single one — had included this. Open and bright, your eyes creased at the corners whilst your mouth curved in a way that made you look like an entirely different person, or perhaps the exact same person with a wall removed.

"Are you serious?" you asked.

He blinked. "About what?"

"Barnes. Are you serious? You like me?"

"I — yes. I just said —  I spent a significant amount of time just saying —"

"You like me." You said it again, not because you required confirmation, but rather because the words were new and you wished to feel them in your mouth a second time. A grin spread across your face—wide, uncontrolled, and entirely without your permission — and you couldn't have stopped it had national security depended on it.

Bucky stared up at you, his lips parting, closing, and parting again. The ramble that had poured out of him minutes ago had emptied his tank entirely; confronted with the direct, beaming, up-close reality of you smiling at him, he was left with nothing.

Every word he had ever learned in two languages, alongside a handful of operationally acquired phrases in four others, had vacated the premises.

"Yes," he managed, the word sounding as though it had been dragged out of him with a hook.

You laughed.

It wasn't at him, but rather at the situation, at yourself, and at six months of wasted hostility collapsing in real time. The sound landed on Bucky like something physical, making his chest shift beneath it. You watched his throat work through a swallow, observing his eyes as they tracked across your face with the bewildered focus of a man seeing a new colour for the first time and not yet trusting that it was real.

"You absolute idiot," you said, as your hand found his jaw.

His breathing changed. You felt it — the catch, the skip, and the barely perceptible hitch of someone whose body had just been informed of a development his brain hadn't authorised. Your fingers rested against the edge of his jaw, your thumb lying along his cheekbone. His skin felt warm beneath your hand — warmer than you had expected, which was a foolish thing to have expectations about, given that thirty seconds prior you had still been on your side of the demilitarised zone pretending to hate him.

"You —" he began.

"Shut up. I'm having a moment."

Your other hand landed on his shoulder — not in a grip or a shove, but in simple contact. With your palm resting on the curve of muscle through his shirt and your fingers settling against the junction of his neck, you felt him tense beneath you. He didn't pull away, but held himself in the rigid stillness of someone who didn't trust himself to move, having not yet determined what the correct movement ought to be.

You were slightly draped across him now, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, and your weight shifted onto his side of the bed. You were close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils had widened in the low light. This was uncharted territory for both of you, obviously.

Yet watching it happen to him was something else entirely: observing the composure that had survived decades of ice, combat, and reprogramming falter over the simple, devastating fact that you were touching his face and smiling about it.

"Hi," you said, foolishly.

"Hi." His voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard before—rough at the edges and quiet in the middle. His right hand came up slowly and carefully, as though reaching for something he expected to be snatched away, hovering near your elbow without quite landing. "You're — this is — I thought you hated me."

"I did hate you."

"And now?"

"Now I'm re-evaluating my methodology."

His hand landed. Gentle and uncertain, his fingers wrapped round your forearm with a pressure so light it was barely there, as if holding something he had been told was fragile without being informed where the cracks were.

You watched his eyes search yours — back and forth, quick and unguarded, stripped of the flat intensity you had been misreading for half a year. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring; he was simply looking at you. For the first time, you could see what was actually present beneath the granite: a banked, cautious want, held at arm's length for so long he had forgotten he was doing it.

"For the record," you said, "the soup was incredible."

A sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, nor quite a breath, but something in the middle. It was an involuntary noise that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a full smile, nor even half of one, but a subtle shift — a fracture in the architecture — that transformed his entire face in a way that made your stomach drop pleasantly into your shoes.

"Noted," he said.

"And the business where you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me —"

"Standard protocol."

"It wasn't, actually."

"It felt standard."

"Barnes."

"Yeah."

You leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn't graceful, as the angle was wrong. You were still propped half on your elbow and half on his chest, your hand sliding from his jaw to the side of his neck as you closed the gap, your nose bumping his because geometry refused to cooperate with the urgency of the moment. Yet his mouth was warm, and when he took a full second to respond, you almost pulled back — nearly retreating to your side of the bed to die of mortification in peace — before his hand tightened on your arm. His other hand came up to the back of your head, and he kissed you back with a quiet, focused intensity suggesting he had been considering this for significantly longer than the duration of your conversation.

He kissed in the same manner he did everything else: thoroughly, unhurriedly, and deliberately, without a single wasted movement. His fingers slid into your hair whilst his thumb traced the line behind your ear, tilting his head to fix the angle problem you had created.

Distantly, in the remaining functional portion of your brain, you thought, Ah, so this is what it's like when he isn't on the other side of a room looking as though he wants to murder me.

It was better — categorically, unreservedly, and across every imaginable metric.

You broke apart just far enough to draw breath, his hand remaining in your hair while yours stayed on his neck. The gap between you had been reduced to practically nothing, leaving the wool blanket as a lost cause somewhere around both your waists. He was looking at you with an expression that, for the first time since you had known him, you could actually read.

"Just to be clear," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "this means you don't hate me."

"This means I don't hate you."

"Right." His thumb moved against your scalp — slowly and absent-mindedly, as though he were doing it without realising. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."

You kissed him again — because he had said good like a man who had just been told the war was over, because his hand was tangled in your hair, and because his voice was wrecked.

You had six months of hostility to make up for, and you intended to be exceptionally thorough about it.

0111 — seven

Steve opened the safehouse door at 0600 with his shield strapped to his back, a cereal bar in hand, and the calm, satisfied expression of a man who had successfully rerouted an extraction under pressure — feeling, frankly, rather pleased with himself.

"Rise and shine, I've got us a window —"

He stopped dead.

You were on the bed, and Bucky was on the bed.

More accurately, you were on top of Bucky — your fingers tangled in his hair, his arm hooked securely round your waist, and your mouths occupied in a manner that had absolutely nothing to do with a mission debrief. The wool blanket had been kicked onto the floor at some point during the night, alongside, apparently, every professional boundary either of you had ever maintained.

Steve stared.

Breaking apart, Bucky's hand remained precisely where it was. You looked at Steve, Steve looked at you, and Bucky looked at Steve with the exact same unreadable expression he always wore — which, given the context, was doing a spectacular amount of heavy lifting.

The cereal bar lowered slowly to Steve's side.

"I —" Steve began.

"Morning," Bucky said.

"You —" Steve pointed at you, then pointed at Bucky, before pointing at the non-existent space between you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The strategic mind that had orchestrated the fall of HYDRA and the defence of three continents was, for the first time in recorded history, attempting to process something it had failed to anticipate.

"This is —" He took a step backwards. "I'm going to — I'll be in the — you have ten minutes."

The door clicked shut, followed by footsteps retreating down the corridor at a pace that could only be described as fleeing.

You looked at Bucky, and Bucky looked back at you. His hair was a disaster, whilst your shirt was untucked. Neither of you had slept for more than two hours, both of you looked it, and somewhere on the other side of the door, Steve was having a private reckoning with the direct consequences of his own tactical genius.

"He's splitting us up," you said. "You realise that, don't you? After this, he'll never put us on the same mission again."

Bucky's mouth executed that familiar movement — the subtle shift, the fracture in the architecture, the not-quite-smile that remade his entire face and caused your chest to do something structurally inadvisable.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."

He didn't sound remotely bothered by the prospect.

From the corridor, muffled and vaguely traumatised, came Steve's voice: "Ten minutes, Buck!"

You kissed him again — partly because Steve had set a deadline, and mostly because spite had always been your love language.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker

$ join taglist

$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes

[n3ptoonz]

,Gᴏ Fᴏʀ Gᴏʟᴅ’

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis/reader

Fandom: Off Campus

Summary: You tutor Dean in exchange for getting more experience with intimacy

Warnings: Smut; Explicit, reader is the daughter of a politician; reader's last name is Gold; he calls reader "Goldie", blunt!reader, awkward!reader, reader wears glasses, very submissive reader, there's no actual written tutoring, is this self indulgent? Don't even worry about that, making out, getting hickeys, and sex as currency, reader is lowk a pervert, HEADLOCK🤫, he calls you "pretty girl" "smart girl" and dumb, dumbification? Dirty talk, barely proofread

This was drafted during peak ovulation soo...yeah. And finished while I'm loopy from allergy meds LOL

Word count: 3.4k+

People around campus generally knew who you were. Why? Well, it's one thing to have rich parents that, for some reason, settled for only one child and putting all the pressure of legacy and success on them, but there's also having rich parents and a mother who was running for mayor. "Go For Gold!" As they say. You only ever see your mom's face and big bright smile plastered on posters around town and sometimes around campus. It made you sick.

You'd think that the daughter of a known and beloved rich politician would be all over being in as many clubs as possible, having a bunch of friends that might be using her for money, hell, even majoring in poli-sci...but no. You were "boring."

You didn't party. You didn't have many friends. And the ones you did didn't attend Briar U. They couldn't afford to. Well, you managed to befriend a girl in your ethics and classical music class, Hannah, and her party hardy roommate Allie who you've accidentally seen naked one too many times when you visited them.

You sure as hell could dress though.

You weren't noticed by the people that "mattered," according to your mother. You were supposed to befriend any and everybody who would give a damn about politics enough to be swayed to vote for her. You believed in her and her campaign, sure, but you didn't want to be the girl that was solely known for boosting her mother's popularity by simply existing.

At the very least, you had a 4.0 GPA. Which led to you somehow getting approached by the blonde blue eyed hunk that was Dean Di Laurentis after class. Of course you knew who he was. And he, unfortunately, knew who you were. In passing, of course.

"Yo! Goldie!"

Sigh.

You kept walking. He followed you outside. You could picture the grin on his face. Those stupid dimples with those stupid pretty teeth. You briefly help one jock on one stupid quiz and suddenly that unlocked the even stupider nickname due to who you were related to.

"I'm just gonna keep following until ya until you turn around, Goldie!"

You picked up your walking speed, which only led to him laughing and jogging just fast enough to get ahead and stop in front of you.

"C'mon, helping me on that oral presentation can't be that bad."

You huff in frustration. "The word 'oral' coming from you should be a sin."

"Oo, burn, ya got me there. Truly. Sooo, is it a yes or a yes?"

"No."

You rounded him to try and get away but he stopped you by gently grabbing your arm with both hands. Giving you false pleading eyes. Ooh you could just smack that pouty lip off his face-

"Pleaseeee?"

"No."

"I'll be good!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Ask one of your 47 girlfriends to help you."

"I would but that would be a different kind of oral presentation."

You rolled your eyes and yanked your arm away, he stepped in front of you again.

"Okay, okay, that was in poor taste...a little funny, but in poor taste," he said. "Just- I need your help, alright? Help me with this one little thing and I'll leave you alone."

"No, you won't."

"...I won't, but..."

You blink. "...but?"

"Yeah, I got nothin'. C'mon, Goldie."

"Stop calling me that."

"I'm kinda obligated to..."

"Dean."

"I'll try not to if you help me."

"What's it in for me?"

He paused to think...and came up with nothing. Again.

"Pfft, uh...I'll make out with you," he joked. He couldn't stop himself from making such a stupid joke that he knew would make you walk away again.

"...okay."

He paused again. "...what?"

"Deal."

"Wait, pause," he chuckled in disbelief. "I was joking. I was thinking like carrying your bag or getting you coffee before class."

You gave a genuine dejected look. "Oh..."

This really confused him.

"Then I won't help you."

"Wha- you were actually going to...make out with me in exchange for tutoring me? I just don't follow how this would benefit you."

"I hear you brag all the time about how girls are itching to sleep with you."

"I mean, they are, but I highly doubt you, of all people, would do that. So...what gives?"

"Look, if you don't want to kiss me it's fine."

"I did not say that," he gave a short laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. "You know what? It's whatever. You help me study, we make out, seems simple enough. Deal?"

You held out your hand and shook his firmly.

"Deal."

"Cool, so... when do we start?"

-

5 p.m.

Three knocks. Nothing.

Three more. Nothing.

Five seconds later, the door opens.

"Hi," you say to a guy who is definitely not Dean. A long haired guy you've seen around but can't ever remember his name.

"Sup. You must be Dean's tutor."

"I am."

"Alright, well... welcome in."

You came in, trying to appear less stiff in the presence of the other guys chilling in the living room. No sign of Dean.

"Yoo, Di Laurentis! Might wanna pull out already!"

Wow.

You clutched your bag tighter and stood at the door awkwardly. After about 30 seconds, you heard movement upstairs and then proceeded to see a woman who looked absolutely nothing like you prance down the steps half-naked, ignoring you but looking back over her shoulder to wink at blondie before she left. He came halfway down the steps and leaned on the railing in a muscle shirt, biceps just catching the light perfectly.

Don't do that, brain!

"Ready when you are."

You glanced at the others who quickly looked away from your direction and moved to go up the steps to avoid any more attention. He let you go in front of him and followed you up to his room, which had air freshener permeating the space. At least he had the decency to do that.

"Sick jacket," he said as he grabbed a seltzer from his mini fridge. You offered a small smile and sat on the edge of the bed. Huh, it was made up. Like it hadn't even been used.

"Thank you," you said and grabbed your laptop out your bag. "It's my dad's old Navy jacket."

"Like the place or the military?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Old Navy..."

"Why would I...military, Dean."

"Hey, just trying to make conversation to loosen you up a bit."

You adjusted your glasses and cleared your throat. "I'm fine."

"You're sitting on the bed like the rest of it is lava."

"I don't know what you could've been doing on this bed before I got here."

"Oh, we weren't on the bed," he flashed a smile.

".......okay."

"So, does the making out come before or after the flash cards I see sticking out your bag?"

"After."

"Yeah, that's probably better."

You looked at him as he slid a beanbag chair up and sat in front of you.

"Alright," he rubbed his hands together and leaned on his knees after popping open his drink. "Teach me."

-

He actually...paid attention. No phone, no glancing at the door like he expected someone else to show up. Just focused on you explaining the concepts, nodding occasionally like he was really trying to retain the information.

"You'd be a hot teacher."

You looked up from your laptop. Ignore your heart almost leaping out of your chest!

"You know you don't need to do that, right?"

"Do what?"

"Flatter me. I already agreed to the deal."

"I wasn't flattering you, it's called being honest. You would be a hot teacher."

"Can we finish the session?"

"Nooo I'm so tired of studying, can we make out already?"

"We've gotten through like 3/4th of my notes."

"Exactly," he said as he got up and stretched. "Perfect time to kiss those pretty lips."

You scoffed and closed your laptop halfway then stood with him. "What did I say about flattery?"

No response. All he did was carefully remove your glasses, watching your eyes flutter and adjust to the blurriness. Then, next thing you know, one of his big, warm hands is cupping your cheek and he's kissing you. It wasn't aggressive but it wasn't soft either. It was confident. It was Dean Di Lau-fucking-rentis.

Your brain took a second to catch up but once you did your hands slid up his chest and anchored on his shoulders. He deepened the kiss by tilting your head just enough to take on a new angle and you swear you almost lost your breath.

His tongue tasted citrusy from the seltzer. Lips so warm and soft. He kissed so good it was unfair. Ugh.

This went on for at least another minute and a half before you pulled away. A tiny spit string connecting between your lips breaking shortly after.

"Uh..." you cleared your throat and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. "Yeah, that works."

The next few days have been just that. Tutoring him, taking a break to lock lips, then finishing your notes.

But then...you got a little curious. A little...greedy.

"What are you thinking about?"

He nudges you playfully and you snap out of your thoughts before closing your notebook. It didn't help that you were sitting in bed with him because it's what sparked you zoning out in the first place.

"I want you to give me a hickey."

The words just slipped out before you could think about how to word it better. Honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Yeah?"

Well, you couldn't take it back now!

"I haven't...experienced one before," you added. "But you don't have to make it some sentimental 'aw, this is her first time' thing. I don't need all that. Just... getting one is fine."

"Totally get that," he said, leaning a little to continue teasingly. "It'd be easier if we were standing."

You both stood, you lightly tossed your laptop on his blanket and got in front of him.

"Do you know how some hickeys start?"

"No."

"With making out," he grinned. "Something you're really good at. So let's start there, yeah?"

Dean held the side of your face and kissed you without second thought. You might be crazy but it felt like he put just a little more umph in this. His other hand slid onto your hip. That was new, but you didn't mind. If anything it helped you relax those nerves more.

Mission accomplished.

A quiet noise left your lips unintentionally. He smiled and kissed you deeper...Woah.

Then his lips left yours to start kissing along your jaw to your neck to your shoulder. Without asking he's very sure you'd want it some place where nobody could find it. You usually dressed more conservatively but today you had on a loose blouse that didn't dip too far below your cleavage. It was perfect.

Meanwhile you're dazed and holding onto his biceps to keep yourself grounded in reality. Also not helping. They were massive!

When he began sucking on the skin where shoulder meets neck, it didn’t hurt. Just felt weirdly warm and tingly at first as his mouth worked against you. His hand came up to tilt your head slightly, giving him better access while his other arm wrapped around your lower back to keep you steady in place.

The little sting made you jolt slightly since you weren't expecting it. He licked a slow circle around it to soothe whatever pain he might've caused and left a small kiss as a silent apology.

He lifted his head slowly so he could admire his work. That was one pretty mark. He gestured to his mirror over his dresser with a proud smile.

"Like that?"

You tried not to stumble over to his mirror--you can't give him that much satisfaction--and looked at the mark he left. Running your finger over it out of sheer curiosity.

"Yeah," you said. The more you looked at yourself, the more ideas you were getting. "Like that."

Over the next two days, you'd ask for them in different places to see how they'd look and how they'd feel. One was on your neck from behind. Under your jaw, the column of your throat. Your thigh... your other thigh...

Now was just about four days away from his exam. He was doing well. A lot better than you anticipated but you knew he wasn't dumb. Nowadays he'd be eager to get everything done quickly and efficiently so he could give you whatever you wanted that night.

But today, of all days, wasn't a session. You were supposed to be relaxing back at your dorm and wait for tomorrow to come. The sun was setting when you showed up to their door in a skirt. A skirt shorter than usual and an expensive cardigan you got for your birthday last year. Your bag that held only your laptop for show was clutched in your grip.

The door opened, it wasn't Dean. It was Garrett.

"...hi?" He greeted you with confusion. "You're Dean's tutor right?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know he had a session today."

He noticed the shorter skirt the second he opened to door but didn't want to make it obvious. Dean swears you two haven't been fucking, the boys are only half convinced given that you carry yourself a lot differently than most of the women that are in and out of this house.

"He said he'd be busy tomorrow and told me I should come today."

That was a lie.

"Oh...okay," he shrugged. "Come on in. Please, don't mind the mess. We're still cleaning up from last night's party."

Garrett spotted Dean passed out on the couch. Shirtless. Hair a little messy. Fuck. He lightly slapped Dean's arm to wake him up.

"Hey, up. Your tutor's here."

Dean stirred awake and stretched before sitting up to rub his eyes.

"Tutor...?" He said. When his eyes fully open and land on you, he can't stop himself from looking you up and down. "Right...my tutor...I will see you guys later."

He calmly followed you up the steps, using every fiber of his being to not look up your skirt. Once you two were out of view, the other three exchanged looks.

"They're fucking," Logan said.

"I concur," Tucker said. "He barely even looked at other girls last night."

"Boy's whipped," Garrett said while taking a piece of food off Tucker's plate.

His door shuts and he turns around to face you with a coy look.

"And what is this all about?" He asked while slowly walking up to you. You placed your bag on his bed and faced him with a little nervousness. "We don't have a session today."

"I know...I, uh..."

"..wanted to see me?"

His fingers hooked around your belt loops and pulled you closer, to your surprise. His other arm snaked around your back like it had some days ago. You had no words at the moment. Other than "yeah, I wanted to see you." But even with the amount of times he's had you this close you've never seen him shirtless before.

"Nod if yes," he added softly. You nodded.

"Did you have a particular request in mind this evening?"

This was harder than you thought.

"...headlock."

He didn't bother hiding the amusement on his face. "Headlock?" He asked. Letting you go and switching places with you so you'd be looking in the mirror. "Like this?"

You gasped as his arm carefully wrapped around your neck. Biceps seemingly larger than life. There goes that involuntary whimper again.

"Yeah," you said. Much quieter than usual.

"That all you wanted from me?" He asked. His tone was giving away that he was well aware this wasn't all.

You shook your head with the limited space you had. "No."

He hummed. Free hand sliding down your waist to your hip to the hem of this little skirt.

"Does it possibly involve me lifting this cute little skirt of yours that you wore for me?"

You subconsciously rubbed your ass against his bulge like a wet cat in heat. Only able to nod because it was really embarrassing how much you've thought about him-

"Fucking you from behind?"

...

"I need your words, pretty girl."

"Yes."

He smiled and leaned down a little to slip his hand under your skirt and play with the waistband of your panties. Pulling them down slowly.

"Y'know," he murmured. "I love when a woman knows what she wants."

He had you bent over with one purpose: you have to finish. He never treats the prospect of a good nut like it's nothing!

Dean didn't fix your crooked glasses because it just looked so cute. Even cuter that you were trying to be quiet while he was driving his hips forward with intention. He was just how you imagined. Long, thick, and knew how to stroke that shit.

"4.0 student with nothing to say?" he whispered. "That's new. All those big words you keep correcting me with is out the window. Hm? Have I finally received the honor of making you go dumb?"

"Dean..." you moaned pathetically quietly. Clenching around him the more dizzy you got from the lack of air. Your short pants and hushed whines was music to his ears. That and the wet sound of skin contact he's been trying to keep at a minimum.

"Little Miss Straight A's stuck with the dumb jock," he continued, tightening his hold just a fraction upon request earlier. "Only to be reduced to...this..."

Your body went cold and hot all over at the same time.

"Look at you," he cooed. "Even wore a camisole to show off those pretty tits. All for me. You shouldn't have."

Your vision got blurrier the more your climax built and it was only a matter of time. The sight of your brows upturning and eyes rolling was enough to know.

"C'mon, you can do it," he encouraged condescendingly. "You're a smart girl, right? You can cum for me?"

You nodded and bit your lower lip to stay as quiet as possible.

Then it hit you.

You moved your head to bite down on his arm, eyes crossing as your orgasm stuck through you. Talk about a mess.

Then he had the nerve to reach down and work you through it by rubbing fast circles around that sensitive bud that almost made you scream. Oh, that was so mean.

"Oo, there she is..."

He pulled out in time, his seed getting on your legs and the back of your thighs, but again, he was more concerned about your release. And it was clearly much needed because it wouldn't stop for the next ten seconds.

By the time you both calmed down, he offered up his shower for you to use and he'd hop in after. You were deciding if you were going to spend the night since it was a Friday...

"I hope that wasn't too much," he said as he came in with his towel around his waist, chest damp while he dried his hair. "The whole 'dumb' thing."

You sat on the edge of his bed in your clothes, hands on your neck as you could still feel his strong arm.

"Not at all," you said as you watched him.

"Spend the night," he suggested, tossing his towel aside--phew, he had on boxers. He sat next to you and looked at you with those same pleading eyes from when he first asked you to tutor him. "Please?" He added. "I've been told I'm great at cuddling."

How can anyone say no to that?

Next week comes. Exam day was a few days ago. You know you aced it. Piece of cake. You're walking down the same path in the quad when you hear your name. Like, your first name, called out from behind.

The second you turn around you're getting picked up and spun around.

"We did it!"

"Woah! Okay-"

Dean spun you twice then put you down. Putting you down, with a kiss. In front of the surrounding people in the area. And it was a lot but he wasn't paying attention to that.

"I got a B! Thanks to you- what?"

"You just kissed me..."

"I did."

"In public..."

"...yeah...?"

You gave him a look.

"I didn't know we were, like...a thing."

"Oh. Well, we can be. Go for Goldie, am I right?"

You rolled your eyes as he held your hand.

"Oops sorry," he said, kissing you on the cheek. "Force of habit."

[fangsofangels]

better than he can .

tags : bucky barnes x avenger! reader , reader is with a really bad boyfriend , reader gets cheated on , SFW , bucky comfort <33

word count : 2400+ (i got carried away)

a/n : i know technically bucky wouldnt be in the avengers tower just shhhh ok

10:06 AM, Today.

You were too blind to see the mistakes.

It was your 1 month anniversary. 1 month since you had matched on a godforsaken dating app your friend “recommended”.

Yeah, couples usually celebrate 1 year, but the little milestones mattered to you too.

You had texted him about it the night prior.

8:34 PM, Yesterday.

: It’s our 1 month anniversary tomorrow 😗

juliann💕: Really?

: Yes!

juliann💕: That's nice.

: Can I come over? It’ll be fun 🙏

juliann💕: Ok

Eh. He was probably tired.

10:19 AM, Today.

He was busy with some work. That's normal. Just an hour.

You were supposed to be bringing over a cake for a celebration. Instead you were tapping your feet on the floors, anxiously staring at the slice of cake while Bucky struck a punching bag like it had personally hurt him.

“I mean he’s busy, surely. He said he’d be done in an hour. I really hope he likes the cake. I mean I know he will. I hope so. It’s just that last time I bought him something he didn’t really like and I could tell he didn’t like it, and I just don’t want to disappoint him this time too.” You ramble loudly to Bucky, sighing.

Bucky grit his teeth, clenching his jaw.

It wasn’t you. He could never be mad at you. Or your pretty face as you rambled. But your boyfriend; “Julian” or whatever the fuck, was driving him crazy. I mean a girl as pretty, as talented, as strong as you? He wasn’t on par. Not even close.

I bet he doesn’t even know her favourite movie. Or show. Or food. Bucky thought.

He grunted as he mindlessly punched the bag repeatedly. His knuckles burning from the roughness of each strike. Red graze wounds and pink bruises formed, scattering all over his fingers. A drop of red dripped down the punching bag onto the floor.

“Bucky!” You shook his vibranium shoulder.

His head snaps towards you, waking up from his trance. 

He notices his bleeding knuckles.

“Oh.”

You scoff.

You hold his knuckle in your hands, examining the damage.  Your eyebrows knit together, a small frown forming on your lips as you analyze the small red scratches and blooming bruises. His hand relaxes slightly in your grasp, both of your hands resting palm to palm. 

“I told you to wear gloves.” You say. Cleaning his wound on a nearby bench with a soft cloth and some alcohol. He winces, the solution stinging the surface of his skin. 

Even in the harsh stinging of his knuckles, all he noticed was you. How focused you were on caring for him even in your stress of the anniversary you wanted so desperately to go perfect. How your eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a flat line in concentration and in concern. His own eyes widen a bit. You were beautiful like this. He checks the time on a nearby clock, in his concern for your.. Event.

11:28 AM.

He taps your shoulder, breaking your concentration.

You tilt your head to look up at him. 

“Hey.. uh, it's almost 11:30.” He calmly said.

“What?!” You hollered. your eyes widen in panic.

You turn around and notice the clock. Reading the hands you realize it’s been almost an hour and a half. Half an hour you could have been spending with your boyfriend gone. To someone as punctual as you, this was a massive issue. 

You turn back around to Bucky. You start bandaging his knuckle. Swiftly, but efficiently.

His vibranium hand slowly closes in. “I can do it myself, you have a thing to get to-” 

You swat away his hand in full concentration. Your eyebrows knit closely, your lips are sealed tight. Hands moving quickly to wrap the white gauze around his wound. Priorities are priorities. You couldn’t let someone injured bandage themselves! That was like leaving a grandma out in the streets to figure out traffic signals! (Which your pure heart could never bear to do.)

11:30 AM.

You finish bandaging Bucky. In a blink of an eye, you grab the cake, and make a run for Julian's house, waving goodbye to Bucky.

On the way over in a taxi, you realize Julian hadn’t even texted you about whether it was okay to come or not. The last thing you wanted to do was bother his work hours today.

 : Hey baby! Is it okay to come over now? :)

juliann💕: yeah ig 

 : Im omw! Can we get dinner?

juliann💕: sure you pay though

 : okk!

Trying your very best to hold it steady while you carefully transported it over to his house, Your cheeks lifted and the corners of your eyes crinkled as you thought of his reaction, toying with the blue candles lodged into the pastry. 

You thanked the driver and handed him a bill, carefully stepping out of the vehicle, you faced Julian’s small townhouse. It was a cozy, brick architecture with small stone steps leading up to a 

Blurred glass door. You adjusted your outfit before ringing the doorbell.

Your boyfriend opens the doorway.

His hair is messy and untamed. He’s wearing a white shirt with a little tear in the hemming. His eyes are hazy, and his cheeks are a flushed red.

You clear your throat and raise the big cake. It’s beautiful, with a gold ribbon tied on the box, beautiful decorations with fondant and sprinkles, and a big blue candle with a “1” on it. Cursive writing filled the front of the cake reading, “Happy 1 Month! :)” Heck, even for an Avenger, the cake was incredibly expensive.

Julian examined the cake. He came closer to you, his flip flops touching the stone stairs.

You were expecting a hug, maybe even a little kiss?

He roughly grabbed the cake box from your hands, almost causing you to stumble forwards and rushed back into his entryway. He examined it a little more, bringing the clear box to his face. At this point, the harshness of his grab had made the cake swing to the side of the box, smearing the frosting and carefully written letters.

You clenched your jaw a little. 

Your breathing heaved before returning back to normal.

No big deal. Right? The cake still tastes the same.

You composed yourself, ready to share the cake with him and have a great rest of the day. All you wanted to do was talk and eat, share some laughs. 

You smiled a bit at the prospect.

You look back at him and he stares back at you. 

You pace yourself across another stone step, before he mumbles “Thanks” and slams the door in your face.

Your face and body truly respond to that. Your annoyance was starting to seep through. Your eyes narrowing, lips pursing.

You walk back to Avengers tower. Even though it’s a little bit of a long walk, you need the time to cool down. It was fine. You told yourself. You could come over for dinner! You and him, driving to a nice restaurant. Or maybe even stay at his place, cook him a nice meal, and talk for hours.

Riding up the elevator, the strong lights burned your eyes.

Ding!

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open to reveal the common area. You find Natasha, Bruce, Thor, Tony and Pepper piled on the massive couch, talking about, you presume to be something dumb, like “Hypothetically, how many cupcakes could you eat before you throw up?” 

Oh what you’d give to feel that carefree right now.

Their heads turn to you as you hang your jacket onto the communal hanger.

“Where’s the rest of them?” You ask, sitting down beside Nat.

“They are being quiescent in their respective chambers.” Tony replies, enunciating every word.

“What?”

“They're in their rooms.” He clarifies.

“Oh.”

“How's your day?” Nat swings an arm across your shoulder, lightly tapping you with the back of her hand. You smile a bit at the question, pursing your lips to try to stop.

“I’m gonna go have dinner with Julian soon.” You announce.

Everyone secretly rolls their eyes at that. They all hate your boyfriend. He came over to the tower once, showing up in dirty clothes and unkempt hair, he held out a selfie stick and recorded everyone the entire time. Casually swinging an arm across Bruce like he knew him. Natasha had to come to the rescue. He even almost broke one of Tony’s suits, which he deemed, “irreparable,” not for the actual damage, but because “he can never erase the finger print that stains the suit forever.” You have seriously never seen him wear the suit since. 

They also knew how he treated you.

He wasn’t abusive by any means, but the way he shuts you out and doesn’t know anything about you or your interests, it might as well be psychological warfare.

So of course they hate him. Bucky talks about him the most to the others. But he can't bring himself to talk all of that with you in the room.

“Do all mortals have these low standards?” Thor replies.

“Hey, he's not all bad. He’s really funny, and I like him so, is it really your guy’s business?” You retaliate.

This time, everyone audibly groans in sync.

6:47 PM.

You arrive at his house, to find the door slightly open, unlocked.

It's happened before, he’s a forgetful person. As were you.

You welcome yourself into his home.

The lights are dim, The moonlight is the only thing guiding you through the hallway.

The door of his room is slightly ajar, but almost completely dark. You hear.. Sounds? Coming from his room. They sound… weird? Almost wet, like two people-

No.

No way!

You almost chuckle at your own imagination.

You open the entryway some more, standing in the open. You still can't see, or make out where anything is.

You smooth your hand across the wall nearby, feeling a lightswitch.

You flip it on.

Some blonde chick is on top of your boyfriend.

They're covered by a thick comforter, but the blanket doesn’t leave much to imagination.

Your entire body immediately responds.

Tears start trickling down your face as you stand in the doorway. You can’t look at this anymore. You run down the hallway, towards the exit.

The second Julian realizes, he pushes the girl off of him and gets dressed in that same disgusting pair of clothes he always wears.

He catches you running off and hollers at you. 

You turn around, tears glossing your cheeks.

“Stop- I can explain..! I swear!”

You laugh at him.

A beat passes before that seems to break something in him.

“You're ugly anyway! I was only dating you because you're an Avenger! A-and to get closer to Black Widow!” He shouts and throws his hands in a mocking motion.

As you walk away, he throws a barrage of insults at you. “You’re not pretty, you're the weakest one, dumbest one, not worth it.” 

And when he realizes you're not listening and are still walking away from him, he resorts to physically stopping you. He dashes towards you and grabs your wrist tightly, bunching your skin together, harsh enough to leave an irritated mark.

“Don’t fucking turn away from me!” He hollers.

You harshly tear him off of you. His grip immediately loosens, fingers slipping away. His frame slams and collapses onto the freezing concrete sidewalk. You pull up your hood, the tears still dripping down your face. You sniffle, looking around for people filming. You spot no one. Good. You can cry your guts out in peace.

12:37 AM

It’s midnight. You’ve been sulking and crying in a small cafe before the owner tapped you on the shoulder and told you the cafe is closing. You nodded in compliance and left the establishment, the door chimes ringing as you closed the door. The moonlight was dim. Only a few cars drove by now, you open google maps and start guiding yourself to the tower. Home.

2:00 AM

The elevator chimes and the doors open. You step inside, Tears still coming fresh. All you can hear are the putrid insults spewed by Julian. leading yourself towards your room, the hallway seems darker and longer than before. You notice everyone's light is off, reasonably. Except for Bucky’s room. You assume he’s reading or something.

Your room was the next one over. You twist the doorknob and flop onto your mattress. You don’t bother doing anything other than taking off your shoes. You can’t. Your energy is depleted, gone. You don’t wanna face the morning. 

Tears soak your mattress, your face glossy and red. You sniffle and sob into your hands, attempting to muffle the noise to not wake anyone.

Knock.

You sit up at the sound.

“Who is it?”

“Me.”

It’s Bucky. Gosh, you were that loud?

A beat of silence passes. You don’t want him to see you like this, a sobbing mess, mascara leaking down your eyes, hair a mess.

But you need someone right now, and you trusted Bucky.

“Come in.”

Bucky gently creeps into your room. The main light is turned off, but a warm lamp casts a glow over the small room. Your shoes are scattered messily from when you took them off with haste earlier.

He sits on the edge of your bed, facing you.

You know what he's going to ask. You beat him to it, sniffling.

“I found him.. Cheating on me.” You murmur.

Upon hearing that, Bucky’s jaw clenches hard. His knuckles curl into tight fists. 

He loosens once he sees you. The girl he loves crying over a guy that was below average. He really didn’t get it. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t bear the sight of it. You being sad was the top priority and he needed to fix it now.

He thinks.

Hugs would help, right?

But that's a very un-Bucky thing to do.

You cry harder, flopping sideways onto your bed.

Your sniffles break him. He shifts closer towards you on the bed, bringing your crying face into his chest. While wrapping a soft blanket around the two of you.

Your tears were soaking his shirt. He carefully rubbed a hand over the smooth of your back in soothing circles. This was unfamiliar territory, but he needed to try. For you. Anything for you. You nuzzle your head deeper into his collarbone, crying slowly subsiding into hiccups and small gasps for air. His other arm pulls you closer, an attempt to truly calm you down. Your own arms wrap around his neck, his hair draping over your hands.

“Don’t cry, He’s not worth it.” Bucky states

“Mmmf.” You murmur, too tired to reply in words.

“Good.. good..” he replies.

[fangsofangels]

better than he can .

tags : bucky barnes x avenger! reader , reader is with a really bad boyfriend , reader gets cheated on , SFW , bucky comfort <33

word count : 2400+ (i got carried away)

a/n : i know technically bucky wouldnt be in the avengers tower just shhhh ok

10:06 AM, Today.

You were too blind to see the mistakes.

It was your 1 month anniversary. 1 month since you had matched on a godforsaken dating app your friend “recommended”.

Yeah, couples usually celebrate 1 year, but the little milestones mattered to you too.

You had texted him about it the night prior.

8:34 PM, Yesterday.

: It’s our 1 month anniversary tomorrow 😗

juliann💕: Really?

: Yes!

juliann💕: That's nice.

: Can I come over? It’ll be fun 🙏

juliann💕: Ok

Eh. He was probably tired.

10:19 AM, Today.

He was busy with some work. That's normal. Just an hour.

You were supposed to be bringing over a cake for a celebration. Instead you were tapping your feet on the floors, anxiously staring at the slice of cake while Bucky struck a punching bag like it had personally hurt him.

“I mean he’s busy, surely. He said he’d be done in an hour. I really hope he likes the cake. I mean I know he will. I hope so. It’s just that last time I bought him something he didn’t really like and I could tell he didn’t like it, and I just don’t want to disappoint him this time too.” You ramble loudly to Bucky, sighing.

Bucky grit his teeth, clenching his jaw.

It wasn’t you. He could never be mad at you. Or your pretty face as you rambled. But your boyfriend; “Julian” or whatever the fuck, was driving him crazy. I mean a girl as pretty, as talented, as strong as you? He wasn’t on par. Not even close.

I bet he doesn’t even know her favourite movie. Or show. Or food. Bucky thought.

He grunted as he mindlessly punched the bag repeatedly. His knuckles burning from the roughness of each strike. Red graze wounds and pink bruises formed, scattering all over his fingers. A drop of red dripped down the punching bag onto the floor.

“Bucky!” You shook his vibranium shoulder.

His head snaps towards you, waking up from his trance. 

He notices his bleeding knuckles.

“Oh.”

You scoff.

You hold his knuckle in your hands, examining the damage.  Your eyebrows knit together, a small frown forming on your lips as you analyze the small red scratches and blooming bruises. His hand relaxes slightly in your grasp, both of your hands resting palm to palm. 

“I told you to wear gloves.” You say. Cleaning his wound on a nearby bench with a soft cloth and some alcohol. He winces, the solution stinging the surface of his skin. 

Even in the harsh stinging of his knuckles, all he noticed was you. How focused you were on caring for him even in your stress of the anniversary you wanted so desperately to go perfect. How your eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a flat line in concentration and in concern. His own eyes widen a bit. You were beautiful like this. He checks the time on a nearby clock, in his concern for your.. Event.

11:28 AM.

He taps your shoulder, breaking your concentration.

You tilt your head to look up at him. 

“Hey.. uh, it's almost 11:30.” He calmly said.

“What?!” You hollered. your eyes widen in panic.

You turn around and notice the clock. Reading the hands you realize it’s been almost an hour and a half. Half an hour you could have been spending with your boyfriend gone. To someone as punctual as you, this was a massive issue. 

You turn back around to Bucky. You start bandaging his knuckle. Swiftly, but efficiently.

His vibranium hand slowly closes in. “I can do it myself, you have a thing to get to-” 

You swat away his hand in full concentration. Your eyebrows knit closely, your lips are sealed tight. Hands moving quickly to wrap the white gauze around his wound. Priorities are priorities. You couldn’t let someone injured bandage themselves! That was like leaving a grandma out in the streets to figure out traffic signals! (Which your pure heart could never bear to do.)

11:30 AM.

You finish bandaging Bucky. In a blink of an eye, you grab the cake, and make a run for Julian's house, waving goodbye to Bucky.

On the way over in a taxi, you realize Julian hadn’t even texted you about whether it was okay to come or not. The last thing you wanted to do was bother his work hours today.

 : Hey baby! Is it okay to come over now? :)

juliann💕: yeah ig 

 : Im omw! Can we get dinner?

juliann💕: sure you pay though

 : okk!

Trying your very best to hold it steady while you carefully transported it over to his house, Your cheeks lifted and the corners of your eyes crinkled as you thought of his reaction, toying with the blue candles lodged into the pastry. 

You thanked the driver and handed him a bill, carefully stepping out of the vehicle, you faced Julian’s small townhouse. It was a cozy, brick architecture with small stone steps leading up to a 

Blurred glass door. You adjusted your outfit before ringing the doorbell.

Your boyfriend opens the doorway.

His hair is messy and untamed. He’s wearing a white shirt with a little tear in the hemming. His eyes are hazy, and his cheeks are a flushed red.

You clear your throat and raise the big cake. It’s beautiful, with a gold ribbon tied on the box, beautiful decorations with fondant and sprinkles, and a big blue candle with a “1” on it. Cursive writing filled the front of the cake reading, “Happy 1 Month! :)” Heck, even for an Avenger, the cake was incredibly expensive.

Julian examined the cake. He came closer to you, his flip flops touching the stone stairs.

You were expecting a hug, maybe even a little kiss?

He roughly grabbed the cake box from your hands, almost causing you to stumble forwards and rushed back into his entryway. He examined it a little more, bringing the clear box to his face. At this point, the harshness of his grab had made the cake swing to the side of the box, smearing the frosting and carefully written letters.

You clenched your jaw a little. 

Your breathing heaved before returning back to normal.

No big deal. Right? The cake still tastes the same.

You composed yourself, ready to share the cake with him and have a great rest of the day. All you wanted to do was talk and eat, share some laughs. 

You smiled a bit at the prospect.

You look back at him and he stares back at you. 

You pace yourself across another stone step, before he mumbles “Thanks” and slams the door in your face.

Your face and body truly respond to that. Your annoyance was starting to seep through. Your eyes narrowing, lips pursing.

You walk back to Avengers tower. Even though it’s a little bit of a long walk, you need the time to cool down. It was fine. You told yourself. You could come over for dinner! You and him, driving to a nice restaurant. Or maybe even stay at his place, cook him a nice meal, and talk for hours.

Riding up the elevator, the strong lights burned your eyes.

Ding!

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open to reveal the common area. You find Natasha, Bruce, Thor, Tony and Pepper piled on the massive couch, talking about, you presume to be something dumb, like “Hypothetically, how many cupcakes could you eat before you throw up?” 

Oh what you’d give to feel that carefree right now.

Their heads turn to you as you hang your jacket onto the communal hanger.

“Where’s the rest of them?” You ask, sitting down beside Nat.

“They are being quiescent in their respective chambers.” Tony replies, enunciating every word.

“What?”

“They're in their rooms.” He clarifies.

“Oh.”

“How's your day?” Nat swings an arm across your shoulder, lightly tapping you with the back of her hand. You smile a bit at the question, pursing your lips to try to stop.

“I’m gonna go have dinner with Julian soon.” You announce.

Everyone secretly rolls their eyes at that. They all hate your boyfriend. He came over to the tower once, showing up in dirty clothes and unkempt hair, he held out a selfie stick and recorded everyone the entire time. Casually swinging an arm across Bruce like he knew him. Natasha had to come to the rescue. He even almost broke one of Tony’s suits, which he deemed, “irreparable,” not for the actual damage, but because “he can never erase the finger print that stains the suit forever.” You have seriously never seen him wear the suit since. 

They also knew how he treated you.

He wasn’t abusive by any means, but the way he shuts you out and doesn’t know anything about you or your interests, it might as well be psychological warfare.

So of course they hate him. Bucky talks about him the most to the others. But he can't bring himself to talk all of that with you in the room.

“Do all mortals have these low standards?” Thor replies.

“Hey, he's not all bad. He’s really funny, and I like him so, is it really your guy’s business?” You retaliate.

This time, everyone audibly groans in sync.

6:47 PM.

You arrive at his house, to find the door slightly open, unlocked.

It's happened before, he’s a forgetful person. As were you.

You welcome yourself into his home.

The lights are dim, The moonlight is the only thing guiding you through the hallway.

The door of his room is slightly ajar, but almost completely dark. You hear.. Sounds? Coming from his room. They sound… weird? Almost wet, like two people-

No.

No way!

You almost chuckle at your own imagination.

You open the entryway some more, standing in the open. You still can't see, or make out where anything is.

You smooth your hand across the wall nearby, feeling a lightswitch.

You flip it on.

Some blonde chick is on top of your boyfriend.

They're covered by a thick comforter, but the blanket doesn’t leave much to imagination.

Your entire body immediately responds.

Tears start trickling down your face as you stand in the doorway. You can’t look at this anymore. You run down the hallway, towards the exit.

The second Julian realizes, he pushes the girl off of him and gets dressed in that same disgusting pair of clothes he always wears.

He catches you running off and hollers at you. 

You turn around, tears glossing your cheeks.

“Stop- I can explain..! I swear!”

You laugh at him.

A beat passes before that seems to break something in him.

“You're ugly anyway! I was only dating you because you're an Avenger! A-and to get closer to Black Widow!” He shouts and throws his hands in a mocking motion.

As you walk away, he throws a barrage of insults at you. “You’re not pretty, you're the weakest one, dumbest one, not worth it.” 

And when he realizes you're not listening and are still walking away from him, he resorts to physically stopping you. He dashes towards you and grabs your wrist tightly, bunching your skin together, harsh enough to leave an irritated mark.

“Don’t fucking turn away from me!” He hollers.

You harshly tear him off of you. His grip immediately loosens, fingers slipping away. His frame slams and collapses onto the freezing concrete sidewalk. You pull up your hood, the tears still dripping down your face. You sniffle, looking around for people filming. You spot no one. Good. You can cry your guts out in peace.

12:37 AM

It’s midnight. You’ve been sulking and crying in a small cafe before the owner tapped you on the shoulder and told you the cafe is closing. You nodded in compliance and left the establishment, the door chimes ringing as you closed the door. The moonlight was dim. Only a few cars drove by now, you open google maps and start guiding yourself to the tower. Home.

2:00 AM

The elevator chimes and the doors open. You step inside, Tears still coming fresh. All you can hear are the putrid insults spewed by Julian. leading yourself towards your room, the hallway seems darker and longer than before. You notice everyone's light is off, reasonably. Except for Bucky’s room. You assume he’s reading or something.

Your room was the next one over. You twist the doorknob and flop onto your mattress. You don’t bother doing anything other than taking off your shoes. You can’t. Your energy is depleted, gone. You don’t wanna face the morning. 

Tears soak your mattress, your face glossy and red. You sniffle and sob into your hands, attempting to muffle the noise to not wake anyone.

Knock.

You sit up at the sound.

“Who is it?”

“Me.”

It’s Bucky. Gosh, you were that loud?

A beat of silence passes. You don’t want him to see you like this, a sobbing mess, mascara leaking down your eyes, hair a mess.

But you need someone right now, and you trusted Bucky.

“Come in.”

Bucky gently creeps into your room. The main light is turned off, but a warm lamp casts a glow over the small room. Your shoes are scattered messily from when you took them off with haste earlier.

He sits on the edge of your bed, facing you.

You know what he's going to ask. You beat him to it, sniffling.

“I found him.. Cheating on me.” You murmur.

Upon hearing that, Bucky’s jaw clenches hard. His knuckles curl into tight fists. 

He loosens once he sees you. The girl he loves crying over a guy that was below average. He really didn’t get it. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t bear the sight of it. You being sad was the top priority and he needed to fix it now.

He thinks.

Hugs would help, right?

But that's a very un-Bucky thing to do.

You cry harder, flopping sideways onto your bed.

Your sniffles break him. He shifts closer towards you on the bed, bringing your crying face into his chest. While wrapping a soft blanket around the two of you.

Your tears were soaking his shirt. He carefully rubbed a hand over the smooth of your back in soothing circles. This was unfamiliar territory, but he needed to try. For you. Anything for you. You nuzzle your head deeper into his collarbone, crying slowly subsiding into hiccups and small gasps for air. His other arm pulls you closer, an attempt to truly calm you down. Your own arms wrap around his neck, his hair draping over your hands.

“Don’t cry, He’s not worth it.” Bucky states

“Mmmf.” You murmur, too tired to reply in words.

“Good.. good..” he replies.

[xiaryye]

Everything’s embarrassing- John Logan x shyf!reader

Sumerry: You've had a crush on Logan since the second you met him, he was magnetic, everything about him was gravitational but you knew that you could never actually get up the courage to do anything about it, in all the years that you had been helping out Jules run fifth line you had become close to everyone in the team and they all loved you but not even that could motivate you to come clean about your growing feelings… but what happens when you and Logan are put in a situation you can't escape from.

Warnings: few swear words, this one is just very fluffy

Word count: 4.6k

Ever since I met Logan, my crush had been painfully obvious, Well... obvious to everyone except Logan. Which, somehow, was both a blessing and a curse.

The girls had declared it their personal mission to get me to do something about it. Unfortunately for me, their methods usually involved public humiliation. During games, whenever it was time for post-game interviews for Fifth Line, Jules somehow always found a reason to send me toward Logan.

"I think Logan should do this one," she'd say, already handing me the microphone.

"I interviewed him last game."

"So?"

"So...you can do it, he's your brother."

Jules would smile innocently "But you give the best interviews."

Across the room Dean would snort.

“No, I don't."

Jules ignores my pleas "I still think you should interview Logan."

"I interviewed him three games in a row."

"And?"

"And he's going to think I'm weird Jules"

Before I could escape, Logan would already be walking over, pulling off his gloves "You need me?"

I nearly dropped the microphone "UMM Yeah."

He'd smile "Fire away."

Meanwhile, Jules would stand ten feet away giving me the most obvious thumbs-up imaginable while Hannah tried and failed to hide her laughter.

The interviews themselves were torture "So... uh... good game."

"Thanks."

"How'd it feel out there?"

"Pretty good."

"Cool."

"..."

"..."

"...Anything else?"

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Outside the rink wasn't any better. If we were all hanging out together, Allie and Hannah had a habit of making comments that sent my blood pressure through the roof.

"So..." Allie would say casually one night while we all sat around the living room. "I heard someone has a thing for hockey players."

I would freeze.

Hannah would play along instantly "Really? Which one?"

"I don't know..." Allie hummed dramatically. "He's tall."

Dean looked around "That narrows it down to... most of us."

"He has brown hair."

Garrett pointed at Dean "Definitely Dean."

Dean frowned "I don't think that's right."

"He wears number twenty-two."

Logan looked down at his jersey "That's me."

My soul left my body.

Logan blinked. "Huh."Then he shrugged "Wonder who that is."

I stared at him in disbelief. Allie actually had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. Hannah quietly hid her face behind her drink.

Dean looked at Garrett "Oh you gotta be fucking me"

Garrett sighed "hes as dense as a block"

Logan looked between everyone "What?"

"Nothing," all of us answered at once. Fuck my chungus life.

Soon enough everyone joined in on torturing me, the guys weren't any better than the girls. Sometime during sophomore year, Dean, Garrett, and Tucker had apparently decided they were going to become my unofficial hype team.

The problem? They had no fucking subtlety.

One afternoon we were all sitting around after practice when Dean casually threw an arm over Logan's shoulder.

"You know who's really cool?"

Logan looked up from his phone "...Who?"

"Y/N."

I nearly choked on my drink.

Logan nodded "Yeah."

Dean waited "And..?"

"And... she's cool."

Garrett leaned forward "No, no. Elaborate."

Logan frowned in confusion "What do you mean?"

"What do you like about her?"

I wanted to evaporate.

Logan actually thought about it "She's nice."

Dean looked offended. "That's all?"

"She's funny."

Garrett made a face "You can do better."

Logan blinked "She's really smart?"

Tucker chimed in "And pretty."

Logan nodded immediately "Yeah."

Every muscle in my body locked up. Dean slowly turned to Garrett with the biggest grin I'd ever seen. Garrett looked ready to celebrate. I, meanwhile, had stopped functioning entirely.

Logan glanced between all of us "What?"

Dean cleared his throat "Nothing."

"You guys are acting weird."

"We're really not."

"You definitely are."

He shrugged, completely unbothered, and went back to scrolling through his phone.

The three boys all looked at me expectantly, silently mouthing, Did you hear that?

I buried my face in my hands "Oh my God..."

Dean whispered, "He said you were pretty."

"I know what he said"

"So go ask him out."

"I'd rather transfer schools."

Garrett laughed "I don't think I've ever seen someone fight this hard against their own happiness."

"I am not fighting it."

Tucker raised an eyebrow "You just said you'd rather uproot your entire education than ask Logan on a date."

" Now see when you say it like that, it sounds dramatic."

Dean deadpanned, "Because it is."

Across the room, Logan looked up again, completely oblivious "What are you guys laughing about?"

Dean smiled far too innocently "Nothing, buddy… you just go ahead and keep scrolling on your phone"

And somehow despite all the hints, all the teasing, and all the painfully obvious attempts at setting us up Logan never once realized that the girl everyone kept talking about... was me.

—--------------------Current day—----------------------------------

Jules sat cross-legged beside me, scrolling through the camera roll from last weekend's game.

"No, no." Allie leaned over the back of the couch, waving a hand. "That filter is way too cold. The viewers deserve warmth"

I laughed quietly. "They're hockey players, Allie. Not influencers."

"Em actually they're both."

"Oh please, they're barely one."

Hannah smiled as she clicked through another set of pictures. "Forget the filters. Look at this one."

She turned the screen toward us. It was a candid of the entire team after the win. Garrett had Dean in a headlock, Tucker was laughing so hard his eyes were closed, Logan was grinning at something off-camera, and everyone looked extremely happy.

"I love photos like these," Hannah murmured. "Nobody's posing. They're just being themselves."

I smiled, "They're my favorites too."

Maybe that was why I loved running Fifth Line with Jules so much. Sure, posting game highlights and promotional content was fun at times, but my favorite pictures were always the accidental ones. Dean making everyone laugh in the locker room. Tucker asleep on the bus with his mouth hanging open...Logan smiling. I probably had an embarrassing amount of those. Not because I meant to of course… Why would I be interested in taking so many photos of him, they just... happened. Okay, maybe they happen because every time I have the camera in my hands, my eyes somehow find him.

Which was completely normal.

Probably.

Across the room Dean and Tucker were arguing over whose turn it was to buy groceries "You ate the last donut" Dean complained.

"I was bulking!"

"You've been bulking for four years"

"I'm committed."

Jules snorted without looking up from the laptop.

Then the front door opened, The hockey practice crew had returned. Garrett walked in first Logan shortly following behind him, his hair still damp from his post-practice shower, gym bag slung over one shoulder.

"We're home!" Garrett announced dramatically.

"Nobody asked," Dean called.

Garrett ignored him entirely and made a beeline for the couch.Without a word, he flopped down beside Hannah, wrapping an arm around her waist. She smiled automatically, barely interrupting what she was doing.

"Hi."

"Hi."

He kissed the side of her head before his attention drifted toward my laptop.

"What are we looking at?"

"Photos from this week," Jules answered. "Trying to figure out what to post."

Garrett scooted closer until he was practically lying across Hannah's lap "Ooh..." He pointed at one picture. "Definitely post that one."

"The one where Dean looks constipated?" I asked.

Dean looked over from the kitchen "I HEARD THAT."

"You were making that weird face you do"

"I was concentrating!"

"You were tying your shoe."

Garrett continued scrolling through the photos with us, stopping every few seconds to tell the story behind one.

"Oh, that was after Tucker tried to race Coach."

"Coach won."

"Barely."

"Tucker's still convinced the stopwatch was rigged."

He clicked to another candid. Then another. A softer smile crossed his face.

"You know..." he said thoughtfully, "this reminds me of something."

"What?" Hannah asked.

"Our freshman year." He leaned back against the couch "We actually made a scrapbook."

Jules looked up "You what?"

"A scrapbook."

Dean groaned dramatically from the kitchen "Oh no."

Garrett ignored him "Seriously. We printed out pictures from our first season, ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, random notes we'd leave each other..." He laughed to himself. "There were even pages dedicated to all the dumb bets we'd make."

"I forgot about that," Tucker admitted, wandering into the living room with a sports drink.

"I didn't," Garrett said proudly. "It's somewhere around here."

Dean immediately pointed a warning finger "Do not."

Garrett grinned "Oh, I'm absolutely finding it now."

"You burned that thing."

"I did not."

"You were supposed to!"

Jules said, snapping the laptop shut. "We're finding that."

Dean immediately looked concerned.

"Jules."

"No."

"You don't understand what's in there."

"Exactly." She pointed at him. "Which is why we're finding it."

Garrett laughed.

Dean looked at Tucker. "Help me."

He shrugged

"I hate all of you." Dean said

Logan stared off into the distance for a second… until a look of recognition crossed his face "Actually..."

Everyone turned toward him "I think I know where it is."

Dean's eyes widened "No, you don't."

"I think I do."

Garrett immediately pointed down the hallway "Go get it."

Logan shrugged "Alright."

Just as he started walking away, Garrett looked directly at me with far too innocent of a smile "Y/N should help."

I blinked "...Why?"

"Two people search faster than one."

"I think one person's enough."

Allie immediately jumped in "I don't know. Those closets are kind of packed."

Hannah nodded dramatically "Definitely a two-person job."

"I don't think–"

"Oh, come on," Jules interrupted with a grin she wasn't even trying to hide. "Go help him."

I looked between the four of them. Every single one was smiling. They were absolutely plotting something.

"No."

Garrett gasped theatrically. "Wow."

"What?"

"You'd leave Logan to do all the hard work?"

"I don't think digging through old boxes counts as hard work."

Dean chimed in "It does if there's dust."

Tucker nodded solemnly "Lots of dust."

I narrowed my eyes"You guys are weird."

"We've always been weird," Garrett replied.

Logan, completely oblivious to whatever conspiracy was unfolding, looked over at me "I wouldn't mind the extra help."

Well. How was I supposed to say no to that? "Fine."

Allie clapped her hands together once "Yay."

Jules tried very hard to hide the victorious grin spreading across her face.

The storage closet sat at the end of the hallway beside the laundry room. Logan pulled the door open, revealing shelves packed with old boxes, hockey equipment, decorations, and what looked like years' worth of things no one wanted to throw away.

"This might take a minute," he admitted.

"I noticed."

He laughed softly "I swear I remember seeing it in here."

We stepped inside together. The closet wasn't tiny, but it definitely wasn't meant for two people. I squeezed past a stack of old moving boxes while Logan started checking the higher shelves.

"So..." he said casually "Thanks for helping."

"Oh." I smiled awkwardly "Yeah... of course."

Silence settled between us. I crouched down to move another box "This one just has Christmas lights."

Logan laughed "I found an old blender."

"Why is there a blender in here?"

"I have no idea."

He set it aside.

"I found... three hockey sticks."

"Helpful."

"No scrapbook."

I reached onto another shelf, stretching onto my tiptoes "I think this one's mostly old Fifth Line banners."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Just as Logan stepped closer to look—Click.

The door swung shut behind us.

We both froze. "...Did you close that?" Logan asked.

"No."

He walked over casually and grabbed the handle.

It didn't move.

He frowned "Huh."

He tried again. Nothing.

"Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it opening?"

"No."

My eyes widened. "...You're kidding."

"I wish I was." He gave it another harder tug. The door didn't budge. I hurried over beside him and grabbed the handle too.

"Maybe it's just stuck."

We pulled together. Nothing.

"Oh my God."

Logan knocked on the door. "Guys?"

No answer. He knocked harder. "Hey!" From the other side Garrett finally called, "Yeah?"

"We're locked in, The door won't open!"

Footsteps thundered down the hallway.

A second later Garrett's voice came through the wood "Move back."

We both stepped away. There was a loud shove. THUD. Nothing, Dean tried next. Another shove. The door barely rattled.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered.

"Try the handle!" Hannah called.

"We are!" Another tug. Then– Snap. There was complete silence.

"..."

"..."

Garrett spoke first "...Uh."

Dean groaned "Please tell me that wasn't the handle."

"It was the handle."

I stared at Logan "...Did the handle just come off?"

He rubbed the back of his neck "I think the handle just came off."

I let out a nervous laugh "That's... not ideal."

"Nope."

Outside, everyone started talking over one another. "What do we do?"

"Can someone get a screwdriver?" "I don't think that'll help." "We should call maintenance."

Garrett sighed. "Yeah... probably."

A few minutes later we heard Garrett on the phone explaining the situation "No, nobody's hurt."

Pause. "Yes, they're actually trapped."

"They're asking how."

Dean answered immediately "Tell them Logan happened."

"I heard that"

Garrett laughed before speaking into the phone again "Yeah... the handle came completely off."

Another pause.

"Two hours?"

My eyes nearly popped out. Logan's did too.

Garrett sighed heavily "Okay... thanks."

He hung up "...Bad news."

"How bad?" Logan asked through the door.

"They're backed up, They said it'll be at least two hours before someone can get here."

I slowly turned to look at Logan.

He looked back at me.

"Well," he said with a sheepish grin, "I guess we're going to get really familiar with this storage closet."

For a few seconds, neither of us really spoke. The only sounds inside the cramped storage closet were our breathing and the muffled voices of everyone outside trying to figure out how we'd managed to get ourselves trapped.

The walls felt...Too close. The air felt warmer. My chest tightened as I stared at the floor, trying to focus on anything except the fact that we weren't getting out anytime soon. Two hours. Two hours. Two—

"Y/N?"

Logan's voice was gentle.

I didn't answer.

"Hey."

I looked up just enough to see him studying my face. His expression shifted almost immediately.

"Are you okay?"

"I..."

My voice caught in my throat. I wasn't even sure what to say. Yes? No? That I was trapped in a closet with the guy I'd been hopelessly in love with for years? Before I could force out an answer, Logan stepped closer.

"Y/N." His hands rested lightly on my shoulders. Not enough to startle me. Just enough to ground me.

"Look at me."

My eyes slowly met his. His were soft. He searched my face for a long moment."You with me?"

I gave the tiniest nod.

"You look pale."

"I'm..."

I tried again "I'm okay." It wasn't convincing.

He frowned slightly "You don't sound okay."

"I just..." Nothing came out. My brain had completely abandoned me. Logan hesitated before lifting one hand from my shoulder and gently pressing the back of it against my forehead. The contact made my entire body freeze. His skin was cool. Mine, apparently, was not. He chuckled quietly.

"Huh."

I blinked.

"What?"

"You're a little warm."

My cheeks instantly burned hotter. Oh God.

"It's probably just..." I mumbled.

"The closet?"

"Yeah."

He wasn't convinced. I lowered my gaze to the floor, suddenly finding a scuff mark on my sneakers incredibly fascinating. There was another moment of silence.

Then I heard him sigh softly "Y/N."

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

I nodded without looking up.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You've said that three times."

"..."

"And every time it's sounded less believable."

I let out a nervous laugh that lasted all of two seconds "I'm really okay."

He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch my eyes again "Then..."

He paused.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

His voice became quieter "Did I do something?"

That made my head snap up "What?"

"To make you uncomfortable."

My eyebrows knitted together "No."

"Because..." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You're always kind of... avoidant around me."

I stared at him. Avoidant? "I..."

"You always get really quiet."

"..."

"You don't really make eye contact."

"..."

"You seem nervous whenever we're talking." He laughed awkwardly. "I honestly thought maybe you just didn't like me."

For a second, I was certain I'd misheard him "You... thought I didn't like you?"

He shrugged "I mean...I know you're close with everyone."

"You joke around with Dean, You tease Garrett, You'll argue with Tucker over literally anything." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth "But when it's me..." He looked at me for a second."It's different."

My stomach flipped. He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed.

"I just figured..." he continued, "...maybe I annoyed you or something."

I stared at him in complete disbelief "You annoy me?"

He gave me a small, uncertain smile "A little?"

A tiny laugh escaped me before I could stop it "No."

"No?"

I shook my head immediately "No."

"Not even a little?"

I looked at him for a long moment before quietly admitting "I could never be avoidant of you or dislike you John" The second they left my mouth, my eyes widened. What did I just say?

I quickly looked back down at the floor "I mean…I..That's not..." I closed my eyes.

Great that was very Smooth.

Logan didn't say anything right away. When I finally dared to glance back up, he was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"You could never avoid me?" he repeated softly.

I covered my face with one hand "I am making this so much worse."

A small laugh escaped him "I don't think you are."

"You absolutely should."

"I don't."

I peeked at him through my fingers.

He smiled "You know..." He leaned lightly against one of the shelves "I've never actually been able to figure you out, you seem comfortable around everyone else. But every time I walk into a room..." he gave me a crooked grin, "...it's like you suddenly forget how to talk."

I groaned quietly "I was hoping nobody noticed."

"Oh."

He laughed "I noticed."

Outside the door, Dean's voice suddenly echoed down the hallway.

"Everything good in there?"

Logan didn't take his eyes off me "Yeah."

Then, after the briefest pause, he smiled to himself "We're just talking."

Logan watched me for a second, the corner of his mouth slowly lifting into a smile "You know..." he said quietly, "this explains a lot."

I blinked "What does?"

"The interviews."

I frowned "What about them?"

"You always looked terrified."

"I was not terrified."

He gave me a look "You asked me if I 'enjoyed skating on the ice' once."

My eyes widened "No, I didn't."

“Oh yes you did."

"I-"

"You also asked me after a game if I 'had fun doing hockey.'"

I covered my face with both hands "Oh my God..."

He laughed "I've been playing hockey my whole life."

"I know!"

"And you asked if I had fun doing hockey."

"I panicked!"

"I could tell."

I groaned into my hands "I need to move."

"Move?"

"Countries."

He laughed harder "I don't think it's that bad."

"It absolutely is."

"It was kind of cute."

I slowly peeked at him "Cute?"

He nodded "Yeah." He shifted a little closer, still giving me enough space that I didn't feel cornered. "I always wondered why you got so nervous, I figured maybe interviews just weren't your thing."

"They're not," I admitted.

"But only when you're involved."

His eyebrows lifted "Only me?"

I realized what I'd just said"...Forget I said that."

"I don't think I will."

Heat rushed to my cheeks again.

He smiled to himself "I guess we're both pretty bad at reading each other."

"What do you mean?"

He leaned against the shelf behind him, folding his arms "I spent the last two years convincing myself you couldn't stand me."

I stared at him.

"And I spent the last two years convincing myself you barely knew I existed." His expression softened "I've always known you existed."

I couldn't help smiling.

"You help Jules run Fifth Line, You remember everyone's coffee order, You bring snacks on away games because you know Tucker forgets to eat." He chuckled. "You made Garrett a birthday cake that looked like a hockey puck."

His eyes met mine.

"I notice things."

My heart skipped.

"I just..." He rubbed the back of his neck."I never knew if you wanted me around." I laughed softly in disbelief."You always disappeared whenever I came over to talk."

"I disappeared because I forgot how to function."

He laughed "See? I know that now but i do need to ask If you don't dislike me..."

"I don't."

"Then why exactly do I make you so nervous?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. There wasn't really a graceful way out of this.

"Because..." I sighed. "This is embarrassing."

"I promise I won't laugh."

"You definitely will."

"I won't."

I looked down at my shoes "When I first met you...I thought you were the most attractive person I'd ever seen."

His eyes widened just a little

"And then I got to know you."

"Okay."

"And somehow..." I laughed nervously."...it just got worse."

"Worse?"

"I liked you more."

The words hung between us and I realized exactly what I'd admitted. "...Wait…I didn't mean–"

"You didn't?"

"I mean—I did—but not—I wasn't trying to—" I started rambling faster with every word."I've liked you forever, which sounds completely ridiculous, and I know you probably don't feel the same way, so you can absolutely pretend I never said any of that because we're trapped in a closet and maybe the lack of oxygen is affecting my judgment like… that's definitely a possibility right cuz I–"

"Y/N."

"I just didn't want you thinking I avoided you because I didn't like you because honestly it's the complete opposite and—"

"Y/N."

"I've had a crush on you since—"

Before I could embarrass myself any further, Logan closed the small distance between us. One hand gently cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed lightly against my skin.Then he kissed me. Every thought disappeared. It wasn't rushed or dramatic. Just soft and gentle, like he'd wanted to do it for a while and had finally decided to stop waiting. For a moment, the tiny storage closet, the broken door, and everyone outside simply ceased to exist. It was just him. When we finally pulled apart, I blinked up at him, still trying to process what had just happened.

He rested his forehead lightly against mine, smiling "I had to stop you somehow."

A breathless laugh escaped me "I was rambling."

"You really were."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

His smile softened "I like you too."

I stared at him.

"You... what?"

"I like you."

The words came so naturally that they almost didn't seem real "That's why I was so confused, I thought you couldn't stand being around me." He laughed quietly. "Turns out you were just as nervous as I was."

I couldn't stop smiling. "You were nervous?"

"Terrified."

"You hide it well."

"I've had practice."

I shook my head, still in disbelief "This doesn't feel real."

"It feels pretty real to me." He leaned in again, giving me plenty of time to meet him halfway. This kiss lingered a little longer, the sweetness turned more into passion, his lips moved slow like honey against my own and i felt like i could drown in him, we kept going until we were breathless

Just as we separated—CRACK. The door suddenly flew inward.

"Oh, we got it—"

Both Logan and I instinctively stumbled backward. He lost his footing first. I reached out to catch him. Instead, we both tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Logan landed with one hand braced beside my head to keep from crushing me, his face only inches from mine.

Silence.

Then...

"OH MY GOD!" Allie squealed.

"I KNEW IT!" Jules shouted.

Garrett threw both fists into the air "finally!"

Dean doubled over laughing.

Jules squealed so loudly I was convinced the neighbors heard her.

Allie grabbed Hannah's shoulders and started shaking her excitedly "I TOLD YOU THEY JUST NEEDED TO BE STUCK TOGETHER!"

Hannah was practically bouncing "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT ACTUALLY WORKED!"

I slowly looked from one face to the next "What?"

Dean was laughing so hard he had to grab onto the wall "What do you mean, what?"

I blinked "What do you mean what do I mean?"

Garrett crossed his arms, completely unashamed "We locked you in there."

I looked at Logan. He looked at me. Then we both looked back at Garrett.

"You what?"

"We locked you in there," Garrett repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Jules winced "In our defense..."

"There is no defense," I interrupted.

"Fair."

Allie held up both hands "Okay, okay! It wasn't supposed to last two hours."

My jaw dropped "It wasn't supposed to happen at all!"

Dean pointed toward the storage closet "The original plan was like..."

He looked at Garrett "What like ten minutes?"

Garrett nodded "Fifteen if you were both being particularly stubborn."

Logan looked utterly baffled. "You trapped us in a closet?"

Hannah smiled sheepishly "We just thought...You two have been dancing around each other for years.You clearly liked each other. But neither of you would do anything, So..." She shrugged. "We helped."

"The door handle wasn't supposed to break" Jules said quickly.

"We were just going to hold the door shut from the outside."

"We even had a countdown," Dean admitted.

"You had a countdown?"

"Tucker timed it."

Everyone looked toward Tucker.

He slowly raised a hand "Hi."

"You were in on this too?"

"I was the timekeeper."

Logan finally started laughing, He rubbed a hand over his face "I cannot believe you guys."

Garrett grinned "You can."

"Actually, yeah I can”

I was still trying to process everything "So..." I pointed at all of them."The scrapbook...didn't exist."

Dean shook his head."Oh, no, no, the scrapbook exists. It just isn't in that closet."

Logan looked at him "Then where is it?"

Dean casually pointed toward the entertainment center in the living room "It's been sitting in the TV cabinet for like... three years."

Logan stared"Seriously?"

"Yep."

Hannah walked over, smiling apologetically "We really were going to let you out after a few minutes, But then..." She gestured toward the broken doorknob still sitting on the floor."That happened."

Jules nodded "And once maintenance said two hours..."

"We figured..."

Allie finished for her "...If you hadn't confessed by then, there was probably no hope."

Hannah and Allie help the both of you get up “all well that ends well though, by the looks at it” Allie said giving us a wink that made both logan and I go red

[itsaintmebabe]

ii. just like heaven

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: after an embarrassing first meeting, your new job as briar hockey's team photographer keeps bringing you and john logan together, and what starts as playful teasing quickly turns into effortless flirting, shared laughs, and an invitation she can't quite bring herself to turn down.

pairing: john logan x fem! reader

warnings: not much honestly, cussing, probably inaccurate descriptions of both hockey and photography

notes: okay here's the second part!!! i'm enjoying writing john logan fics sm already AND once again if you have an requests always feel free to ask!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / pervious / next

"So..." Allie began slowly, folding her arms across her chest. "Logan was here while we were gone last night... and he caught you dancing around in a bra?"

You groaned. You honestly regretted opening your mouth. Normally you couldn't keep anything from Hannah or Allie, but maybe, just maybe, you should've made this your first secret.

"For the thousandth time," you sighed, rubbing your temples, "yes."

Allie exchanged a look with Hannah.

"So..." Hannah started.

"No."

"He walked in—"

"Yes."

"You screamed?"

"Yes."

"He saw the whole concert?"

You dropped your head into your hands. "Yes."

"Hairbrush microphone and everything?"

"Especially the hairbrush microphone."

Both girls dissolved into laughter.

"Oh my God," Allie wheezed, leaning against your desk for support. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry but that is objectively hilarious."

"It wasn't hilarious," you mumbled into your pillow.

"It kind of was."

"It was traumatic."

"It'll be funny in, like, three days."

"Maybe thirty years."

Allie crossed the room before sitting beside you on the bed, gently cupping your cheeks between her hands.

"Babe."

You looked up reluctantly.

"It really isn't that bad."

You stared at her. "It absolutely is."

"No, listen." She smiled reassuringly. "At least he didn't walk in during that skincare phase where you looked like you were auditioning for a horror movie."

Hannah gasped dramatically. "The charcoal face mask!"

"And the coconut hair mask at the same time," Allie added.

"You looked... moist."

"I hate both of you."

"We're just saying," Hannah laughed as she plopped down beside you, "it could've been way worse."

You flopped backward dramatically onto the bed. "I'm never showing my face again."

"Oh my God," Allie laughed. "You're so dramatic."

"No, I'm realistic."

"You are absolutely dramatic."

You hugged one of your throw pillows tightly against your chest with a defeated groan. "That was literally the hottest guy I've ever seen, and I was jumping around my room pretending a hairbrush was a microphone."

"You also screamed at him."

"I accused him of breaking in."

"He technically did break in."

"With permission!"

You buried your face deeper into the pillow. "I've ruined my life."

There was a brief silence.

Then Allie's eyes widened. "Wait."

You looked up cautiously.

"You think John Logan is hot?"

You pointed a finger at her. "That is completely beside the point."

"No, no, no." Hannah sat up straighter, grinning from ear to ear. "That is absolutely the point."

"It is not."

"Y/N." Hannah grabbed your shoulders dramatically. "We’ve gone to Briar for three years?"

"Yeah?"

"And have you shown any interest in literally any hockey player?"

"...No."

"Any football player?"

"No."

"Any lacrosse player?"

"No."

"Any guy?"

You hesitated. "...Not really."

Hannah looked triumphantly at Allie. "Exactly!"

"You think John Logan is hot!" Allie practically squealed.

"Oh my God."

"This is huge."

"It is not huge."

"It is for you!"

You sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter."

Both girls stopped smiling.

"It really doesn't," you continued quietly. "He probably thinks I'm a complete weirdo."

"He doesn't."

"You don't know that."

"We kind of do."

"You guys have seen me dance."

"Yeah?"

"It's... not exactly graceful."

"It has personality," Hannah offered.

"It has enthusiasm," Allie corrected.

"It has something."

"It has embarrassment."

Allie nudged your shoulder. "Okay, but what if he doesn't care?"

You blinked.

"What if," she continued, "he thought it was cute?"

You gave her the flattest look imaginable. "You're delusional."

"No, I'm optimistic."

"I vote delusional," Hannah chimed in.

"Traitor."

You sighed again. "You two seriously need to let this go. I'm not getting a boyfriend anytime soon, so we can all just move on."

Allie stared at you. Then rolled her eyes so dramatically you thought they might actually get stuck.

"Y/N, you are being so self-deprecating that it's starting to annoy me."

You frowned.

"You're gorgeous."

"Allie—"

"No, let me finish."

She pointed directly at you.

"You're funny, you're smart, and honestly?" She shrugged matter-of-factly. "You have amazing boobs."

Hannah immediately burst out laughing.

"That is... definitely one of your stronger selling points."

"Oh my God."

"I'm just being honest!"

"What if he's an ass guy?" Hannah asked thoughtfully.

Allie gasped. "Impossible."

"There are ass guys."

"There are, but Logan?"

"Hmm..."

The two of them immediately launched into a full-blown debate about whether John Logan was an ass guy or a boobs guy, pulling in increasingly ridiculous pieces of "evidence" based on absolutely nothing.

You decided it was healthier not to participate. Instead, you reached into your pocket for your phone. The screen lit up. Your eyes widened.

"...Oh my God."

"What?" Hannah asked, still halfway through arguing that hockey players appreciated athletic thighs.

You stared at the time again. "...Oh my God."

Without another word, you practically launched yourself off the bed.

"What are you doing?" Allie asked as you hurried to your closet.

"I completely forgot!"

You yanked on a pair of low-rise jeans before pulling a fitted black long-sleeve shirt over your head. It stopped just above your waistband, leaving a thin strip of skin visible. You shoved your feet into your Uggs before rushing over to the vanity, quickly twisting your hair into a messy bun.

Not perfect. Good enough.

"Uh..." Hannah watched you sprint around the room. "Should we be concerned?"

"I have to be at the rink in fifteen minutes!"

Both girls blinked.

"The rink?" Allie repeated.

"My photography internship starts today!"

"Oh!"

You hurried over to your camera equipment, breathing a sigh of relief when you remembered charging everything the night before. One camera body. Backup batteries. Memory cards. Lenses. Laptop. Everything was quickly stuffed into your oversized tote bag.

"Wait," Hannah said. "Today's your first day?"

"Yep!"

"And you forgot?"

"I was a little distracted!"

You slung the bag over your shoulder before grabbing your keys. "I'll see you guys later!"

Before either of them could respond, you were already halfway out the door.

A second later, the front door shut behind you. Silence settled over the apartment. 

Hannah slowly turned toward Allie. "...Maybe we should've told her."

Allie grinned mischievously. "Nah."

She leaned back against the couch with a smirk. "It's way more fun this way."

Hannah laughed. "Poor Y/N has absolutely no idea."

"And neither does Logan."

Something told them this was going to be very entertaining.

—

Coach Jensen had been talking for what felt like an eternity.

Five minutes in, Logan had completely checked out, and judging by the glazed-over expressions on most of his teammates' faces, he wasn't the only one. The entire team stood on the ice in full practice gear, sticks resting against the surface as Coach Jensen continued pacing along the bench.

"I need every single one of you to keep your heads in the game this season," Jensen continued. "I can't have anyone slacking off, and I definitely can't have anyone assuming talent alone is enough to win hockey games."

Logan absentmindedly shifted his weight from one skate to the other. Beside him, Garrett let out the quietest sigh imaginable. Tucker was twirling his stick. Dean was looking everywhere except at Coach.

Nobody was listening anymore.

"I expect every one of you to—"

Coach Jensen stopped mid-sentence.

The sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the otherwise quiet rink. Nearly every player instinctively turned toward the entrance.

Logan did too.

A girl hurried down the stairs leading to the bench, an oversized tote bag bouncing against her side and a camera hanging around her neck. She looked like she'd sprinted across campus to get there, strands of hair already escaping the messy bun she'd clearly thrown together in a rush.

Logan recognized her immediately. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Well...

This was unexpected.

You slowed to a stop beside Coach Jensen, still catching your breath.

"Hi, Coach Jensen," you said with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again."

Jensen waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. We were just about to get started."

You let out a quiet breath of relief. "Thank you."

Coach Jensen turned back toward the team.

"Alright, listen up for a second."

The players' attention shifted from him... to you.

"This is Y/N," he announced. "She'll be our team photographer for the rest of the season. She'll be covering games, events, and she'll also be around for practices every now and then."

Every set of eyes landed on you.

You offered an awkward little wave. "Hi."

A few of the guys nodded politely.

Someone in the back gave you a quiet, "Hey."

Trying not to feel intimidated by the twenty-something hockey players staring at you, your eyes drifted across the lineup.

One face. Then another. Then—

Oh.

Your stomach dropped.

John Logan.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly.

Of course. How could you forget that? 

Your smile faltered for the briefest second before you quickly looked back toward Coach Jensen.

Maybe if you pretended not to notice him—

Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced back.

Big mistake.

Logan was already looking at you. And smiling. Not laughing. Not smirking. Just smiling. Like he was just as amused by the coincidence as you were horrified.

Heat immediately crept into your cheeks. It definitely wasn't because of the cold air inside the rink.

Logan noticed. Of course he noticed. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning even wider.

She remembered him.

Cute. Very cute.

You, on the other hand, were seriously considering whether it was too late to quit your internship.

"Alright," Coach Jensen called, clapping his hands together. "Let's get to work. First drill."

That finally pulled Logan's attention away from you.

Beside him, Garrett gave his shoulder a playful shove. "Quit staring and get moving."

Logan scoffed. "I wasn't staring."

Garrett gave him a look that very clearly said sure you weren't before skating off toward the shooting drill that had already been set up.

With a small shake of his head, Logan pushed off after him, skating backward across the ice while casually glancing over toward the bench. He watched as you spoke quietly with Coach Jensen for another minute, nodding along while he pointed out a few things around the rink.

Then you hurried over to one of the seats in the front row, right against the glass.

Setting your oversized tote bag down beside you, you carefully pulled out your camera body and lenses, double-checking your settings before attaching the zoom lens. After a quick test shot of the empty net, you frowned slightly.

The glass. It was going to cause reflections.

Thinking it over for a second, you picked everything back up and walked down toward the players' bench instead, where you'd have a much clearer view of the ice.

Much better.

You adjusted the camera strap around your neck before lifting the camera to your eye, testing the framing as the team got into position for drills.

Then, almost without thinking, you looked up.

Logan was already looking at you. Again.

This time, though...

You didn't immediately look away. You held his gaze for a second. Long enough to feel the familiar warmth creeping into your cheeks.

Long enough for him to notice.

The corner of Logan's mouth lifted into an easy smile.

He raised one gloved hand in a small wave.

A simple, almost teasing little hi.

You couldn't help it. You smiled back before giving him an equally small wave with the hand that wasn't holding your camera.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Then—

Clack!

Garrett smacked the blade of his stick against Logan's.

"Hey, Romeo."

Logan looked over.

"The puck," Garrett said, nodding toward the drill. "It's over here."

A few of the guys nearby chuckled.

Logan rolled his eyes. "Relax."

"I'm perfectly relaxed."

"Mhm."

Garrett skated ahead with a grin. "You've looked at the photographer more than you've looked at Coach all morning."

Logan simply shoved Garrett's shoulder as he caught up to him.

"Shut up."

Garrett only laughed harder.

—

The two-hour practice flew by. To your surprise, you actually had a lot of fun.

By the end of it, you'd filled multiple memory cards with photos. Hockey was so much faster than anything you'd photographed before, and while you'd definitely missed a few shots early on, you'd started getting the hang of tracking the players through your lens.

By the final drill, you were actually proud of some of the photos you'd captured.

As Coach Jensen blew the whistle to end practice, the players quickly skated toward the tunnel, chatting amongst themselves as they headed for the locker room.

You stayed behind on the bench, carefully packing away your equipment. Camera body. Extra lens. Memory cards. Batteries. Everything had its place.

You had just slung your oversized tote bag over your shoulder when a familiar voice spoke up.

"Get any good shots?"

You looked up.

John Logan was leaning casually against the boards, one arm resting across the top as he looked down at you.

You blinked. You hadn't even noticed he'd stayed behind. Your face warmed almost instantly.

Get it together, Y/N.

You forced yourself to smile. "I think so."

"You think so?"

"I won't really know until I look through all of them."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."

You adjusted the strap of your camera bag.

"But yeah," you added. "I think I got some good ones."

"Good." He smiled. "Would've been a shame if you froze your ass off in here for nothing."

You let out a small laugh. "I wasn't freezing."

"You weren't?"

"No."

You shifted your tote bag higher onto your shoulder, trying your best to sound convincing. "Not at all."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Really."

He looked you up and down for a second. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. More like he was gathering evidence.

Finally, he smiled. "You spent the entire practice hiding your hands inside your sleeves."

You instinctively looked down.

Sure enough...

Your hands had disappeared into the sleeves of your sweatshirt again.

You immediately tugged them back out.

"I..."

Logan laughed.

"I wasn't cold."

"Mhm."

"I wasn't!"

"You absolutely were."

"I just like oversized sleeves."

"Oh, that's what it was?"

"Exactly."

He nodded slowly, pretending to believe you. "Totally unrelated to the fact that it's, like, twenty-five degrees in here."

You crossed your arms. "It's called fashion."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Right. My mistake."

"It was."

"You know..." he said, pushing himself off the boards, "for someone who claims she wasn't cold..."

"What?"

"...your nose got red."

You instinctively reached up and covered it. "It did not."

"It did."

"It absolutely did not."

He grinned. "I've got pretty good eyesight."

"You're making that up."

"I play hockey."

"Congratulations?"

"My vision's great."

You couldn't help laughing. "You are unbelievable."

"So I've been told."

There it was again. That stupidly charming grin. The one that made it incredibly difficult to stay embarrassed around him.

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "I should probably go edit these."

"You probably should."

You took a few steps toward the exit before turning back.

"...Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not making the whole..." You awkwardly gestured between the two of you. "...apartment thing even more embarrassing than it already was."

Logan's expression softened just a little. "I thought it was kind of funny."

You groaned. "Please don't remind me."

"I'm serious."He shrugged. "It was cute."

You stared at him. "...Cute?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "I've definitely seen people embarrass themselves in worse ways."

Your heart did an annoyingly dramatic little flip.

"Besides," he added, taking a few steps backward toward the locker room, "you've got good taste in music."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better."

"It should."

He flashed you one last grin. "See you around, photographer."

Before you could think of a witty response, he disappeared through the tunnel toward the locker room.

You stood there for another few seconds. Then let out a slow breath. He somehow managed to be even more attractive when you actually talked to him.

—

"These are really impressive for your first time shooting hockey, Y/N."

A genuine smile spread across your face as your photography professor clicked through the photos from yesterday's practice on your laptop.

"I mean it," he continued, pausing on a shot of Logan taking a slap shot. "Sports photography has a steep learning curve. The pace is fast, the lighting isn't always great, and hockey is one of the harder sports to shoot."

You smiled proudly. "I definitely figured that out."

He chuckled. "But you've got a good eye. You know where to be, and you're already anticipating the action instead of reacting to it."

He closed the laptop before handing it back to you. "I think with a little more experience, you're going to be very good at this."

"Thank you."

You carefully slid the laptop back into your backpack.

"I struggled a little at the beginning of practice, but I think I started figuring it out toward the end."

Your professor nodded. "It shows."

"And there's a game tonight," you added excitedly. "Hopefully I'll come back with even better photos."

"I'll be looking forward to seeing them next week."

"Thanks, Professor."

With one last smile, he moved on to another student's work.

You packed the rest of your things, still smiling to yourself. It felt good. Really good.

You'd been nervous about taking on the internship. Sports photography wasn't something you'd ever done before, and walking into that rink yesterday had been intimidating enough without realizing John Logan played for Briar.

But hearing your professor praise your work...

Maybe you really could do this. The thought stayed with you as you left the building and stepped outside.

The bitter winter air hit your face immediately. You instinctively hunched your shoulders and buried your chin deeper into your hoodie as fresh snow crunched beneath your Uggs with every step.

"I hate winter," you muttered to yourself.

Still...

You couldn't stop smiling. You kept replaying your professor's comments in your head as you made your way across campus, so caught up in your thoughts that you didn't notice the three hockey players walking toward you from the opposite direction.

Garrett was in the middle of telling some story that had Tucker laughing so hard he nearly walked into a snowbank.

Logan, however, wasn't paying much attention.

"...and then the professor actually believed him," Garrett finished with a laugh.

"No way," Tucker said, shaking his head.

"Swear."

Logan wasn't really listening anymore. His attention had drifted across the crowded sidewalk.

Then he spotted you. Walking by yourself. Head down. Smiling to yourself.

Without even thinking about it, he slowed to a stop.

Garrett and Tucker took another few steps before realizing Logan wasn't beside them anymore.

"Hey," Garrett said, turning around. "You coming?"

Logan's eyes never left you.

"Uh..." He gave them a quick pat on Garrett's shoulder as he started backing away. "Yeah, I'll catch you guys later."

Garrett frowned. "What?"

"I'll see you guys at the rink."

Before either of them could ask another question, Logan turned and jogged across the snow-covered path toward you.

The two of them watched him disappear into the crowd.

Garrett blinked. "...What was that about?"

Tucker followed the direction Logan had run. A few seconds later, he spotted you.

"...Oh."

Garrett looked where Tucker was looking. "Oh."

The corners of Garrett's mouth slowly lifted into a grin.

Tucker snorted. "I give him two days before he's asking Hannah for her number."

Garret shook his head. "I'll give him until after tonight's game."

"Hey, photographer!"

The familiar voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

You turned around to see John Logan jogging to catch up, a crooked grin already spread across his face. Despite yourself, you smiled back.

He finally came to a stop in front of you, letting out a small breath as if he'd run just enough to catch you before you got too far ahead.

You shoved your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, partly because of the cold and partly because you suddenly didn't know what to do with them.

"I do have a name, you know."

"I know." He nodded thoughtfully. "But photographer is more fun."

You raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"I think so."

"I disagree."

"Well..." He shrugged, that annoyingly charming smile never leaving his face. "Good thing I'm the one saying it."

You rolled your eyes. "Okay, sure."

The two of you started walking again, falling into step beside each other as you made your way across the snowy campus.

After a moment, Logan glanced over at you. "I see you finally dressed for the weather today."

You looked over at him, confused. "What?"

He motioned toward your outfit.

"Hoodie. Jacket." His eyes flicked down to your Uggs before looking back up at you. "Actual winter clothes."

You laughed. "I was wearing winter clothes yesterday."

"Were you?"

"Yes."

He gave you a look. "You spent two hours at the rink trying to make that long sleeve feel like it was warm."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

"I just like oversized sleeves."

"Mhm."

"And for the record," you added, trying to defend yourself, "I survived."

"Barely."

You gasped. "I did not barely survive."

Logan laughed. "You had your hands hidden inside your sleeves the entire practice."

"They were comfortable."

"They were freezing."

"They were not."

He shook his head, smiling. "I don't know... I think today's outfit is a much better strategy."

You nudged his arm lightly with yours. "Are you always this annoying?"

"Only when people lie to me."

"I wasn't lying."

"You were."

"I was being... optimistic."

He grinned. "Well, I'm glad to see our team photographer is appropriately dressed today."

You smiled despite yourself. "How thoughtful of you."

"I have my moments."

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you continued walking.

Then Logan glanced over again.

"So," he asked, "how'd the photos turn out?"

A smile immediately returned to your face. "My professor actually loved them."

"He did?"

You nodded, your smile growing bigger as you talked. "He said they're really good for my first time shooting hockey. He said I have a good eye for where the action is going to happen."

Logan watched the way your entire expression changed.

Yesterday, you'd been so embarrassed around him that you could barely look at him for more than a few seconds.

But now...

You were completely different. Your eyes lit up when you talked about photography, and there was this excitement in your voice that he couldn't help noticing.

She's cute when she's happy.

The thought came so easily that it almost caught him off guard.

Actually...

She was cute all the time. But seeing you talk about something you clearly loved?

Yeah. That was something else.

"I told you they'd be good," he said, a small smile pulling at his lips.

You glanced over at him. "...You literally never saw them."

"I didn't have to."

"Oh?"

"Nope."

He shrugged. "You cared enough to stand out in a freezing rink for two hours taking pictures. I figured they'd turn out pretty good."

The confidence in his answer made you laugh before you could stop yourself.

"There it is," Logan said, pointing at you triumphantly.

You looked over. "What?"

"You laughed."

"So?"

"So..." He grinned. "Yesterday you looked like you wanted to crawl under the ice every time I talked to you."

Your cheeks warmed. "I did not."

"You kinda did."

"I was just embarrassed."

"I noticed."

You groaned. "Thanks for reminding me."

"Anytime."

You nudged his shoulder again. "You're the worst."

"Nah."

He looked over at you, smiling. "If I was the worst, you wouldn't be laughing."

Another laugh escaped you.

"There it is again."

"Oh my God."

"Twice in one conversation."

"You've been counting?"

"I've got to keep track of my victories somehow."

"You call making me laugh a victory?"

"Absolutely."

You shook your head, smiling. "You are unbelievable."

"I've been told."

The two of you walked a little farther, the conversation feeling surprisingly easy.

And maybe that was the weirdest part. Yesterday, you'd been convinced John Logan walking into your dorm was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to you.

Now...

You were walking across campus with him, laughing like you'd known him longer than a day.

"Don't let this go to your head," you finally said.

His grin only widened. "Too late."

The two of you eventually reached the building where your next class was located.

You slowed to a stop outside the entrance, motioning toward the doors. "My class is here."

A small blush crept onto your face as you said it, mostly because you suddenly felt weirdly aware that this was the end of your little walk together.

Logan noticed. Of course he noticed. But instead of pointing it out, he just smiled down at you.

"Well..." he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'll see you later then."

You nodded. "Yeah. See you."

You turned toward the steps, starting to walk toward the entrance.

You'd barely made it a few steps before—

"Hey, Y/N!"

Your entire body froze. You slowly turned around.

A few students nearby had already looked over at the sound of Logan's voice. Of course they had. Because apparently John Logan had no concept of speaking at a normal volume.

You looked back at him, trying not to laugh. "Yeah?"

This time, your voice was noticeably quieter.

Logan's grin widened. He absolutely knew what he was doing.

"You coming to the game later?"

The question was much less dramatic this time, his voice finally at a normal volume.

You smiled. "Yeah. I'll be there."

His face lit up slightly. "Good."

He started walking backward, still facing you.

"See you there then!"

You stared at him for a second. Then, because you didn't know what else to do, you gave him a thumbs up.

A thumbs up.

Out of every possible response...

A thumbs up. You immediately regretted it.

The people nearby were definitely looking now.

Logan noticed too. And judging by the laugh that escaped him, he found your embarrassment incredibly entertaining.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "Bye, Logan."

"Bye, photographer."

You shook your head but couldn't stop yourself from smiling as you quickly turned and walked into the building.

The second the doors closed behind you, you let out a quiet breath. You had no idea why your heart was beating a little faster.

It was just John Logan.

That was it.

Nothing more.

At least that was what you told yourself as you walked toward class, desperately trying not to think about the warm feeling settling in your chest.

—

"Are you serious?"

Allie stared at you in disbelief.

"...What?"

You instinctively looked down at yourself, trying to figure out what she was talking about.

You'd gotten to the rink early so you could get settled before warmups started, making sure all your camera gear was ready to go. A few minutes later, Allie had texted asking you to meet her and Hannah in the lobby before they headed to the stands.

Apparently...

She had opinions.

"That shirt," Allie said, pointing dramatically. "It's hideous."

You looked down at the oversized blue long-sleeve Briar Hockey shirt you were wearing.

Okay. It wasn't exactly fashionable. It hung almost halfway down your thighs, the sleeves were far too long, and it looked like someone had handed you the first shirt they found in the equipment room.

But...

"Coach Jensen told me to wear something with Briar Hockey on it."

"So you picked the least flattering thing they own?"

"I didn't pick it."

"Babe." Allie stepped closer, grabbing the excess fabric around your waist. "You're gorgeous. We can work with this."

She tugged the material back, trying to see what it would look like tied. "There."

"Allie."

"It has potential."

You laughed, gently swatting her hands away. "I'm working."

"I know."

"So I'm not tying hockey merch into a crop top."

"You could."

"I won't."

"It'd be cute."

"It'd get me fired."

Allie rolled her eyes dramatically before throwing her hands into the air. "Fine."

She sighed. "But I'm finding you something cuter for next game."

Before you could answer, another voice joined the conversation.

"What is that?"

You turned just in time to see Hannah walking over.

She took one look at your shirt.

"...Oh."

You groaned. "Not you too."

Allie pointed triumphantly. "See? She gets it!"

Hannah tilted her head. "...Why is it so big?"

"I don't know," you defended. "I didn't exactly spend twenty minutes looking through all the options. Jensen just told me to wear Briar Hockey stuff, and this was clean."

"But..."

You crossed your arms. "It's warm."

Hannah nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."

Then she frowned again.

"But why not a hoodie?"

You sighed. "Because the hood gets in the way when I've got my camera strapped around my neck."

"...Okay, that's actually a good point."

"Thank you."

You looked between the two of them.

"Besides, it doesn't matter."

Both of them raised an eyebrow.

"I'm just taking pictures."

"So?"

"No one's going to be looking at me."

Allie snorted. "You've met hockey players, right?"

You ignored her.

"You two, on the other hand..." You pointed between them with a smile. "Actually look cute."

Allie grinned.

"Aww."

"Thanks."

Then she immediately pointed back at your shirt.

"But I'm still finding you something less hideous."

"What exactly is less hideous?"

The familiar voice made all three of you turn around. John Logan stood a few feet away, hockey bag slung over one shoulder as he made his way toward the locker room.

He'd clearly caught the end of the conversation.

"Noth—"

"Oh, nothing," Allie interrupted before you could finish.

She smiled far too innocently. "We were just telling Y/N that Coach Jensen made her wear Briar Hockey merch, and Hannah and I think the long-sleeve is... well..."

"Horrendous," Hannah supplied.

"A little tragic," Allie corrected.

"And she'll probably freeze in the rink."

You shot Allie a look that practically screamed, Are you serious?

She pretended not to notice.

Logan's eyes shifted from Allie...

...to Hannah...

...before finally settling on you.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, is that right?"

You immediately shook your head. "I'm fine."

"She's not," Allie answered for you.

"I'm literally standing right here."

"And I'm literally helping."

Logan chuckled.

"I wasn't cold yesterday either," you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Oh, don't start."

"I distinctly remember someone insisting they weren't freezing."

You pointed at him. "I knew bringing that up would come back to haunt me."

"It absolutely was."

Before you could come up with another comeback, Logan quietly set his hockey bag on the floor. Without saying another word, he shrugged off his tan Carhartt jacket.

You frowned. "...What are you doing?"

He held it out toward you. "Wear this."

Your eyes widened. "What?"

"You said the shirt's warm."

"It is."

"But the lobby isn't and neither is the rink."

You looked between him and the jacket. "I can't take your jacket."

"Sure you can."

"I'll give it back before the game."

He shrugged.

"I've got about twenty pounds of hockey gear to keep me warm."

You still hesitated. "I don't know..."

Logan smiled. "Humor me."

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh, you reached out and took the jacket.

It was warm from where he'd been wearing it. "...Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He picked his hockey bag back up before taking a few steps toward the locker room.

Halfway there, he looked back over his shoulder.

"See you in there."

You smiled despite yourself. "See you."

The second he disappeared down the hallway, the silence lasted all of three seconds. Then Allie slowly turned toward you with the biggest grin you'd ever seen.

"Oh..."

Hannah was grinning just as much.

"My..."

You closed your eyes. "...Don't."

"God," Allie finished anyway.

"You are never hearing the end of this."

You groaned, pulling Logan's jacket on as the sleeves swallowed your hands. "...I hate both of you."

"No, you don't," Hannah laughed.

You looked down at the jacket, unable to stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips.

"...Yeah," you admitted quietly.

"I really don't."

—

The game had gone surprisingly well for Briar.

By the start of the third period, they were already up by three goals, and the energy inside the arena was electric.

You'd quickly realized one thing, though. You definitely did not understand hockey as well as you thought you did.

Every few minutes the crowd would suddenly erupt around you, whistles would blow, or everyone would start booing for reasons you couldn't quite figure out.

More than once, you found yourself looking over at Hannah with a confused expression.

"What happened?" you'd mouthed through the glass.

She'd either yell, "Offside!" or "Penalty!" while making some gesture that honestly didn't clear anything up.

You'd just nodded like you understood. Truthfully, it didn't really matter. You weren't there to analyze the game. You were there to capture it. And judging by the thousands of photos sitting on your camera's memory card already, you were doing exactly that.

You'd managed to catch huge saves, hard checks along the boards, celebrations after goals, and even a couple of shots of Coach Jensen yelling from the bench that you were pretty sure he'd either love... or absolutely hate.

The guys had also figured out pretty quickly where you were stationed. Every now and then, someone would skate past the bench, notice your camera pointed in their direction, and shamelessly pose before rejoining the play.

Tucker had pointed dramatically at the camera after scoring. Garrett had flashed an exaggerated thumbs-up while waiting for a faceoff. Even Dean had somehow managed to wink at your camera before skating away.

You couldn't help laughing every single time.

They really were impossible.

But your favorite photo so far...

That belonged to Logan.

After scoring his first goal of the night, he'd skated toward the glass with a huge grin, throwing one fist into the air before pointing toward the Briar student section as his teammates swarmed him.

You'd managed to catch the exact moment.

His smile. The excitement. The spray of ice beneath his skates.

It was easily your favorite shot of the night. You couldn't wait to edit it later.

As the third and final period got underway, you lifted your camera back to your eye, adjusting your settings one last time before the referee's whistle echoed through the arena.

The game only got better from there. Briar came out flying, adding three more goals to the scoreboard before the final buzzer sounded.

6–3.

A pretty successful first game, if you did say so yourself.

You stayed focused even after the clock hit zero, snapping photos of the team celebrating at center ice before they broke apart to skate around the rink.

A few players tossed pucks over the glass to kids in the front rows. Others waved to family and friends in the stands. Garrett somehow managed to get Coach Jensen laughing. Dean was pretending to sign an imaginary autograph for one of the freshmen in the student section.

The whole atmosphere felt lighter now that the pressure of the game was gone.

Once you were sure you'd gotten everything you needed, you finally lowered your camera.

Time to pack up.

You settled onto the front-row bench behind the glass, setting your camera in your lap as you carefully detached the lens before placing both back into your padded camera bag. Extra batteries. Memory cards. Lens cloth. Everything had its place.

You were so focused on packing that you barely noticed the players still skating around the ice.

Tap.

You looked up. Logan was standing on the other side of the glass.

He had one glove off and was tapping the glass lightly with his knuckles, his helmet tucked under one arm and his hockey stick resting against his shoulder. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction after taking his helmet off, and despite looking exhausted, he still wore that same easy grin.

You couldn't help smiling back. Still holding your camera, you continued packing while looking up at him.

"Good game!" you called through the glass.

He leaned in slightly so he could hear you better. "Yeah?"

You laughed. "I mean it."

You pointed toward him. "You okay? You got hit pretty hard a couple times."

Logan looked down at himself before shrugging. "Nothing I can't handle."

You smiled. "I figured."

He nodded toward the camera sitting in your lap.

"You get some good shots?"

Your face immediately brightened.

"Some really good ones."

His eyes lingered on you for a second.

There it was again. That smile. The one that always seemed to appear whenever you started talking about photography. It made him smile too. He liked seeing you excited.

Before he could say anything else—

"Logan!"

Garrett's voice echoed from near the tunnel.

"Hurry up!"

Logan glanced over his shoulder.

"One sec!" he called back.

Garrett groaned dramatically before disappearing toward the locker room.

Logan looked back at you.

"So..."

He rested his forearms on the top of his stick.

"We have a party at the off-campus house every time we win."

You tilted your head. "Oh?"

He nodded. "You gonna come?"

A teasing smile spread across your face. "Is that an invitation?"

Logan laughed softly. "If you want it to be."

You pretended to think about it for a second.

"Hmm..."

He pushed away from the glass, beginning to skate backward toward the tunnel. For a second, you thought that was the end of the conversation.

Then he called back across the ice.

"Come!"

A few nearby teammates looked over at the sound of his voice.

Logan either didn't notice or didn't care. "I want you there!"

The smile that spread across your face was impossible to hide.

"I guess I have to go then!"

"You do!" He flashed you one last grin before turning toward the tunnel.

Just before disappearing inside, he glanced back over his shoulder.

You were still standing exactly where he'd left you. Still smiling.

He smiled to himself before finally heading into the locker room.

You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head as you zipped your camera bag shut. Maybe Allie and Hannah had been onto something after all.

[itsaintmebabe]

i. just like heaven

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: a quiet night alone in the dorm turns into an unforgettable first meeting for you and john logan.

pairing: john logan x fem! reader

warnings: not much honestly, a bit of nudity (reader is in a bralette), cussing

notes: here's my first ever john logan fic!!! pretty short but very cute and i def wanna write more for him the future so feel free to send a message with a request!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / next

Honestly, having the dorm to yourself for the night was kind of amazing.

You loved Hannah and Allie, you really did, but sometimes you desperately needed a little alone time. Especially because your apartment had somehow become the designated "Allie Freakout Headquarters." Midterms? Allie panicked here. Relationship problems? Here. Hockey drama? Somehow also here.

Peace and quiet had become a rare luxury. 

So you took full advantage of it.

You finally tackled the mountain of clothes that had been steadily growing on your bedroom floor because, honestly, between classes and work, you hadn't had the energy to care. The laundry still wasn't folded, but at least everything was off the floor.

Then, after staring at the stack for weeks, you finally caved and organized the massive record collection you, Hannah, and Allie had accumulated. Alphabetical order. Artist first, then album. It was weirdly satisfying.

By the time you finished, the apartment actually looked...clean.

For once, there weren't any assignments hanging over your head. No papers due at midnight. No readings you'd procrastinated until the last second. You could finally breathe.

Headphones settled comfortably over your ears, you cranked up Just Like Heaven by The Cure until it drowned out everything else. Within minutes, you were dancing around the apartment.

Barefoot. Baggy gray sweatpants hanging low on your hips. A black lace bralette that was comfortable enough to lounge in.

Not another soul around to judge you.

You wandered from room to room with your eyes closed, singing every lyric from memory, using a wooden spoon as a microphone before eventually swapping it for your hairbrush. You spun dramatically through the living room before launching yourself onto your bed, performing for an audience that definitely did not exist.

Completely lost in your own little concert, you never heard the knock at the front door. Or the second one. Or the sound of someone trying the doorknob.

Outside, John Logan frowned.

"Hello?" he called through the door, hearing movement somewhere inside.

He knocked again.

"Hannah?" he called louder. "Garrett said to grab his jersey! He left it here!"

Nothing.

He waited another few seconds before sighing.

Garrett's text was still open on his phone.

If they're not there, spare key's under the mat. The one that says "Go Away Please."

John had been hoping someone would answer. Breaking into his friend's girlfriend's apartment, even with permission, felt a little weird. But Garrett had practice, wanted his jersey back, and apparently trusted the girls enough to leave a spare key outside.

John shrugged.

"If I get murdered," he muttered to himself, fishing the key out from under the mat, "I'm haunting him."

The lock clicked open. He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him. The apartment was empty.

Well...

Mostly.

He could hear footsteps somewhere down the hallway.

And...

Was that singing?

"Hannah?" he called cautiously.

Nothing.

"Allie?"

Still nothing.

The singing only got louder. John stood awkwardly in the entryway for another second before taking a few hesitant steps farther inside. Then someone came spinning out of the hallway.

You.

Eyes closed.

Hands running dramatically through your hair as you belted out the chorus with absolutely zero concern for the outside world.

John froze. He should probably say something.

Instead...

He watched.

Not in a creepy way.

Just...

You looked so genuinely happy. You were dancing around like no one was watching, which, until about ten seconds ago, had been completely true.

A grin slowly spread across his face. He'd never seen you before, but judging by how comfortable you looked, you obviously lived here.

And...

You were really pretty.

Like...

Really pretty.

Then your eyes opened. You froze mid-spin.

Your brain took approximately half a second to register the fact that there was an unfamiliar six-foot hockey player standing in your living room.

You screamed. "What the fuck?!"

John nearly jumped out of his skin.

"It's okay!" he said immediately, throwing both hands into the air. "I'm not robbing you!"

You stared at him. He stared back.

Neither of you moved.

"I—"

"You literally broke into our apartment!"

"I used the key!"

"That's somehow worse!"

"No, wait—"

You grabbed the nearest object you could find, a throw pillow, and pointed it at him like it was a weapon.

"Explain."

John couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped him.

"Garrett sent me."

Your eyebrows pulled together.

"...Garrett?"

"Yeah." He nodded quickly. "Garrett Graham. Hannah's boyfriend?"

You blinked. "I know who Garrett is."

"Right. Good. That would've been awkward."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"He left his hockey jersey here and texted me to come grab it because he's already at the rink. Said there was a spare key under the mat."

You stared at him for another few seconds.

Then...

Very slowly...

Your shoulders relaxed. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"...I almost hit you with a pillow."

"I've taken body checks harder than that."

A reluctant laugh escaped you. "Don't get cocky."

"Oh, I absolutely am."

You rolled your eyes despite yourself.

Silence settled between you for a second.

Then John smiled. "I'm John, by the way."

"The John Logan?"

"The one and only."

You couldn't help smiling. "I'm Y/N."

"Nice to officially meet you."

You smiled politely before noticing his eyes flick downward for the briefest second. Following his gaze, you looked down. Black lace bralette. Bare shoulders. Barefoot. Hair sticking out in every direction from your one-woman concert.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it actually made your ears burn. You immediately folded your arms across yourself.

"I—"

John's own face turned red almost instantly. "I wasn't—"

"Nope."

"I wasn't trying to—"

"I know."

"I swear."

"I know!"

He looked genuinely horrified with himself. Which somehow made the situation even funnier. Trying to recover what little dignity you had left, you cleared your throat.

"Hannah's room."

John blinked. "What?"

"The jersey."

You pointed toward the hallway.

"It's probably in Hannah's room."

"Oh."

Right. The reason he'd come over.

"Thanks."

He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you enough time to dramatically bury your face in your hands.

"Oh my God..."

Of all days...

Five minutes later, John reappeared holding Garrett's jersey triumphantly. "Found it."

"Nice."

Neither of you seemed entirely sure how to end the conversation.

John scratched the back of his neck. "Well..."

"I should probably..."

"Yeah."

He reached for the doorknob before pausing.

Turning back toward you, that signature Logan grin spread across his face.

"Oh."

You looked up.

"Great song, by the way."

Your eyes widened.

"You could hear that?"

"You were kinda killing your eardrums with those headphones."

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "Oh my God."

"And," he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, "your air guitar technique?"

"No."

"Pretty impressive."

"No."

"Eight out of ten."

"You need to leave."

John laughed. "Fair."

He opened the door. "See you around, Y/N."

Before you could think of anything remotely clever to say back, the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell silent again. You stood there for several long seconds.

Then slowly slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor. "...Shit."

[junezsq]

romeo & juliet

dean di laurentis x fem!reader

summary: you refuse to be another girl on dean di laurentis’ list, but then accidentally become his juliet instead

strangers to lovers

warnings: alcohol consumption, double meet cute, bit of flirty banter, and loads of tension

word count: 4.2k

a/n: based on this request! i hope you like it<3 first official dean fic who’s ready

dean di laurentis masterlist off campus masterlist

── ᵎᵎ ✦

heat clung to the walls, trapped beneath low ceilings and packed bodies, carrying the smell of cheap vodka, cologne and whatever someone had burnt in the kitchen an hour ago. music thundered through every floorboard and the bass was heavy enough to feel in your ribs.

you smiled automatically; this was exactly why you loved parties.

someone called your name from somewhere near the staircase, another person waved a cup in your direction, and someone else was already apologising for bumping into your shoulder before disappearing back into the crowd. conversations overlapped, laughter echoed from upstairs, and every room seemed louder than the last.

you slipped through the kitchen long enough to steal a drink from a friend who insisted she’d already had enough, earning a dramatic complaint that made you laugh all the way into the living room.

people stood shoulder to shoulder, shouting over music that was far too loud for conversation anyway. someone had climbed onto the coffee table, earning cheers from everyone around them. a group of hockey players occupied one corner, already halfway through another drinking game.

you barely noticed them because your attention had already shifted somewhere else. the music changed and the opening beat was enough, “oh, i love this one.”

your feet were already carrying you towards the middle of the room. you’d never understood people who came to parties just to stand against walls nursing the same drink for three hours. if you were going to be here, you were going to enjoy yourself.

your cup disappeared onto the nearest table and your hair was stuck to the back of your neck almost immediately, but you didn’t care.

another girl recognised the song too and laughed as she grabbed your hands, spinning you once before the two of you dissolved back into the crowd. someone else sang directly into your face despite not knowing half the words. you laughed so hard you nearly stumbled into another group.

the entire room seemed to move together and you loved every second of it.

dean leaned against the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen, absentmindedly rolling the cold bottle between his palms while his teammates argued over something behind him.

someone brushed against his shoulder, “dean.” he glanced over to find a brunette smiling up at him, “wanna get out of here?”

he smiled politely, muttering a “maybe later” and barely noticing when she walked away. his attention had already shifted. it happened because of a laugh that was bright enough to cut through everything else.

his eyes drifted across the room until he found the source. you.

he watched as you danced without an ounce of self-consciousness, completely unaware of anyone around you. there wasn’t anything particularly rehearsed about the way you moved. no stolen glances around the room to see who was looking. no deliberate attempts to draw attention.

if anything, you seemed completely oblivious to it.

you laughed when someone bumped into you. threw your head back when another song blended into the next. spun with a stranger you’d probably never speak to again before immediately losing them in the crowd. you looked like you belonged exactly where you were.

he found himself smiling, “who’s that?”

beau, his best friend, followed his line of sight, “don’t know.”

the blonde kept watching anyway. he told himself he’d look away after another minute … he didn’t. instead, he found himself setting his bottle down on the nearest table before weaving through the crowd.

people moved aside instinctively when they recognised him, but his eyes stayed on you.

you were facing away from him when he finally reached the middle of the room, still completely caught up in the music.

you were laughing at something someone else had done, clapping once before turning slightly— and almost walked straight into him. your eyes widened, “oh my god, sorry.”

his hands instinctively found your hips to steady you as he smiled, “don’t be.”

you looked up properly then, recognition flickering across your face, “dean di laurentis.”

“that’s usually what people call me.”

“good.” you nodded once with a sly smile, “would’ve been awkward if i’d got the wrong hockey player.”

“there are worse fates,” he laughed, his hands still grazing your hips.

“for you, maybe.”

the corner of his mouth lifted, “mind if i join?”

you looked around theatrically, pretending to search for someone else, “don’t see anyone stopping you.”

he stepped closer, “generous.”

the next song started, it was heavier this time; the kind of song that settled low in your chest and made standing still impossible.

your eyes slipped closed for a moment as the bass rolled through the room, your shoulders swaying with the beat before your hips followed naturally. around you, the crowd seemed to breathe as one, bodies packed tightly enough that every movement rippled into the next.

when you opened your eyes again, dean was still there. watching you like he’d forgotten there was an entire party happening around him. you smiled without meaning to, “you gonna stand there all night?”

“thought i’d let the professional work,” one corner of his mouth lifted causing you to let out a quiet laugh, “professional?”

“you look like you’ve done this before.”

“it’s called having fun,” you turned away before he could answer, letting yourself disappear back into the music.

this time he followed. he stepped into your space with an ease that matched your rhythm instead of trying to change it.

he was close enough that every shift of the crowd nudged you together. close enough that you caught the clean scent of his cologne beneath the sweat and alcohol filling the room.

your shoulder brushed his, but neither of you moved away. people squeezed past on either side, compressing the space between you until there was barely any room left. dean glanced down at you, “i get it now”

you smirked and answered by spinning away from him. it was only half a turn, just enough that your back almost met his chest before you faced him again. his eyebrows lifted, “show-off.”

heat climbed your neck, though whether it came from the room or the way he was looking at you, you couldn’t quite tell.

without thinking, you lifted your hands up carefully place them on the back of his neck, your fingers tangling up in his hair. dean kept his eyes focused on you as he put his hands on your hips, barely more than a brush of his fingers.

you looked at him, your lips curling into into a smile as you found his still glued to you.

the rest of the room blurred at the edges as flashing lights painted shifting colours across his face, catching in the faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. your breathing steadied as his gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest moment, then back to your eyes. it was so quick you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

the next wave of dancers surged around you, forcing him even closer. something flickered across his face just as another beat rolled through the speakers. without thinking, you mirrored each other’s movements, swaying in easy rhythm, neither leading nor following anymore.

it was somewhere in that silence, after dancing and laughing and never quite stepping away from one another, that dean leaned down just enough for you to hear him over the music.

“come upstairs with me,” the words were quiet, almost swallowed by the music, but they settled between you with surprising weight.

for a moment, neither of you moved as the crowd carried on around you, oblivious. someone bumped your shoulder, muttered a distracted apology, and disappeared again. the lights flashed overhead in uneven bursts, washing dean’s face blue, then red, then back into shadow.

your eyes dropped briefly, watching where the toe of his sneakers nudged yours as the crowd shifted again. you let out a quiet breath, “i knew that’s what this was.”

“what?” his brow furrowed.

“you coming over.”

“it wasn’t.”

“no?”

“no,” the answer came too quickly as you looked back up at him, “i came over because you caught my attention.”

“and now you’re asking me upstairs.”

he held your gaze, “i am.”

you smiled — a small one, softer than before. it wasn’t mocking, if anything, it was almost apologetic. “you know,” you said quietly, “i think everyone was probably right.”

something shifted behind his eyes, “you don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

a tiny laugh escaped you, “i think i do dean” you said his name gently, as though trying to soften what was coming next, “i don’t want to be another girl you take upstairs.”

his jaw flexed once before he looked away, running a hand through his hair, “you really think that’s all i’d see you as?”

“i think that’s what usually happens.” neither of you could pretend it wasn’t true. you’d heard enough stories. seen enough girls leaving hockey parties in oversized sweatshirts the next morning. some smiling, some pretending not to notice the whispers that followed them across campus.

maybe dean had liked all of them. maybe he’d liked none of them. it didn’t really matter because the pattern stayed the same. “you’ve got this…” you searched for the right word, “reputation.”

he laughed once, though it wasn’t amused, “i know, people can’t mind their own business”

you smiled faintly, but shook your head, “they don’t have to, you don’t exactly hide it.”another beat of silence occurred before you continued, “i don’t think you’re a bad guy.”

his mouth twitched and his eyes went over your features as you spoke, “which is why I’m telling you no before this turns into something that ends exactly how everyone expects it to.”

there was no challenge in your face and dean realised then that he wasn’t going to talk you out of it. his chest tightened unexpectedly, “i would’ve called you,” the words left him before he could stop them.

you looked at him for a second. then smiled with a kind of sadness that caught him off guard, “maybe.”

you stepped a little closer, just enough that he could hear you without either of you shouting, “but you don’t know that.”

he opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, because you were right. until he’d crossed the room tonight, he’d been planning to leave with whoever happened to catch his eye. then he’d met you.

you took another step back, “i had a really good time, but i’d rather leave it there.”

the corner of his mouth lifted, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “you always reject people this politely?”

“only the ones i actually like.”

that earned the smallest laugh from him just as the opening notes of another song rolled through the speakers. you glanced towards the middle of the room, where people were already shouting the lyrics.

dean followed your gaze before looking back at you, “so, you’re really just going back out there?”

you grinned, “i came here to dance.” someone reached for your hand from somewhere in the crowd. a girl tugged you towards her once, laughing when you stumbled. you looked back at dean one last time, “see you around?”

he held your eyes for a beat before nodding, “yeah.”

you gave him a small smile just before being swallowed by flashing lights and moving bodies, laughing as you’d made your way to the middle of the room again.

dean stayed exactly where he was. the staircase was only a few steps behind him and a month ago — hell, an hour ago, he would’ve taken it without a second thought. instead, he found himself watching you disappear into the crowd.

you never looked back and, somehow, that was the first thing all night that made him want to chase after someone.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

midterms had swallowed most of campus whole, your group chat would somehow turned into an argument every single day, and by friday evening you were thinking of escaping to a far away island.

“i still don’t understand what drunk shakespeare actually is,” your friend said as the four of you walked towards the theatre.

you shrugged, “from what i’ve heard? chaos.”the queue already stretched outside the entrance, students talking over one another while someone in costume wandered through the crowd carrying what looked suspiciously like a plastic skull, “this already feels ridiculous.”

inside, it somehow got worse … or better.

candles flickered across tiny tables, actors wandered between audience members before the show had even started, and somewhere near the stage someone was already arguing with a man dressed as mercutio.

you were still laughing when you heard a familiar voice behind you, “look who we’ve got here.”you turned to find dean standing a minor three feet away. his hands disappeared into the pockets of a navy hoodie, a crooked smile already spreading across his face, “you following me?”

you laughed, “pretty sure i got here first.”

as he smirked at your statement you realized there wasn’t any awkwardness. the last conversation you’d had should’ve made this uncomfortable. instead, it felt strangely easy, “you’ve been avoiding hockey parties?” he asked.

“have you been looking for me?”

he didn’t answer immediately, which was answer enough. but, before either of you could say anything else, someone clapped loudly from the stage, “ladies and gentlemen!”the room quietened, “tonight,” the actor announced dramatically, “we require volunteers.”

a collective holler swept through the audience. you immediately looked away from the stage. absolutely not.

“you!”

your head snapped up and saw that the actor was pointing directly at you. surely not, right? you looked behind yourself, “yes, you.”

a sarcastic laugh escaped your lips, “no.”

“that’s not how volunteering works.”

your friends immediately betrayed you, shouting “go!” and “she’ll do it!”

“absolutely not,” you hissed, already shaking your head. but it was too late because the actor was making his way towards you with alarming determination, “come along.”

“i said no.”

“which is exactly what juliet would’ve said,” he smirked and before you knew it, the entire room was applauding as you reluctantly made your way towards the stage. you shot your friends a look over your shoulder to see every single one of them laughing. traitors.

“give her another round of applause!” the actor declared.

“this is my worst nightmare,” you muttered as you covered your face with your hands.

“excellent,” he turned back towards the audience. “now… our romeo.”

your stomach dropped immediately. please don’t. please— the actor’s arm extended dramatically, straight towards dean. he blinked, “me?”

“yes, you!”

“what about him?” dean immediately pointed at john logan, one of his teammates, who shot him a surprised glare.

“already dead in act three.”

the room laughed again and dean sighed dramatically before pushing himself to his feet. “i knew i should’ve stayed home,” he muttered as he climbed onto the stage beside you.

the actor looked between the two of you before grinning, “oh, this is perfect.”

you glanced sideways at dean, “don’t.”

“i haven’t said anything.”

you glared at him just as the actor patted the two of you on the back, “right!” he announced. “romeo and juliet!”

he left just as another actress appeared from the wings carrying a stack of oversized cue cards and a stool. while your eyes were focused on her placing it in the centre of the stage, someone else pushed you towards it.

the actress with the cue cards turned to the audience, “after the capulet party, juliet decides to retreat to the quiet of her balcony.” the guy who’d brought you to the stool told you to get on while the other continued, “where she thinks she is alone when she utters…”

you glanced backwards to see the actor had left and when you looked back you found a cue card already held up in front of you, “o romeo, o romeo! wherefore art thou romeo?”

instead of letting you do the entire, incredibly long and difficult speech, the next cue card said ‘kneel’ and you watched as dean dramatically went down on one knee. a giggle forced it way past your lips at the sight in front of you. dean placed a hand on his heart as he glanced at the cue cards before reciting, “i take thee at thy word, call me but love, and i’ll be new baptis’d!”

the rest of the balcony scene and play went by quickly. dean, apparently, had a knack for theater; knowing exactly how to use the drama to get the audience to love him.

you found yourself laughing more often than speaking. somewhere between juliet’s arranged marriage and the sleeping potion, the nerves you’d felt climbing onto the stage disappeared completely.

when the actors inevitably interrupted another scene to make a joke, you’d glance at dean at exactly the same moment he looked back at you. neither of you ever said anything, but the actors noticed, of course. one actress began deliberately placing the two of you beside one another whenever she could.

before long, the play had reached its inevitable conclusion. one actor solemnly wheeled what looked suspiciously like a blue camping mat into the centre of the stage.

“the capulet tomb,” he announced as another scattered plastic flowers around it with all the reverence of a funeral director. then he turned to you, “juliet.” he gestured towards the mat, “if you’d be so kind.”

with a long-suffering sigh that earned another laugh from the audience, you lowered yourself onto the camping mat, trying your hardest at playing dead.

the actor glanced towards dean, who was waiting just offstage, “romeo!”

the room quietened slightly. someone still laughed into their drink near the back, and a chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as someone shifted for a better view, but compared to the chaos of the last forty-five minutes, it felt almost silent.

dean glanced towards the cue cards before looking at you lying remarkably still. a moment ago, you’d been laughing so hard your stomach hurt. now you had your eyes closed, hands folded neatly across your middle.

the actress holding the cue cards stepped into his line of sight. “here’s to my love!” dean picked up the little plastic goblet someone had pressed into his hand earlier. he raised it with as much unnecessary drama as he could manage before tipping it back in one exaggerated gulp.

the audience applauded as the actress lifted another cue card, “thus with a kiss i die.”

slowly, a grin spread across the actress’ face; they’d done this on purpose. dean let out the quietest laugh through his nose before stepping closer. a chorus of excited murmurs spread across the room and someone wolf-whistled as he crouched beside you instead of standing over you, close enough that only you would’ve heard him if you’d opened your eyes, “you enjoying your nap?”

you fought the smile threatening your lips.

the cue card holder cleared her throat pointedly, causing dean to sigh. then, with the exaggerated reluctance of a man walking willingly into a trap, he leaned down just enough that, from where the audience sat, it looked convincingly like romeo’s farewell kiss.

your breath hitched once he closed the last few inches, brushing the lightest kiss against your forehead.

the audience erupted and cheers echoed around the room. another actor threw a handful of plastic flower petals into the air like confetti while dean, thoroughly committed now, collapsed dramatically onto the floor beside the camping mat with one hand over his chest.

another cue card appeared in front of you, “wake up.”

you slowly opened your eyes and the next few moments happened almost exactly as shakespeare intended — at least, as closely as they could with cue cards, camping mats and an audience three pints deep. you sat upright, looked at dean, and delivered juliet’s final lines from the card held in front of you.

then room grew noticeably quieter again. you reached the fake dagger, pressing it theatrically against your chest, and fell sideways onto the camping mat beside dean.

silence. one second. two seconds. then the actor playing the prince strode confidently into the middle of the stage, “and thus,” he declared, spreading his arms wide, “everyone dies.”

before either you or dean had the chance to stand, the rest of the cast rushed the stage, hauling you both to your feet for an exaggerated curtain call.

you caught dean’s eye over the applause. his hair was a mess, there were plastic flower petals caught in the sleeve of his hoodie, and he was still trying not to laugh. you realised you were doing exactly the same.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

the temperature had dropped while you’d been inside, leaving the streets quiet enough that the sounds of conversation drifted easily through the evening. streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement while groups of students gradually wandered back towards campus, still animatedly discussing the performance.

your friends hadn’t stopped; “i still think mercutio deserved an award.”“i think romeo should’ve kissed juliet.”

you looked at her, “please stop.”

“i’m just saying—”

someone fell into step beside you, “i’m stealing her for a minute.”the voice was familiar enough that you looked up before you really thought about it.

dean was wearing a jean jacket over his hoodie and his hair was still slightly dishevelled from repeatedly dragging his hands through it onstage. there was something strangely ordinary about seeing him like this after spending the last hour pretending to be romeo.

your friends noticed him far too quickly; one of them looked between the two of you before smiling with entirely too much satisfaction, “don’t stay out too late.”

you turned to glare at her, but she pretended not to notice. dean watched the exchange with poorly concealed amusement, “they seem nice.”

“they’re awful,” you sighed dramatically before turning back towards your friends, “i’ll catch up.”

they disappeared down the street with suspiciously little resistance and you waited until they were out of earshot before looking sideways at dean, “you definitely timed that.”

he looked ahead, hands buried comfortably in the pockets of his jacket, “i took a chance.”his smile appeared briefly before disappearing again.

you started walking in comfortable silence. the street wasn’t particularly crowded anymore. students drifted past in both directions, some still carrying programmes from the show, others stopping to greet people they recognised before moving on again.

eventually, you glanced across at him, “you really like attention, huh?”

“I play hockey,” he looked over.

“i’ve seen you play hockey,” you smirked lightly, “but i feel like i underestimated the theatre kid hiding underneath.”

he laughed quietly, “i think that’s the first time anyone’s ever called me that.”

“you did have everyone laughing,” you smiled.

“they were laughing at me.”

another comfortable silence settled. the breeze lifted a loose strand of hair across your face, and you tucked it behind your ear as the two of you reached the edge of campus.

you noticed dean slowing his pace almost imperceptibly, “so…” you said. “you wanted to steal me away for a reason?”

he let out a quiet breath through his nose, “i did.” he didn’t look at you. instead, his eyes stayed fixed somewhere ahead, thoughtful in a way you hadn’t really seen before. when he finally spoke again, his voice had lost the easy confidence it’d carried at the party, “i’ve been thinking about what you said.”

you didn’t need to ask which conversation he meant, “the party.”

he nodded, “you were right.” you looked at him. there wasn’t any defensiveness in his expression, no attempt to explain himself away, just honesty. “i gave you every reason to think i only wanted one thing.” the admission seemed to cost him something, “i kept thinking about it afterwards.”

a small smile tugged at your mouth, “that surprises you?”

“a little.”

“you seem like someone who moves on quickly.”

“i usually do,” he shrugged with a small smile, “i didn’t this time.”

you looked away for a moment, watching your sneakers scuff lightly against the pavement. there was something unexpectedly vulnerable about hearing that from him.

dean rubbed absent-mindedly at the back of his neck, “so,” he laughed once under his breath, “i feel like i’m asking properly this time.”

“no parties,” he ticked one finger. “no upstairs,” another finger. “no assumptions.”he stopped walking then, turning just enough to face you properly beneath the glow of a streetlamp, “i was wondering if you’d let me take you for coffee.”

it sounded simple and intentional. you’d spent weeks assuming dean di laurentis probably never got nervous around women. now you weren’t so sure.

you folded your arms loosely against the evening chill, “is this an actual date?”

“yeah,” his answer came without hesitation.

“no hidden agenda?”

“no.”

you held his gaze for another few seconds. it was enough that the corner of his mouth started to twitch, “you’re enjoying making me wait.”

“a little,” you smirked. the silence stretched just a little longer before you finally nodded, “okay.”

for a second, he simply stared at you, “okay?”

you laughed softly, “i’ll have coffee with you.”

he blinked once, almost as though he hadn’t fully prepared himself for you to say yes. then a smile spread slowly across his face.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

@justkeepingitpeachy @wolfiee10 @tinyceasarsalad @melodypvnk @chrismattnick @outpostsworld @andabuttonnose @kmc1989 @kennedy-brooke