Help me raise money to get rid of our debt and start saving for a place an… Zoie Murphy needs your support for Help Us Clear Debt and Build
this is not something i would usually post, but if you could help even a little i would be so eternally grateful! we want to be able to start moving towards leaving our parents places and live together with our daughter but we want to make sure we are debt free first! if you can’t donate please share so that we can try and build a good future for our daughter
i am so lucky to say that i will be able to pay my debts off with help from my family in the next few weeks! my fundraiser has been deleted, but thank you to all of those who shared it
Help me raise money to get rid of our debt and start saving for a place an… Zoie Murphy needs your support for Help Us Clear Debt and Build
this is not something i would usually post, but if you could help even a little i would be so eternally grateful! we want to be able to start moving towards leaving our parents places and live together with our daughter but we want to make sure we are debt free first! if you can’t donate please share so that we can try and build a good future for our daughter
Help me raise money to get rid of our debt and start saving for a place an… Zoie Murphy needs your support for Help Us Clear Debt and Build
this is not something i would usually post, but if you could help even a little i would be so eternally grateful! we want to be able to start moving towards leaving our parents places and live together with our daughter but we want to make sure we are debt free first! if you can’t donate please share so that we can try and build a good future for our daughter
summary: you're robby's favorite reward. when his staff earns it, he doesn't hesitate to offer you up.
|| SMUT MDNI 18+ angst, dom / sub dynamics, dom!robby, subby!reader, subspace, cuckolding, free use, some medical jargon and gore, orphaned!reader ||
>> see each chapter taglist for specific warnings
>> please note: this is a continuous story, not a collection
>> I do not condone these dynamics unless spoken about between two respectful partners. the characters in this story are not good communicators nor do they have healthy dynamics.
I just REALLY love the idea of Park being Dennis’s Dom first but Park is like ‘Jesus fuck I feel like I’m abusing him, he needs a daddy, not a trainer’ and that’s when Rabbot come in.
I need Park barging into Robby and Abbot’s house late at night and sitting down for a talk with them.
“I need you two to take one of my subs off my hands. Things aren’t working out and you two can help.” Park had once met Robby and Jack in a BDSM club, the men had a pretty little in between them. He knew they ran the same circles, just different vibes.
Robby paused, watching the way that Park looked more gentle that he ever did. His jaw was clenched like it hurt him, but he was actually a good Dom. “What’s wrong with the fit?”
Park looked away with a tension in his brows. “It’s Whitaker. I can’t keep playing with him. I feel like I’m abusing him and taking advantage. I’m verse enough to take care of a plethora of subs, but he’s not the right fit, and he’s trying to force himself.”
Jack put his right hand to his head, covering his eyes. They knew that Dennis had ended up ensconced in Park’s little harem of brats and pets, and while they had admitted it was annoying that Park got to him first, they knew Dennis knew the man from his OR rotation, and assumed they’d hit it off there. “Jesus. How is he forcing himself?”
Park shrugged. “He’s a good boy. He doesn’t like being in trouble, and while I could handle that, he brats at me when he thinks he’s the only one I’m being soft on. I don’t… I genuinely feel like an abuser when I have to punish him, when he asks for things rough, when he agrees to crate sleeping. He doesn’t fit, and he needs someone that’s going to coddle him. He wants a daddy, not a trainer. I don’t mind gentle play with him, since it’s not like any of the other dogs are willing to just watch tv with me on the couch; not like Dennis does. He won’t be pawing at my dick, he just. Relaxes. He’s never more content than when he’s just being cuddled.”
Jack nodded, looking at Robby, who seemed… not quite conflicted? A bit contemplative. “Yeah, he sounds like a good boy. He’s never had issues being poly, has he?”
Robby snorted. “If he’s been sharing you with five other subs, he might get overwhelmed with our attention all on him.”
“Good. He won’t be comparing himself to other subs. I know you two go more for ageplay, he could flourish with some daddy attention. Still a pup, though. First pup I’ve ever had, and now I know why dogs are better for me.” Park shrugged. “Puppies are cute, they’re also a lot of work, and harder to train. You think I let any of those dogs on my couch unless they’re warming my dick? He’s too little for specific boundaries like that.”
Robby felt his heart rate pick up, and he looked over to Jack with what could only be called want. He adored Dennis, and getting to coddle him a bit til he was a spoiled little puppy, that would be adorable. And nice. They hadn’t had a little in years now.
Jack nodded. “You should bring him over. Ease him into it by calling it a playdate. Tell him you wanted him to know we’re also safe Doms for him to go to.”
Park grinned. “Yeah, we can do that. I can be by tomorrow, if you two are off?”
summary: 6k. after your other friends bail, you beg your best friend (who you def don't have a crush on), Bucky, to go with you to the Halloween festival. But, some things are scarier than haunted houses and corn mazes...
cw: MDNI 18+, equal parts fluff/smut, best friends to lovers, reader is oblivious and bucky is fighting for his life, semi-public, protective!bucky, d/s dynamics, elements of primal play, p in v, holy hay bales, bucky has beef with scare actors
masterlist | divider by @strangergraphics
“Bucky, pleeaaasssee?” You whined, flopping down beside him on the couch, legs flung over his lap.
“No.”
“But I have no one else to go with!”
“Take Yelena.”
“She has plans.”
“Mel?”
“She doesn’t like haunted houses.”
“Oh, so I’m your last choice?”
Heat scorched your cheeks. Bucky, one of your closest friends in the world, was your first choice for everything. Though, you’d ever tell him that.
“No—god, why are you so annoying?”
“Me? Can barely hear the movie over your chattering,” he gruffed, pausing Jason Voorhees mid-chop. It was well past midnight in the Watchtower, and you and Bucky were staying up late to binge on pizza, Val’s candy stash, and some classic horror films. The lounge was dark, save for the glow of the TV and a burning pumpkin-scented candle you’d dug up from a storage closet.
“Why don’t you want to go with me?” You swung your legs around, sitting up. “Are you scared?” You teased, quirking a brow.
A smirk hooked the edge of his mouth, lethal as a weapon in the flickering candlelight. “Crowds, drunks, screaming kids, clowns—not my thing.”
“The Mighty Winter Soldier, scared shitless of a couple of masked high schoolers—”
“Why can’t you just take no for an answer?” He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, but you caught the ghost of a full smile tug at his cheeks.
You pretended not to notice the way his muscles strained the logo on his t-shirt, the veins running along his right forearm. Friends didn’t notice that sort of thing, and that’s all you were. Friends.
When you accepted Val’s offer of joining the CIA as a lead scientist, you never expected to spend your days keeping the Thunderbolts’ tech and suits intact. For a band of super-soldiers and super-spies, they sure knew how to get themselves into trouble. And break shit. But, they always had you to help pick up the pieces.
After an emergency where Shuri was forced to teach you how to fix Bucky's metal arm on the Quinjet, you and Bucky had grown especially close. A real friendship bloomed, something you knew was rare and precious for the hermit-like Winter Soldier. And you'd never do anything to violate that trust he placed in you, no matter how desperately you wanted something more.
His safety mattered more than your heart.
“Fine.” You mimicked his pose, slouching onto the couch with your arms crossed. “I guess I’ll just go by myself.”
His smile vanished, eyes narrowing. “You can’t go by yourself.”
“Well, apparently I have to.”
His head fell back against the couch, throat bobbing as he swallowed. The image of you latching onto his throat like a vampire flitted through your mind, but you shoved it away. “Alright, brat. When is it?” He asked, rolling his head to peer at you.
Your palms went slick at the pet name, heart tripping out of rhythm. “Next Saturday, gates open at 6.”
“…I’ll think about it.”
Which, in Bucky-language, meant ‘I’ll do it, but I’m going to complain the whole time’.
You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck. His cologne filled your nose, skin-warmed and laced with clove. “Thank you, thank you! It’s going to be so fun. We can do costumes, and—”
He went rigid beneath you, hands tightening to fists against the couch cushions as his heart rate lifted, beating conspicuously in the hollow of his throat. “No costumes,” he bit, trying to sound stern, but he could never quite manage it with you.
“Fine, no costumes,” you conceded, since the idea of it clearly appalled him. “But, thank you for not making me go by myself,” you said, pecking his scruffed cheek before retreating to your side of the couch.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, tossing the blanket back over your legs and unpausing the movie. “Now, shut it before you wake everyone up.”
You curled up under the blanket, biting back a bratty retort, and returned your attention to the movie, willing your racing heart to settle. But just when you’d finally managed it, squashing all the un-friend-like thoughts into the back of your mind where they belong, Jason popped up onto the screen with a clash of strings and startled a yelp out of you.
Bucky’s metal hand fell onto your thigh to steady you, squeezing lightly. “Easy, doll,” he soothed. “Sure you can handle a haunted house?”
You stuck your tongue out at him, not trusting yourself to speak around the lump in your throat.
He snickered, removing his hand to drape his arm over the back of the couch. “Don't worry. Those teens will have to get through me first, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, hiking up the blanket to cover your expression, certain your pupils had turned into cartoon hearts at the brief contact. Platonic, friendly contact, you reminded yourself, even as your knees pressed together, ribs knitting tight around your lungs.
Yup, totally platonic.
You knocked on his door at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, practically vibrating with excitement. The two of you agreed to meet at his place because it was closer, despite his insistence on picking you up. Ever the gentleman. But you were friends, this wasn't a date, and him picking you up at your door would only muddy the waters of your mind further.
You reached up to knock again, nerves making you impatient, when the door swung open under your fist.
Bucky stood on the other side, haloed by his hallway light, metal hand braced against the door frame. Your stomach did a kickflip.
“You're going to freeze,” he said flatly, eyes skimming your fishnets and mini-skirt, over the distressed, cropped sweater that barely covered your tits, let alone kept you warm, before flicking up to your face. He was dressed in black jeans and a charcoal colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“It's like 60 degrees, you dinosaur.” You rolled your eyes, slipping under his arm and into the apartment. It was cleaner than usual, pictures dusted and straightened, books in their proper places, blankets folded and draped over the back of the couch. You could even see fresh vacuum lines on the area rug, and you stopped looking before your brain could wonder if he tidied up just for you.
“The sun hasn't set yet,” he argued. “You need a jacket. Or pants.”
“Bucky, I'll be fine—Alpine!” You cooed, spotting the cat sitting primly in the doorway of Bucky's bedroom, tail swooshing across the hardwood in mild interest. You crouched down towards her, and she allowed you to scratch the top of her snow-white head. “I’ll be fine, won't I, Alpine? Yes, I will.”
He made a frustrated sound in his throat, and you heard his boots tread towards you. For a breathless moment, you thought he was going to grab you, but he just stepped around the two of you and into his bedroom without so much as a downward glance.
The rest of the team constantly complained about the Winter Soldier sneaking up on them, but you swore you could hear him moving around through the walls, always knew when he was about to step around a corner or out of an elevator, just from the way the air shifted. His energy was tangible across your skin, electric as a thunderstorm.
“If you catch a cold, don't come whining to me,” he gruffed, re-emerging with his own coat. Of course, it was the leather jacket that made your knees go a little weak every time he wore it. “Did you at least eat a real dinner before we go to this thing?”
“Does a protein bar count?”
His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “No, but popcorn is a whole grain, right?”
“Right!” You beamed.
“Good enough, I'll get you some popcorn at the festival—you sure you don't want a jacket?”
“Oh my god—yes, I’m sure.”
He held his hands up in surrender, then grabbed his glove from the table by the door. “After you, brainiac.” He winked, opening the door and gesturing outside.
You playfully checked his shoulder as you walked by, smirking up at him. “Bye, Alpine! I'll have him back by midnight!” You tossed over your shoulder.
His gloved hand found your lower back, nudging you out into the hall. “Don't claw my couch,” he added, pointing towards the cat before shutting and locking the door behind him.
The festival was straight out of a nineties film, with orange and black striped tents, glowing jack-o-lanterns hanging from half-bare trees, and fog machines spilling across the leaf-strewn ground. It was chillier than you expected, the sky clear and moon-bright, a light wind making the pumpkins bob and sway overhead. “Monster Mash” mingled with the multi-colored fog, the lights thumping in time with the music. It was crowded, certainly, but not so much that you couldn’t move freely around the walkways and tents.
Or, maybe that was due to the glowering super-soldier-turned-guard-dog on your left.
You tossed another piece of popcorn into your mouth, crunching happily as you perused the row of vendors. There were custom soy candles and tea blends and orange blossom honey, homemade jewelry and crystals and handpainted decor. Food stands were littered throughout, serving fresh apple cider donuts, their sugared scent heavy on the air, foot-long corn dogs, and slices of pizza the size of your head.
When you stepped up to a booth, managed by a young person selling crochet cryptids and monsters, Bucky stepped right up to your back to shield you from passersby, close enough that you could feel the heat of him burning through your open-knit sweater. Suddenly, you couldn’t read the little sign in front of you, the letters jumbling as all your attention zeroed in on his proximity. The scant inches between his body and yours.
“What’s that one?” Bucky asked, his voice low and way too close to your ear as he reached around to point to a plush in front of you. You suppressed the shiver that dripped down your spine.
“That’s, uh, M-Mothman,” you stuttered.
He hummed, his hand moving to grab a teeny gray Frankenstein’s monster, a keyring attached to its head. “Hey, look. They’ve got me too,” he joked, thumb wiggling the monster's stitched-on arm to wave at you, and your heart lurched so hard you got a little dizzy.
“Frankenstein’s monster is my favorite,” you mumbled, hoping he couldn’t see the way your hands trembled from this angle.
“How much?” He asked the vendor.
Your knees went gooey. “Buck—”
“Let me.”
And five minutes later, the little Frankenstein’s monster was bobbling merrily from the strap of your purse.
“Tell me about Frankenstein,” he said, slinging an arm over your shoulders when a group of boys veered too close and tucking you into his side.
Excitement lit like a firework in your chest. “Frankenstein’s monster,” you corrected, and dove into half a dozen lectures’ worth of lore while you continued meandering around the stalls.
Bucky nodded along, raising his eyebrows at all the appropriate moments, and you could have sworn his eyes were twinkling brighter than the fairy lights, softening with every run-on sentence and abandoned point. But then he reached across you while you walked, snatching a handful of popcorn before you could wrench it away.
“Hey!” You cried, feigning indignation. “That’s mine.”
“I bought it, but fine,” he argued after swallowing. “May I have some of your popcorn?”
A wicked idea flitted through your mind. “Sure,” you said, grabbing a particularly large piece. “Catch!” You tossed the popcorn up at him, and he leaned right, mouth open to catch it, and it bopped against his forehead before falling to the foggy ground. “That was terrible,” you teased.
He scoffed. “Try again. And actually aim this time.”
You tossed another kernel, deliberately sending it too far left, and burst into a fit of giggles when he nearly toppled over trying to catch it.
“Alright, brat.” He caught your wrist as you readied the next projectile, bringing your hand to his mouth.
The world stilled around you, eyes focusing like a camera lens on his lips as they parted, the pink of his tongue darting out as he ate the piece of popcorn directly off your fingertips. No actual contact was made, but you felt it all as keenly as a kiss.
“Was that so hard?” He smirked, turning forward to continue strolling like he hadn’t just knocked your world off its axis.
Panic skittered between your rib bones. This was veering way off the friendship course. You were just his friend, you were not supposed to be studying his mouth like it was a circuit board. Abort, abort, abort.
You stuffed your hand into the bag of popcorn and launched a handful at his face. “That better?” You teased.
He didn’t fight it, catching a few pieces as they showered over him, his smirk never faltering. “Not quite, but I’ll take it.”
You rolled your eyes and desperately tried to ignore the growing ache in your chest and between your legs as you walked into the area with all the carnival games. This area was louder than the last, filled with bells and horns, the clicking and whirring of games, the cheers and boos of the players. Kids ran around with arms full of stuffed skeletons, ghosts, and candy corns, and you tried not to look too longingly at the plushes. But, of course, when you glanced up at Bucky, his eyes were already on you.
Another flurry of butterflies tickled your lungs.
“Do you want—”
“Come and test your aim! Only five dollars for five shots! Gotta pop five balloons to win!” One of the workers shouted from a dart-throwing game, cutting him off. “C’mon, man! Think you can pop all five and win your girl a prize?”
Your girl. Your girl. Bucky’s girl. No, you internally scolded yourself. Bucky’s friend.
Thankfully, Bucky didn’t engage, attempting to steer you away when you turned to look.
“Ah, that’s what I thought!” The worker pressed on. “Bro doesn’t want to embarrass himself! Come over here, sweetheart, I’ll win a prize for ya’!”
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.
“Bucky, don’t let him—”
“You wanted a prize, right?” He dragged you behind him up to the booth, and slapped a five-dollar bill on the table in front of the worker, who was very obviously no more than seventeen years old, his name badge reading Mike.
“Just five rounds? You sure, old-timer?” Mike goaded.
Bucky shrugged. “I’m feelin’ lucky.”
Mike set the darts on the table and stepped off to the side, leaning over the table to peer at you. “You think he can do it?” The teen asked with an oily smile.
“With his eyes closed,” you replied curtly, moving back to give Bucky some room.
Bucky glanced down at you, a warm smile melting the ice in his eyes, before he loosed his first dart. The balloons were organized by color, with a few gold and silver ones scattered throughout, presumably for the larger prizes hanging from the awning.
The first dart hit one of the gold balloons so hard, it nearly tipped the board backwards.
Mike choked on his drink. But before he could say anything, Bucky threw the next four darts, one for each golden balloon, the pops loud as firecrackers. Each one made your heart jump higher in your throat, beating like a drum beneath your skin.
“Holy shit,” the teen mumbled, eyes wide. “Are you like—”
“I believe that earns a jumbo prize,” Bucky taunted, pointing at the giant purple bat hanging in the corner.
Mike tugged on one of the darts and found that it had hit so hard, the tip had bent into the wood. He’d almost certainly need pliers to pry them out. “Sure, uh, y-yeah.”
“It's barely going to fit in my apartment,” you giggled, wrapping your arm around his and squeezing. “Thanks, B.”
He winked at you. “’Course, doll—actually,” Bucky interrupted the teen as he struggled to reach the bat. “We’ll come back for it later.”
“But what if someone—” Mike started.
He dropped another ten on the table, letting his sleeve hike up just enough to reveal his metal wrist. “You’ll keep an eye on it for me, yeah?”
Mike's jaw dropped, nodding frantically. “Yes, sir! Whatever you need—”
Bucky waved and steered you away before he could make any more of a fuss. “Fucking kids,” he grumbled when the two of you were out of earshot.
“Yeah, well, you showed him,” you chuckled, noticing that your arm was still looped in his and quickly retracting it.
“Didn’t do it for him,” he said, a smug smile crinkling the corners of his azure eyes, and you nearly dissolved into a puddle right then and there.
God, you were hopeless.
Only a few people separated you and Bucky from the entrance to the haunted house. It was vampire themed, built to look like a gothic mansion, draped in cobwebs and red velvet, bloody footprints and drag marks along the sidewalk leading up to the entrance. Organ music blasted from a nearby speaker, the resonant notes sprawling out like the crimson fog at your feet.
Bucky stuck tight to your side, head on a swivel as you inched along, metal hand gripping the railing to create a barrier between you and the people behind you. Not that they dared get closer than a few feet, but Bucky didn't seem to care.
“Hey,” you said, drawing his attention from the scare actor prowling a dozen paces away with a plastic chainsaw. “Everything okay?”
He made an affirmative noise in his throat, gaze returning to the actor.
“Welcome to Count Dracula's castle!” The greeter at the door crowed, flinging his red-lined cape wide. “Are you ready for a tour?”
You and the rest of the group going in with you whooped with excitement as he lead you inside. Bucky shifted to stand behind you, and you had to admit, it did make you feel a little less nervous than you normally would.
The house was dark and winding, with flashing red lights and swooping bats. The metallic smell of blood was pumped through the vents, faint enough to creep you out without being too visceral. Nothing had jumped out yet, but Bucky still inched closer to you, a hand falling to your hip.
The shock of it nearly made you stumble, the bare skin of his real hand scalding against your exposed midriff.
Then, with a screech of organ keys, a girl covered in blood came tearing out of one of the rooms, screaming her head off as she raced through your group.
You jumped, a giddy peel of laughter bursting out of you, and Bucky’s arm slid fully around your waist, turning to iron as he yanked you back against his chest. You could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, but he kept you moving forward when you tried to peer back at him.
Every scare actor that jumped out seemed to ratchet Bucky's stress higher and higher, but you were having a blast, adrenaline surging through you as you moved deeper into the castle.
“Having fun?” He murmured against your ear as you passed through a quieter hallway overlooking a haunted graveyard.
You nodded, grinning ear to ear, and some of the tension in his shoulders ebbed.
Then, the group was split up, leaving just you and Bucky to navigate the next section. You clung a little tighter to him, the music growing soft and eery, shadows creeping closer. A distant scream made you jump back into Bucky's arms, and he wrapped you up in both of them. One across your waist, the other around your shoulders.
“I've got you,” he shushed, nose brushing the shell of your ear, and your lower belly flooded with heat, thighs tensing.
And of course, a poor scare actor chose that moment to throw himself at you from a dark wardrobe, wielding a kitchen knife above his head.
Bucky was there and gone in a blink, moving so fast he was little more than a lethal blur. He grabbed the actor's wrist in a crushing grip, slamming it back against the wall so hard the plastic knife clattered to the ground. Bucky kicked it away on instinct, sending it skittering into the shadows.
“Bucky!” You gasped, reaching for him, but knowing better than to actually touch him.
“Jesus Christ, man!” The actor wailed, squirming under Bucky's ruthless hold. “It's not real!”
Bucky dropped him just as quickly as he'd seized him, letting the kid crumple to the ground, cradling his wrist to his chest.
“I think you broke it, asshole,” he whined, scooching away from the still looking super-soldier.
“You're lucky I didn't rip it off,” Bucky snarled.
“Alright, alright—” like grabbing the collar of a growling dog, you tucked your fingers into Bucky's palm and urged him to take another step back. “We're really sorry, just—just put some ice on it and, uh, pick a different target next time. Bucky, come on.”
After a few racing heartbeats, he finally relented and let you drag him out of the closest exit sign and into the bustling festival once again.
“Are you okay?” You asked, leading him into a quieter corner behind one of the vendors.
He clenched his jaw, eyes lowered to the ground. “I shouldn't have come.”
Your heart cracked. “Bucky, no—”
“You were having fun and I—I can't control myself—”
“Hey—” you cupped his jaw, lifting his eyes to yours, “—it was an accident. There's no one else I'd rather be here with.”
His eyes softened, his pupils expanding slightly, but he shook his head. “I'm not good at this sort of thing, and you and I both know it.”
And suddenly, you weren't talking about the festival anymore. Your hand fell limp at your side as anxiety slithered up your throat, snaring your tongue so you couldn't speak.
Friends, friends, friends. Just friends.
He tilted his head, brow furrowing. Something in your expression must have given you away. The anxiety tipped into panic, and suddenly you needed to be anywhere but here before you made a complete fool of yourself.
“Hey, why don't we, uh—let's try the corn maze!” You said, definitely a little too loudly in your haste.
“Right now? Honey—where are you going? Wait—”
You were already gone, peeling off into the crowd and across to the entrance for the corn maze, marked with giant scarecrow guardians and a wooden sign illuminated with multi-colored lightbulbs: “Linus's Corn Maze: Find the Great Pumpkin!”
He caught up to you before you could plunge into the dimly lit path, hand circling your wrist. “Why are you runnin’ from me?” His accent slipped out; it always did when he was frustrated, but you couldn't handle the fizzy way it made your blood feel. Like freshly popped champagne.
“No, no—I’m not!” You couldn't look at him, racking your mind for an excuse. You just needed a second, just a moment to get your head straight so you didn't fuck this all up. “I bet I can find the Great Pumpkin before you!”
“Wait, just hang on—”
“Last one to the center has to buy funnel cake!” You dashed to the left, disappearing around a wall of corn, pretending not to hear him shouting your name. God, you were stupid. So, so stupid. That was about the lamest excuse you could have possibly come up with, but it slipped out before you could rangle it in, desperate to regain a semblance of control.
You kept walking, keeping a brisk pace as you took random turns, going deeper and deeper into the corn maze as you tried to sort out the thoughts swirling in your head. Eventually, you stopped passing other festival-goers, the shadows growing longer, darker, as you drifted further from the festival lights. Your path is illuminated by flagging fairy lights and the moon. The music was distant now, muffled by the crinkle and hush of countless rows of cornstalk.
He was going to be so pissed when he found you. And he would find you. It was only a matter of when.
Why had he been looking at you like that? Calling you honey? Did he know how you felt and was just toying with you? Or was he just oblivious to the effect he had on you?
No, Bucky never missed anything. The slightest hitch in your breath would have him looking up from his work. He could read you like a book.
But Bucky wasn't cruel, either. He wouldn't lead you on or tease you for developing feelings. So, what was he doing? Trying to pick you up at your apartment, fussing over your needs and outfit, buying you the little trinket that you were now holding in a death grip as you walked. Was all that his idea of being friends? Because you weren't sure how much more of this you could take.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, lungs drawing tight as you walked and walked and walked. Every snapping twig and scuffle made you flinch, wondering if it was Bucky about to spring from the stalks. But there was something else coiling in your belly beside the fear, something heady and slick, a thrumming between your legs that grew stronger with every passing second. Mixing with the adrenaline to create an intoxicating cocktail that was soaking through your underwear.
Fuck, where were all the other people? Surely, it wasn't just you in this maze…
You turned another corner, stepping out into a larger clearing. Hay bales and pumpkins were littered around the space, brightened with extra string lights and paper lanterns. The Great Pumpkin sat on a platform at the center with a giant, toothy grin, mocking you. Because standing right beneath it, jacket discarded and beefy arms crossed over his chest, was the Winter Soldier.
“Hey!” You called, plastering on a smile even faker than the pumpkin. “You win! Guess I have to…”
The intense look on his face stole the breath from your lungs, words puttering out. He crooked a gloved finger, a silent order to approach, and your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.
You crossed the clearing, stopping an arm's length away. “M’sorry,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around yourself to cover your body, the cold wind passing straight through your pathetic little sweater.
“For what?” He asked, his voice not quite as sharp as his expression.
“For running away…”
“Look at me,” he ordered, stepping closer and tilting your chin up with his right hand. His eyes were burning, firelit, but not with rage. You knew what he looked like when he was angry, and this was something…different. Something you hadn't seen before that had your legs trembling. “Why did you run?”
Your lungs withered in your chest, excuses dying on your tongue. “I—because, uh—”
“You want to know what I think?” He asked, voice rough as the gravel underfoot. “I think you've been running from me for a while.”
You knew better than to lie, so you said nothing, frozen like a rabbit.
“We’re done with that,” he purred, hand sliding along your cheek to card into your hair, tugging at the roots to crane your head back. He leaned in closer, warm breath fanning across your wind-bitten lips. “I’ve caught you now.”
Unable to bear it another second, you shifted forward, closing the last few centimeters between you, and pressed your lips to his in a tentative kiss. It was barely a peck, but it damn near knocked your soul out of your body, streaking through you like a bolt of lightning.
He groaned low in his throat, grip tightening, and kissed you back with a fervor that made your head spin. His mouth pillaged yours, rough and claiming, teeth dragging along your lower lip until you gasped, and he tangled his tongue with yours, swallowing the breathless little sounds you made. You curled into him, hands sliding over the solid expanse of his chest, relishing in the warmth of his body as it sheltered you from the biting October wind. Both of you pushing and pulling, desperate to be closer.
You couldn't believe this was happening, that he wanted you as badly as you needed him. If it wasn't for the near-painful grip he had on your ass and the burning heat of his kiss, you'd think you were dreaming. Or had died and gone to heaven.
But it was real. He was here, in your arms, kissing you like he was starving and your mouth was his favorite meal.
“Bucky,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to mouth at your throat, the muscle of his tongue hot and heavy against your pulse.
“Taste so fucking sweet,” he gruffed, teeth scraping across your collarbones. “Knew you would, my sweet girl.”
Fuck, maybe you had died and gone to heaven.
“Your girl?” You squeaked, heart racing like a rabbit trapped beneath your ribs.
He lifted his head, those ferine eyes boring into yours. “Mine.” Eyes still locked with yours, he walked you backwards until you bumped into a stack of hay bales, the straw rough against the tender skin of your thighs, and you gasped. His mouth was on yours again, seeking, hungry, and he tossed you on top of the stack like you were weightless. Hips wedged between your knees, a leather-clad hand spread across your lower back, anchoring your body against his.
“Bucky, where—” a moan splintered your question, delicate as shattering glass, when his pelvis tilted against yours. “Where are all the people?”
“Cleared them out,” he sighed against your lips. “They were getting in the way.”
“In the way?” Your brain was rapidly emptying, gray matter turning to mush as you rocked back against him, need spiraling like an inferno through your body.
He nodded, his bare hand dipping between your bodies. “Had to find you—needed you.” His fingers hooked through the netting of your tights, grazing the soaked gusset of your panties. “May I?” he asked, grit-laden, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“Please.”
His elbow wrenched back, tearing through the nylon with an audible snap. “Chasing you made me fucking crazy—you make me fucking crazy.”
You bobbled your head, his words barely registering as his fingers dragged over your panties, pressing the fabric against your puffy heat. Making you feel just how wet you were for him. Pleasure rippled through you, the relief bordering on agony, and you burrowed your face in his shoulder, as if you could escape from it. Hide from the intensity of how he made you feel.
“Ah, ah,” he tsked, gloved hand scruffing you like a kitten and tugging you back. “You’re done hiding from me, remember?” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, gliding through your slick to smear circles around your aching clit. “Your body can’t lie, hm? You liked running as much as I liked chasing, didn’t you? Quick little thing.” His voice had taken on a saccharine edge, whiskey-sweet with just as much kick. It burned through you, intoxicating.
You whimpered, tipping your hips into his searching palm, fingers curling in his sweater.
“Use your words, smart girl,” he purred with a wolfish smile.
“Y-yes, Bucky,” you stuttered. “But I never meant—I-I didn’t know you wanted me—fuck—that you wanted me too,” you confessed, your train of thought slipping like silk through your fingers.
“Oh, honey,” he said, releasing his hold on you. His belt clinked, zipper sliding down. You felt it then, just how desperately he wanted you too, hard as a fist and thrumming as he sawed through your slit. “I would chase you to the ends of the earth.”
Your thighs clenched around his hips, a broken moan escaping when the head of his cock nudged against your clit. “I can’t wait anymore—please—”
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he grated, jaw flexing as he notched the tip at your entrance. “Breathe for me, baby—oh, fuck—” he eased inside, just the tip dipping into your heat, and both of you gasped, the stretch bordering on euphoric. “That’s a good girl, taking that cock so well—goddamn, you feel unreal—”
He slid about halfway in, inch by brutal inch, your body tight as a clenched fist, but you were flying high, pleasure washing over you like the tide. He was everywhere, everything, and you clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He bracketed an arm around your waist, drawing you closer as he sank to the hilt, muffling his moan into your hair.
“How’s that feel?” He asked, stroking your hair while you trembled around him. So tender it made you dizzy.
“More,” you whined, mouthing at the harsh angle of his jaw. Savoring the feel of his stubble against your skin. “Fuck me, baby, please—”
He didn’t hesitate, drawing his hips back painfully slow just to slam back into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You keened, vice tightening around your guts as he set a punishing pace. All you could do was cling to him and take it, the obscene sounds of your bodies echoing into the night air around you. But, he held you like you were made of glass, despite fucking you like you were anything but. Careful to keep his metal hand laid flat against the hay behind you, though you could hear the soft whirring and clicking of the plates from the effort of holding still.
“Feel like fucking heaven—knew you would,” he panted, smearing a sloppy kiss to your shoulder where your sweater slipped down. “My good girl, huh?”
You nodded, meeting him thrust for thrust as the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. “Yours.” You dragged him in for another blistering kiss, teeth knocking together in your fever. His hips lost their rhythm, stuttered as he groaned low in his throat.
His fingertips found your clit, rubbing tight little circles that had your toes curling in your boots, eyes crossing as you pleasure mounted higher and higher. Teetering on a razor’s edge of oblivion.
“C’mon, honey. Come for me—fuck, I’m right there with you—” his cock kicked inside of you, surging even deeper than before, and you shattered.
Bliss spilled through the cracks of you, brilliant and burning as liquid gold. Bucky tipped over the edge with you, muffling a cry into your neck as he fucked you both through it, ringing out every drop of pleasure until you both sagged against the hay, panting and delirious.
“Baby, baby—” he cooed, peppering kisses across your sweaty temple as he smoothed the hair out of your face. “Are you okay?”
You nodded, picking a piece of hay out of his hair with a grin. “Perfect, now.”
He smiled back, shoulders dropping, and he kissed you again, this one slower, sipping, savoring. “Naughty thing, letting me fuck you in the middle of a corn maze—” he teased.
You gasped, giggling and swatting at his shoulder as he hauled you up. There it was again—that fuzzy, champagne feeling. “And now I’m gonna let you buy me a funnel cake.”
“But I won!” He protested, grabbing his jacket from a nearby stack and wrapping it around your torso.
“Yeah, and already got your prize.” You smirked, pecking his cheek.
“Fair point, brat,” he hummed, catching your chin to draw you in for another kiss. “Taste sweeter than funnel cake, anyway.”
summary: your new boyfriend Barty tells you he loves you, and you…freak tf out (even though you do, in fact, love him too).
cw: MDNI 18+, smut, established relationship, drinking, you are both possessive and mildly toxic, emotional vulnerability (eugh), love confessions, hurt/comfort, hard kinks, choking
an: can be read as a stand-alone, but hits better as part 2 of this fic
masterlist
Barty's POV
“Oi, Crouch!”
Barty looked up from his sketchbook, propped in his lap to keep him occupied while he waited in the courtyard for you and Evan to get out of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Xeno was running towards him down the corridor, robes flapping wildly in his haste.
Barty could practically smell trouble, and it made his heart kick with excitement.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Xenophi—”
“Cut the shit. Y/n is dueling,” Xeno snapped, grabbing Barty by the collar and dragging him from his perch in one of the stone openings.
“Oh! Is she winning?” Barty asked, falling into a jog beside Xeno.
“Not the point. She's going to get expelled.”
“Like I’d ever let that happen,” Barty chuckled.
They rounded the corner and could hear the shouting before they even reached the classroom. Excitement raced under his skin, and he all but kicked down the door in his haste to get to you.
You were up on a desk, robes discarded, absolutely pummeling Amacus Carrow with hexes. Amacus was hidden behind and overturned desk, lamely tossing expelliarmus over his shoulder.
The students formed a ring around you both, roaring with excitement while the Professor tried desperately to talk you down.
Barty skirted around the edge of the group towards you, finding Evan standing just beneath you, watching with a wild grin.
“She's a fucking menace,” Evan cackled, and Barty had to agree.
A vicious, beautiful little menace.
“What'd he do?” Barty asked, watching you dodge a hex effortlessly and throw one back in the same second. His heart was pounding, affection making his blood race. Saints, his cock was damn near about to rip through his trousers he was so fucking turned on.
“He called you a buffoon. And said your tattoos were ugly,” Evan said, cheering when you hit Amacus’ table so hard with stupify it cracked. “I was going to intervene, but she hit him with a book before I even got a word out.”
Barty was going to faint if anymore blood vacated his brain.
He spun a chair around and stepped up onto the table beside you. “Hello, treasure. Chose violence, did we?” You squeaked in surprise when he looped an arm around your waist, spinning you around and plucking your wand from your fingers.
“Barty!” You protested, trying to grab your wand back. “Give me that!”
Amacus, realizing you were disarmed, popped up from behind his desk.
“Ah, ah,” Barty waggled your wand at the perspiring wretch. “She may have the restraint to avoid Azkaban, but I have no such compunction, Carrow.” He gestured to Amacus’s spindly wand. “Rosier will take that, if you please.”
Evan had appeared beside Carrow, holding out his hand expectantly. Carrow dropped it into Evan's palm, red-faced and sputtering.
“Barty,” you said again, voice pitching lower with agitation.
He pressed an appeasing kiss to the crown of your head, handing you your wand back. “I think you've made your point, love,” he said. “Unless you'd like to make a fugitive out of me.”
You blew a strand of hair from your face, scowling at Amacus as he fled the room with his twin in tow. “I suppose not,” you huffed. “But if he runs his fucking mouth again—”
Barty pecked your lips, unable to resist your sharp tongue for another second. “He's a dead-man walking, hm?”
A smile pulled at the corners of your mouth, and your shoulders finally softened. “Something like that.” You rose up onto your toes and kissed him again, his heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to burst out of his chest to get to you.
Barty helped you down from the table while the rest of the students filed out, grumbling that their bloodbath was cut short. The Professor tried to step up to you, face purple with indignation, but one glare from Barty had them backing off, throwing their hands up in defeat.
“Are you alright, though? He didn't get you?” Barty tilted your chin up, turning your pretty face to the right, then the left to check for damage.
“Not once,” you smirked, and his chest swelled with pride.
“That's my girl,” he cooed, leaning down to draw you in for another, more heated kiss. He swiped his tongue across your lower lip, tasting your cherry lipgloss, before kissing down your neck, wallowing in the sweetness of your perfume, the warmth of your skin. “S’why I love you so much.”
As soon as it slipped out, he felt you stiffen, withdrawing slightly from him. He hadn't meant to say it, though he'd felt it long before you were official, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it.
He pulled his head back, finding your eyes wide, kiss-stung lips parted in shock. A deer in headlights.
“D-did you just—” you stuttered. He could feel your heart fluttering like a hummingbird under his fingertips. “Y-you love me?”
He smiled, something tender unfurling in his chest. “I do, very much,” he murmured, softening his voice like he was speaking to a frightened animal.
“Bat, I—” you words caught in your throat, and a flicker of hope kindled in his heart. “I have to go.” You turned heel and dashed out of the classroom, nearly taking out Evan and Xeno, who were pretending not to listen by the door.
They grimaced, approaching Barty cautiously.
“Sorry, mate,” Xeno said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Why?” Barty asked, shouldering your bag that you abandoned in your haste.
“Because she—mate, are you with us?” Evan waved a hand in front of his face.
Barty smacked his hand away. “I’m fine, I knew she wasn't going to say it back,” he shrugged.
Sure, it would have been amazing if you said it back, but you didn't have to say it for him to know it was true. He knew you struggled with big displays of emotion, and he wasn't about to goad you into saying something you weren't ready to.
He knew you felt it. You told him with every kiss, every touch, every gesture, from softly tracing his tattoos while you cuddled, to picking fights in the middle of class to defend his honor. Barty knew the truth, and you'd realize it on your own soon enough.
Xeno and Evan were looking at him like he had three heads.
“So why did you say it?” Evan asked.
“Because I felt it?” Barty didn't understand why they were so confused. He’d always worn his heart on his sleeve with you, and that wasn't about to change just because you were finally together. He knew you liked to have all the cards before you made a decision, and now you did.
“But she like, freaked out,” Xeno said, like Barty couldn't practically read the thoughts flying through your mind. “That doesn't worry you?”
Irritation curled along his spine, sharpening his tongue. “I’ve got it under control, Lovegood,” he bit. “Don't strain yourself pretending to give a fuck.”
“Junior—” Evan started.
“Are we ready for dinner? I'm starved,” Barty chirped, uprooting the conversation, and the seed of doubt it was planting in his mind.
Reader’s POV
You sat curled in your bed, staring at the emerald curtain separating you from the rest of the dorm. Barty's words echoed in your mind, ricocheting painfully against your skull.
I love you so much.
I love you so much.
I love you so much.
With every repetition came the same cycle of feelings: terror, elation, guilt, and terror again. You cared for Barty, Merlin, did you care for Barty. It ate you up inside, all the feelings you had for him. Drove you half-mad most of the time.
He was your favorite person, your comfort and your home. You wanted to be with him all the time, and you never wanted to be with anyone.
But love? It seemed impossible, enormous. You choked on it, drowned under it. And though it sounded so sweet on his lips, you just couldn't say it back, and it was tearing you up inside.
You knew how deeply his abandonment wounds went, how sensitive he was to rejection, and you never ever wanted to hurt him that way again. Especially not when he'd brought nothing but wonder and excitement into your life.
He didn't seem particularly upset, but you'd run off so quickly, you weren't sure how he'd actually taken it. For all you knew, you'd shattered his heart, and he'd never want to see you again.
Oh fuck, what if he was if was going to break up with you?
A fresh wave of terror clutched your heart, and you cuddled your stuffed cat closer, praying you hadn't fucked this up.
“Y/n?” Pandora called gently, peeling open your curtain to peek at you. “Barty’s here. Looking rather…fretful.”
Shit, shit, shit. He was here to dump you. This was it.
You stuffed your kitty under your pillows and pushed yourself into a sitting position, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks. “Let him in,” you mumbled.
Pandora nodded, stepping back, and Barty’s head poked through, dark brows pulled together in concern.
“Oh, baby,” he sighed, taking in your probably pitiful state. “Can I come in?”
You nodded, scooching over so he could climb into your bed. He immediately enveloped you in his arms, cuddling you into his chest. Cigarette smoke clung to his clothes and hair, mixing with the faded traces of his familiar cologne, and it immediately soothed some of your panic.
He was here, and he didn't hate you.
Barty’s heart thumped steadily under your cheek as he peppered kisses along the crown of your head, his hand slipping under your hoodie, well, technically his hoodie, to brush against your skin. He was unusually quiet, his movements slow and gentle.
After a few minutes of loaded quiet, you couldn't hold your tongue any longer.
“I’m really sorry, B,” you mumbled, tracing the lines of the tattoo on his chest peeking through his half-buttoned shirt.
“For what, tres? You did nothing wrong,” he shushed you, squeezing you tighter.
You sniffled, tears springing to your eyes.
He shifted, turning so you were beneath him and he was looking down at you. “Have you spent the last few hours thinking you did something wrong?” He asked, looking genuinely distressed at the suggestion.
Your lips folded into a tight line, not trusting yourself to speak, and you nodded.
“Treasure, no,” he gasped, cradling your face and kissing away the tear that rolled down your cheek. “My sweet, darling, gorgeous girl, you did absolutely nothing wrong. I didn't say that under the assumption you'd say anything back. I said it because I wanted to, because I—” the words caught in his teeth, like he had to bite them back before they wrangled out of his control once again.
“I'm just not ready,” you whispered, shame turning your guts to stone.
“And that's okay—hey, look at me.” He brushed his nose against yours, the softest nuzzle. When you managed to drag your eyes to his, you found them so sincere, so warm. “It's okay, baby. I promise.” He held his pinky up, the nail painted to match your manicure, and you curled your pinky around his. “I promise,” he repeated, resting his forehead against yours.
You couldn't help the nervous giggle that bubbled out of you, relief making you giddy. “I thought you were here to break up with me,” you admitted, reaching up to stroke the sharp angle of his jaw, carding your fingers through his wild hair.
“You what?!” Barty cried, rearing back in shock. “I’d sooner cut my cock off. Perish the fucking thought this instant. Baby, I’m yours.” He swung his leg over you, pining you beneath him. “You must never think that again, understand?”
“Bat—”
His fingers slipped under your arms, tickling along your ribs and making you squeal, bucking underneath his hold as you tried to escape. He was grinning like a fool, and only stopped when he managed to catch both your wrists to pin your arms over your head. “I've got you now, babygirl,” he purred, leaning down to whisper against your ear. “And guess what?”
“Hm?” You arched into him, the frantic, ticklish energy quickly morphing into something heady, intoxicating. The cloying heat only Barty could stoke in your belly.
“I love you,” he whispered against your pulse, sealing it with a kiss against the tender skin.
You sucked in a quick breath, heart tripping over itself, and you could tell instantly that he caught it, his lips curling into a smile.
“My darling, I love you so much.” He licked a stripe up your throat, the scalding caress of his tongue coaxing an airy whine from your lungs. “My favorite girl.” Kiss. “My most precious treasure.” Kiss. “I’m so in love with you it’s driving me mad—”
“Do you ever stop talking?” You silenced him with a greedy kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation, elated that he was still yours, that he wanted you, loved you, so deeply. You wanted to devour him whole, never feel, never taste, never know anything but him.
Barty chuckled when you broke the kiss to breathe, releasing your hands so you could grab at his shirt, desperately trying to undo the buttons. He braced his hands against your headboard, letting you paw and take whatever you wanted from beneath him while he watched through lust-fogged eyes.
“You sure act like you love me,” he teased, and you pinched his hip, shooting him a glare.
“I love your dick,” you bit back, palming him through his pants, and finally, he shut the fuck up.
Barty’s POV
The Slytherin common room was raging, flashing green and cloudy with fog, music thumbing through the floor and up Barty's legs.
He was deep in a game of beer pong, absolutely smoking Regulus while a crowd watched on. But mentally, he was plotting his next escape to your dorm, where he'd been periodically bringing you drinks in exchange for kisses while you read your new romance book.
This next time, he’d probably stay with you instead of returning. You were probably starting to feel the effects of both the raunchy writing and the alcohol right about now, and that was a combo he wouldn't dare miss.
Just when he lined up his shot, determined to finish poor Reg off, he spotted you coming down the stairs. Dressed in tattered jeans and a pair of fishnets, one of his Sex Pistols tee's hanging loose on your frame…
He completely whiffed the shot.
He didn't care.
“Treasure!” He cried when you spotted him across the room, and everyone swiveled in surprise.
You sauntered over, a big, melty smile on your face, and threw your arms around his neck.
“Hiii, handsome,” you cooed, pulling him down for a kiss.
He could taste the booze on your breath, syrupy and disorienting. “Made the drinks a little strong, did I?” He chuckled, steadying you with an arm around your waist.
“Whaaat? No, m’fine—Dora!” You suddenly lurched away from him, throwing yourself at your best friend. “I missed you!”
“Hi, love. I missed you more,” Pandora laughed, hugging you back and casting Barty an accusatory glare, though her eyes glittered with amusement.
Barty shrugged and held up two fingers, answering her silent question of how many you'd had.
Pandora's eyes widened and she pointed at herself, then you, then held up two fingers behind your back.
Barty burst out laughing, then cajooled you out of Pandora's arms and back into his. “Baby, have Panda and I both been bringing you drinks?”
You giggled, hiding your face in his chest. “And Evan brought me a shot,” you said.
“He did?!” Barty pretended to be shocked, glancing over at his best friend, who held up his hands in innocence. “So you're right pissed, then.”
You stared up at the ceiling, like you were deeply contemplating this, then slowly lowered your glassy eyes back to his. “Perhaps,” you said carefully, and he snorted a laugh.
Merlin, you were fucking adorable.
“C’mon, Crouch. Game's not over,” Regulus griped.
Barry glanced down at the cups, finding Regulus had sunk two balls while he was distracted. “Guess it's time I catch up,” he hummed, shifting you to his side and taking the two big gulps of stale beer.
You wrinkled your nose in distaste. “I can go get some fresh ones,” you offered, attempting to take a stumbling half-step away from him.
“Nope.” Barty hauled you back into his side, arm bracketed along your lower back. “You're staying right here with me, little lush.”
With you under his arm, he sank his final shot, officially beating Regulus, then whisked you off to the dancefloor to celebrate his victory.
He was in heaven, booze pumping hot and thick in his blood, your body pressed in against his front, writing with abandon to the rock music blaring from the speakers. You looked supremely fuckable, glossed with sweat and starry-eyed, a wild grin on your pretty lips.
He bent down, nosing into your neck while you rolled your hips against his, too drunk to realize what you were doing to him. Or too drunk to care.
“Babygirl, you're killing me,” he purred against your balmy skin, his grip tightening on your hips to stop your movements. “Better stop unless you want me to bend you over the bar right here, right now.”
“Nuh-uhhh,” you whined, spinning in his arms to face him. “M’just dancin’.”
“Sure, sweet thing. And I'm a monk,” he chuckled, watching you press kisses to the inked valley of his sternum, his shirt most of the way unbuttoned by your tricky fingers. You were such an affectionate drunk, but it wasn't often you indulged enough to get drunk in the first place. He groaned when you glanced up at him, round eyes framed by thick lashes, and his cock gave a merciless kick against his trousers.
You grinned, kissing your way up his neck before pecking his lips. The taste of his own sweat on your lips made his mind go dark, lust shredding through the tenuous leash he had himself on.
“Bat,” you murmured, tugging on his chain to get his attention.
“Baby,” he replied, voice rougher than it was moments before.
You kissed him again, tongue dipping past his lips to brush against his before retreating again, taunting him. “Can I tell you a secret?” you whispered.
He nodded, legs locked to keep himself upright.
You cupped your hand around his ear, leaning in close enough that your breath tickled the hair around his ear. “I love you too.”
It was like a bucket of cold water was doused over his head, his heart seizing. Fuck, how amazing the words sounded on your lips, but you were so drunk. Too drunk to know what you were saying, let alone remember it tomorrow.
He knew you loved him, but he didn't want to hear it like this. Not for the first time. He wanted you to say it and mean it, and not need liquid courage to make you feel safe enough to admit it.
“Honey, fuck, I love you so much, but you don't mean that,” he said, gently folding your hands into his and leading you off the dancefloor.
You resisted, pouting. “I do mean it! I love you!”
“Treasure, please—”
“Don’t ‘treasure’ me. I love you, and I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner,” you argued, lips pulling down into a frustrated frown. Then, softer, just for him—“I love you, Barty.”
He winced, like a lance was shoved through his chest. “Stop it, you're drunk,” he said, fighting to keep his voice gentle while he tugged you somewhere quieter.
People were watching, your friends pushing forward to see what the fuss was about, and panic beat like a drum in his head.
“No! Why won't you let me love you?” You yanked your hands out of his hold. “You love me!”
“I do, but you can't—you don't know what your saying, love—” He couldn't the thought of you saying it now and not being able to tomorrow. That maybe you didn't mean it, that you were just telling him what he wanted to hear. False validation hurt far worse than none at all.
“What's going on?” Pandora interjected, stepping between the two of you.
Anger flared hot under Barty's skin. “Fuck off, Pan,” he bit.
“Hey—” Xeno barked.
“Don't fucking start with me, Xe.” Barty stepped up to his friend, ringed fingers curling into a fist. Fucking Xeno, putting doubts in his head…
Evan jumped between them before it escalated further. “Alright, that's enough. This is between Barty and y/n—”
“He upset her!” Pandora argued, her arms wrapped around your shoulders.
“M’fine!” You shot back, jerking out of her arms and nearly sending yourself to the ground.
“You aren't fine,” Barty growled, shoving Evan and Xeno out of the way and catching you before you toppled completely. “You need to go to bed.”
You deflated at his tone, moisture pooling along your lower lashes, and he felt like that biggest ass on the planet. “Why are you so angry with me?” You whispered, and his heart cracked.
“I'm not—fuck, baby. I could never be angry with you.” He pulled you into his chest, wrestling down the hurt churning in his gut. “Let's just get you to bed, yeah? Together?”
You hesitated, contemplating resisting further, but then you nodded, the last of your restraint dissolving from your muscles.
“Barty—” Pandora warned.
“I've got her,” Barty snapped, tightening a possessive arm around your shoulders. “Can you all just fucking trust me for once?”
They all fell quiet, looking back and forth from him to one another. He didn't give them a chance to respond, pushing through the semicircle they made around you and leading you up the stairs.
Neither of you spoke, the silence of your dorm only broken by his shuffling around and your sniffles. He hated himself for making you cry, wanted to tear his hair out and claw off his skin in repentance, but he just couldn't stand hearing you say that and not knowing if you meant it. It was the worst kind of torture.
He helped you into your pajamas and removed your makeup, then tucked you into bed with some water and a hangover cure ready to go on your nightstand.
You snuggled into your pillows, stuffed kitty folded into your chest, and blinked up him with sorrowful eyes. “Will you stay?” You asked, and his heart tried to punch through the wall of his chest.
He sighed. “’Course, love,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He rummaged through your things, finding a pair of his sweatpants, and changed into them before crawling into bed beside you and shutting the curtain.
You nosed into his neck, arms bundled against his chest, and he cushioned your head with his bicep, the other draped over your waist.
“Don't let me ruin this,” you mumbled, voice sleep-addled and sad.
He kissed your forehead, guilt ringing hollow against his ribs. “You couldn't, treasure. You're stuck with me,” he tried to joke, but it was mirthless.
You shook your head, lips brushing along his clavicle, then your breathing deepened, muscles going lax, and you passed out in his arms.
He kissed your head again, nuzzling into your hair, and let his eyes wander to the crack in the curtain, where he knew he'd watch the sunrise in a few hours. Usually, he was able to sleep with you, the warmth and weight of your body soothing his mind enough to let him rest. But he knew there were no dreams waiting for him tonight.
So he'd hold you, and try not to think too hard, and watch the room inevitably fill with light.
Reader's POV
You woke up to an empty bed and a pounding headache, morning sunlight blazing through the gap in your curtain.
“Fuck me,” you groaned, sitting up and grabbing the potion from your bedside table, popping the cork and slamming it back. Immediately, the potion began to work, the sharpness behind your eyes dulling and your stomach settling.
Merlin, how much did you drink last night? You barely remembered anything after dancing with Barty—wait, where was Barty?
You were fairly certain he'd come to bed with you, and found evidence of that in the dented pillow on your left, the smell of his cologne lingering on the fabric.
You remembered him being angry about something, angry with you, but you couldn't remember why, the specific moments slithering through your fingers like silverfish.
You pulled aside your curtain, finding Pandora and Xeno tangled in her bed, Pandora braiding ribbons in her boyfriends platinum waves while he slept.
“Hey,” you croaked.
“Morning, sunshine. You fucked up,” Pandora said, waggling a finger at you.
You groaned, slumping back onto your pillows. “What did I do?”
“Told Barty you loved him. Loudly and in front of everyone.”
Your jaw fell open. No, no, surely you didn't do something so careless? “I couldn't have—”
“You did, and he's losing his mind over it. Been “showering” for about two hours,” Xeno grumbled, shifting a bit on Pandora's chest.
You couldn't believe yourself. That wasn't how Barty deserved to hear that, not after days of patiently waiting for you to pluck up the courage. You had to fix this. Had to make sure he knew the truth, and that it wasn't a drunken mishap, but the truth in your heart.
Throwing your covers off, you slipped out of bed, padding out of the room and sneaking over to the boys dorm.
You bumped into a freshly-showered Evan halfway to the boys bathroom.
“Hey, wait.” He caught you by the wrist. “If you're going in there to hurt him, don't,” he warned, glacial eyes narrowing.
“I'm not, Ev,” you promised.
“Because I like you, y/n. You're the same kind of bitch as me. But if you're fucking with my best mates heart, I'd hate to have to hate you.” He brushed past you, his words hanging heavy in the air.
You tried not to take it personally, Evan and Barty were fiercely protective of each other, but it still stung that he thought you'd intentionally hurt Barty.
Of course you wouldn't, you loved him.
You loved him.
Fuck, you were so stupid.
You pushed into the bathroom, steam thick and tepid. Only one shower was running, gray smoke curling around the gossamer plumes of steam, and the bathroom seemed otherwise deserted.
“Colloportus,” you cast, locking the door behind you. You approached the shower, knocking lightly on the wall. “Bat, you in there?”
An arm shot out from the curtain and yanked you in, pj’s and all.
“Barty!” You crashed into his wet, naked chest, the blast of hot water soaking you.
“Didn't expect you up for hours, drunkard,” he teased, petting the wet hair from your face, but his smile faltered when he noted the absence of yours.
You sputtered a little, trying to regain your resolve despite the shock. “I-I’m really sorry, Barty,” you said, reaching up to cup his face, stroking away the beads of water running down with your thumb. From the red around his eyes, deep purple stains underneath them, it was clear he hadn't slept at all.
“Sorry for what?” He asked, brows drawing together. He was putting on a brave face, but you could tell that you'd hurt him, and it made your heart splinter.
“For telling you the way I did instead of the way I should have.” You brought his hands to the hem of you soaked-through shirt, guiding them to lift it up and over you head, wanting to be as close to him as you could in this moment—no barriers.
“Baby, you don't have to—”
You shimmied your shorts down, the fabric landing with a wet plop on the tile floor. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his, searing heat blooming everywhere your skin touched. “I want to,” you murmured, drawing him down for a feather-light kiss. “I need to.”
He loosed a shaky exhale, eyes flitting nervously over your face while his hands came to a tentative rest on your hips.
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Bartemius Crouch Jr., I love you. I love you more than anything. And I’m sorry—”
Barty turned, crushing you against the wall and stealing the last of your apology with a fervid kiss. “I love you more,” he growled, a visceral purr of approval against your ear. “Not so hard, hm?”
You nodded, a pitiful whine plucked from your throat when his fingers prodded between your legs, wasting no time spreading you open and smearing your slick over his palm.
“My brave girl, I'm so proud of you,” he cooed, sinking knuckle deep into your clenching heat, making you keen. “So good f’me, aren't you?”
“I was just so scared,” you whimpered, hips rocking into his hand as he parted your gummy walls, scissoring you open with a second finger.
“I know, honey. I know you better than anyone,” he murmured, a possessive edge sharpening his voice. “I knew you loved me, just like I knew you wanted me months ago. Before even you did, silly little thing.”
“Yes, Barty—fuck,” you moaned.
He curled his fingers, pressing against the spot that made your knees give out, white blooming behind your eyes. He silenced your cries with his mouth, smothering you while he fucked you with his fingers, the lewd squelch of your pussy barely muffled by the thundering water.
“Say it again,” he gruffed, his free hand coming up to wrap around your throat, holding you up by the febrile column.
“I love you,” you gasped, loosing air as his hand tightened, the heat in your belly building higher and higher, near to combusting.
“Again.”
“I luh—” you wheezed, unable to draw enough air to finish the phrase.
“Heart’s beating so hard, treasure. All for me?”
You nodded, head going fuzzy from lack of oxygen and the looming orgasm, putty in his merciless hands.
His eyes were black, obfuscated with lust and providence, a ferality barely tethered.
You were about to break, dragged roughshod to release, when suddenly his hand retreated, leaving you empty. Gutted.
But then he was pushing inside you, splitting you down the center with his thickness, so full you swore you could taste him in your throat. His grip loosened on your neck, allowing you a swig of air as he groaned, rutting savagely into your softness.
“So fucking tight, little cunt’s like a vice,” he grated, lifting your legs for a deeper angle, leaving you suspended and helpless to receive whatever he gave you. “Gonna come for me, baby? Let me fill you to the fucking brim with my love?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you babbled, nails dragging down his shoulders as you desperately tried to hold on while the world fell away.
“Go on, tres. Give it to me. Don't hold back.” He huffed into your neck, his thrusts getting rougher, sloppier as he swelled inside of you.
Your orgasm blasted through you, ripping you apart at the seams, and you sank your teeth into his shoulder, muffling yourself as he fucked you through it.
“Fuck, that's it—fucking take it—” his own release slammed into him, and he bottomed out with a punishing snap. You could feel his cock surging against your ruined pussy, filling you completely, body and soul.
His grip on your relaxed as the strength bled out of him, his lips tracing a path up your throat, finding your lips in a lissome, sodden kiss.
“I love you,” you whispered, tears pooling behind your eyes as the onslaught of feeling dissipated.
“I love you,” he replied, peppering kisses all over your face in the way that never failed to make you smile. He set you gently on your feet, an arm around your waist in case you stumbled. “Are you okay, though? Really?”
You nodded, pecking his cheek as you stepped back under the deliciously warm stream of water. “I'm in love, what could be wrong?”
He grinned, blinding as the sun, and scooped you back up in a toothy, buoyant kiss. “Absolutely nothing, my love. Absolutely nothing at all.”
PLEASEEEE MORE POSSESSIVE JELOUS DRACO🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️YOUR BAD SANTA FIC WAS LITERALLY EVEYTHING. POSSESSIVE MEN GOT ME WEAK
thank you for the request!! hope this is satisfactory 🫶🏻
Flutterby Baby | D.M.
feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader
SUMMARY: Draco finds out another student sabotaged your Herbology project.
CW: MDNI 18+, smut, draco’s pov, established relationship, possessive!draco, bullying, hurt/comfort, men suck, sort of rough fingering & piv, affectionate degradation if you squint (he refers to her as a plant), blood/fighting
masterlist
Draco watched as you pushed your pasta around your plate, staring absently at the whirls of sauce on the porcelain. You’d been quiet the entire meal, only speaking when directly spoken to by your group of friends, and even then, it was half-hearted, brief answers.
Both were unusual for his talkative, carb-loving girl.
He placed a light hand on your thigh, leaning closer to you. The warmth of your skin, the sweetness of your perfume, beckoned him even closer, but he ignored his impulses. “Everything alright, darling?” He asked, low enough that your friends couldn’t hear.
“Yes, just not very hungry,” you said in your pretty little voice, placing your hand over his and pecking his cheek.
He didn’t buy it. “I can track down some takeaway and we can eat in my dorm, if you’d like,” he offered, wondering if the commotion in the Great Hall was a bit too much for you.
You shook your head, another stunning development. You never turned down takeaway. “I’m fine, baby. Thank you, though.”
“Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll make one of these sod’s fetch it for you,” he teased, hoping to get a smile out of you. He didn’t.
Draco sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning back to the conversation he was in the middle of with Theo and Pansy. He continued to watch you in his periphery as you started to play with his fingers, twirling his signet ring around and around. As much as he enjoyed the mindless contact, the delicate brush of your skin, he knew this was a nervous habit of yours.
He had half-a-thought to excuse you both, but he knew that would only draw more attention to your melancholy state, which would likely make you feel even worse. He could pick your brain later. Right now, he needed to make sure you were fed.
Casually, he picked up his fork, twirling a bit of his own pasta around the tines. Without breaking away from his conversation, he held the fork up to you, hoping you’d take a bite without really thinking about it. It was a small ritual the two of you developed during lengthy family dinners, something you often did automatically if he offered food to you. He felt you shift forward, your mouth wrap around the small bite, and you ate it.
He squeezed your thigh, a flare of affection making his heart pound. Good girl, he thought, but refrained from saying aloud.
The rest of dinner continued like that, Draco keeping your friends talking and distracted while he fed you small bites of his own dinner, your fingers twined with his in your lap. When he held up a bite and you gave small shake of your head, he knew it was because you were actually full, and he set his fork down, satisfied. For now.
That night in the common room, you were curled up in your chair by the fire, a book open in your lap while everyone pretended to study around you. He watched your eyes, your hands curled around the cover, and you were motionless. No pages turned, no lines devoured.
His worry deepened. Blaise seemed to notice as well, and gave him a curious look, dark brow raised. And of course, Theo caught the exchange, but turned back to his work, pretending he didn’t.
A prickle of suspicion climbed Draco’s neck. Typically, Theo was the first one to make a fuss over someone being in a sour mood due to his inability to tolerate negative emotions, but this time, he stayed silent.
Very odd, indeed.
But he could worry about Theo later. Draco lifted himself from the couch and walked over to you, dropping onto the floor in front of your chair. He tilted his head back, resting it against your shins. You reached down, dragging your fingers through his hair while you continued “reading” your book. He let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and tried to think of a way to draw you out of your head.
Lips pressed against his forehead, your perfume wafting over him, and he hummed in appreciation, reaching up to cradle your face. You leaned your cheek into his palm, and he titled his head back a little further to connect your lips in a soft kiss.
Your lips moved against his, brief and tender, and some of his tension unwound. It didn’t seem that you were upset with him, which was a relief. But, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what exactly was troubling you.
“I’m going to go to bed,” you murmured in his ear, and he blinked in surprise, checking his watch.
It wasn’t even nine o’clock.
“So early, love? Are you feeling alright?” He turned to face you, rising to his knees. The group noticed, but he was too concerned to care. He placed the back of his hand on your forehead, your cheek, your neck, but you waved him away.
“I’m fine, D. Just tired,” you said, averting your eyes from his and rising from your chair.
“Baby—”
You leaned down and kissed him again, cutting off his protest. “I love you, I’ll see you in the morning,” you said, pecking his cheek one more time before walking towards the girls dormitory and ascending the stairs.
Draco slumped back to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“What did you do to her?” Pansy accused after a moment of tense silence.
“Nothing,” he snapped, though it was mostly toothless.
“She was acting strangely at dinner too,” Blaise noted. “She didn’t even have dessert.”
“Yeah, and she loves those chocolate things—what are they called?” Theo chimed in.
“Cauldron cakes,” Draco answered, glaring at them, irked that they were paying that close of attention to you. That was his job.
“Are you going to follow her?” Blaise asked, glancing at the stairs.
“No, he should give her some space,” Pansy said, giving him a pointed look.
“I’m perfectly capable of managing my girlfriend’s needs. Thank you,” he bit, and they fell quiet. He would leave you be, for now, but if you were still in a funk tomorrow evening, he’d be forced to intervene.
You were decidedly still unlike yourself come the following morning, and when he saw you during your shared Potion’s class. He continued to monitor the situation, trying to be patient like you often asked him to be, but that went out the window when you returned from your Herbology class with Theo in tears.
As soon as Draco saw your red and puffy eyes, he was on his feet. You ran straight into his chest, burying your wet face in his robes and digging your chilled hands into his back, trembling as your tears returned in earnest.
“Darling, what’s happened? What’s going on?” He cooed, wrapping his arms around your shaking torso, petting your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, just held him tighter as you cried.
Theo tried to slip around the two of you, but Draco pinned him with a glare.
“What happened?” Draco hissed at him.
“Her Flutterby bush is dying,” Theo whispered, and you started to cry harder.
Shit. You’d slaved half the semester over this Flutterby bush in Herbology, it was your pride and joy, and you often stayed after hours with Professor Sprout to tend to it and the rest of the greenhouse. You had the greenest thumb Draco had ever encountered, and that plant was your baby. There was no way it would just suddenly die.
Draco raised a brow, and Theo made a ‘tell you later’ face. He nodded his head to dismiss his friend and turned his attention back to you, his poor, sensitive girl.
“Baby, it’s going to be alright. I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s going on—”
You shook you head. “It doesn’t make sense,” you sniffled, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It was perfectly fine. There’s no bugs or blights, I don’t understand.” You lifted your face, cheeks streaked with tears and lashes spikey, your eyes rimmed with red. The state of you made his heart ache.
“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs and pressing a kiss to your nose. “If anyone can save it, you can. You’re brilliant, love.” He used his sleeve to wipe your eyes and your nose before bundling you into his side. “Come on, relax for a bit with Pansy. That’ll help you think a little more clearly, yeah?”
You nodded, letting him deposit you on the couch beside your friend, who immediately abandoned what she was doing to fuss over you.
He kissed the top of your head, satisfied that you were well looked after for the time being. “I love you, I’ll be right back, okay?” He murmured, and you nodded again.
Theo was waiting for him in the hall. “Okay, so don’t get mad,” he said, holding his hands up.
Draco’s anger instantly flared. “Don’t give me a reason to get mad then.”
“She told me not to tell you because she knew you’d get all—” Theo gestured vaguely at Draco. “All…this.”
“Out with it, Nott,” he growled, fully prepared to punch his best friends nose through the back of his skull. What could you possibly want to keep from him?
“We think someone poisoned her plant,” Theo said, grimacing.
Draco froze, rage flaring so suddenly it darkened his vision. “What?” he snarled.
“We can’t say for sure yet,” Theo said hurriedly, trying to get ahead of the oncoming storm. “But there’s this one guy—”
“Who?”
“Reinhardt? Renfield? Something like that, I don’t know, he’s a Gryffindor. But he—Draco, where are you going?”
Draco was already halfway down the hall, formulating a plan in his mind about how to find this guy, and how to make him wish he’d never been born.
Theo grabbed his shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea than storming the Gryffindor common room,” he said, and Draco paused.
“Go on.”
Draco loitered outside the Greenhouse, hidden by some trees, a stupid plastic ear in his hand. Theo had the other tucked into his robes, and Draco could hear Sprout beginning her lecture through their connection.
Draco sighed. This was ridiculous, he should just waltz in there and figure out exactly who this—
“Hey, y/n,” he heard someone mutter, an unfamiliar male voice, and he immediately held up the ear to listen. “Flutterby’s not lookin’ so good. Maybe I could help clear away some of the dead stuff?”
Draco's ears started ringing so loudly, he almost missed your response.
“I'm killing it just fine on my own, Renley, I don't need any assistance from you.”
He heard Theo snicker in the background, and Draco smiled. Atta girl.
“My mandrakes are thriving, thank you,” Renley replied, his voice tight with indignation. “It's a real shame about yours, though. Probably would have gotten you top marks.”
You didn't respond, and Draco gripped a tree branch to stop himself from charging through the glass to get this audacious fucker.
“Fuck off, Renford,” Theo warned, the feed clouded by his robes rustling.
“It's Renley,” the prick corrected, his voice a little louder, and Draco could practically hear Theo roll his eyes. “So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? Oh, this fucker was a dead man walking. “I'm willing to stay after and help you out. I'm good with poisons—”
“Poison’s?” You asked, a snarky lilt to your voice, and Draco loosed a relieved exhale despite the implication. For the first time in days, you sounded like yourself. “Who said anything about poison?”
“Oh, I—uh—”
“Reindeer, how did you know her plant was poisoned?” Theo prodded, his smirk audible.
“I don't! It's obv—it’s probably not p-poison!” Renley stammered.
“What's this about poison?” Sprout interrupted at the same moment Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle emerged from the treeline.
“Check fucking mate,” Draco mouthed, grinning.
“Professor Sprout, I do believe Renley here just confessed to poisoning y/n’s beloved Flutterby bush,” Theo said.
“Is this true, dearie?” Sprout asked you.
“Yes ma’am, it explains the strange phenomena we noted, as well as the sudden nature of the ailment. Renley’s been taunting me for days, and finally his mouth got ahead of his brain,” you said, poised as a Queen, and Draco was so proud of you it hurt.
Sprout gasped. “Mr. Renley! To Dumbledore's office this instant!”
“Crabbe, Goyle, grab him,” Draco ordered, stuffing the ear into his robes.
The two of them lumbered over the door, staying out of sight until the culprit stepped out into the sunlight, and Goyle grabbed Renley by the shoulders and started to drag him back around the Greenhouse.
“Hey! What the fuck—” his words pinched to a strangled whine when he saw Draco and Blaise waiting a few feet away, arms folded over their chests, completely hidden from the rest of campus.
Goyle shoved him to the ground at Draco's feet, and the coward was already sniveling.
Draco crouched down, nose to nose with the fucker that made his girl miserable, and smiled. “Was it worth it, Renley?” Draco asked, his voice low.
“Look, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—”
Draco didn't give him a chance to finish his paltry excuse and cocked his fist back, slamming his knuckles square in the side of his jaw. The bone crunched under his fist, sending Renley flying sideways in a spray of spit and blood, and Draco rose, clenching and unclenching his aching hand.
Normally, he'd step back and let the others get their hands dirty, but you were his girl. And if anyone was going to defend your honor, it would be him.
“No, no please!” Renley begged when Goyle hauled him back up. Draco punched him again, dead on the nose, then the temple, then the sternum. Goyle let Renley fall, groveling and weeping as blood ran down his face, his eyes already half-swollen shut.
Draco grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head up so he could whisper in his ear. “You're lucky it wasn't poison,” he snarled, and dropped Renley’s head into the dirt. “Leave him on the front steps of the castle,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately pulled the boy up and started dragging him back towards the castle.
Blaise chuckled. “That was fucking brutal, mate.”
Draco looked down at his bruised and bloody knuckles, the pain bright and deliciously satisfying, his signet ring splattered with red. “Like I said, he's lucky I didn't decide to poison him.”
The chatter of students filled the air, and he looked up to see the Greenhouse emptying. Theo headed straight for them, glancing at Draco's knuckles and the blood in the grass before breaking out in a wild grin.
“Sorry I missed it,” Theo laughed.
“Where is she?” Draco asked.
“Staying behind to administer the antidote. Sprout is leaving her to ensure Renley is dealt with accordingly.”
“Well, she certainly won't be disappointed,” Blaise snickered.
“So she’s alone?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. He was hoping to clean himself up before seeing you, but wasn't sure he could resist the temptation. Not with his blood still running hot and your smart little voice echoing in his mind.
“Yep.” Theo smirked. “See ya’ back in the common room.” He and Blaise turned and started heading back to the castle, leaving Draco alone.
He rounded the greenhouse, knocking with his sore knuckles so he didn't startle you.
“Draco? What are you—saints, your hands!” You cried, rushing over to open the door for him. You grabbed for his hands, face pinched with worry.
“I'm fine, love,” he cooed, letting you fuss. The air in the greenhouse was thick and warm, coaxing him in like a embrace. It smelled fresh and lush, sweet soil and green leaves, like you.
Merlin, he couldn't think straight with you looking at him like that.
“Who did—” you paused, eyes narrowing. “Renley?”
He smirked. “Maybe.”
“Draco!” You huffed, dropping his hands. “I had it under control!”
“I know you did! You were amazing! I just...accelerated the consequences.”
You glared at him, but he could see you softening by the second.
“Baby, I'm fine. And he'll be fine in like, four to five business days.”
“Draco!” You shouted, but you were smiling. He fucking loved what you called his name in that exasperated but undeniably affectionate voice. “You don't have to get involved all the time. I'm perfectly capable of fighting my own battles, and Professor Sprout was working with me to solve it and—”
Draco reached out, pinching your cheeks with one hand, pursing your pouting lips and dragging you closer to him. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat. No one fucks with you so long as I'm breathing, is that clear?”
You nodded, eyes round and sweet like honey.
He released your face, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and craning your head upwards. “Can I kiss you now? Or would you like to keep telling me off?”
You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a playful, smiley kiss. “Anything for my hero.”
“Anything?” Draco purred, walking you back into the long work table. You gasped, arching against his chest, and he caught the sound with another kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you.
Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his tie to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it.
And he could feel how much you loved it, your hips pressing against his as your hands wandered his chest, unable to pick a resting place.
He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he spun you around. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself, your perfect ass pressing back against his rapidly hardening cock.
“Draco,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him.
He tsked, sliding up your skirt, admiring the way his ruined knuckles looked against the soft flesh. “Do you want me to be gentle with you, darling?” He already knew what your answer would be, especially after a few stressful days, but he felt inclined to double check.
You shook your head side to side, pressing your ass back into his hands. “No.”
He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “That's my girl. You want me to scare away all those bad thoughts? Turn your brain off for a bit?” He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties.
You nodded, nails scratching along the wood when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle.
“Words, love,” he said, pausing his movement.
“Yes, baby. Please,” you whined, and his cock gave a painful lurch against his thigh.
“Colloportus,” he murmured, flicking his wand to lock the Greenhouse door. “Don't move,” he ordered, then walked over to the sink, washing the blood from his hands and muttering a quiet episkey to fix most of the damage on his skin. Some cuts remained, and his hands were still sore and slightly bruised, but it wasn't nearly as bad.
Satisfied, he turned his attention back to you, where you remained perfectly still, nibbling at your lower lip. In quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fall around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest against the table.
“There we go,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs.
You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly.
“Better, darling? Nothing to worry about besides being my good girl.” He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, his signet ring kissing your entrance before he curled his finger up. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out, only to graciously stretch for him when he added a second.
“Fuck, D,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand. “You said you wouldn't be gentle “
He smirked, enraptured with the way your pretty little cunt yielded for his battered hand. “Just so pretty,” he hummed, leaning down to whisper in your ear, pressing you harder against the table. “Can't help but worship you a little.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but he slammed his fingers inside of you, drilling into your channel with sloppy, punishing strokes. You cried out, feet sliding around on the floor, but he had you pinned and at his mercy.
“This better, brat?” He growled, nipping at your ear when you keened for him, unable to formulate a response. “Oh, how that fucker wishes he could see you now,” he drawled, straightening while his fingers fucked into you. “What'd he call you? Sweetheart?” He chuckled. “Sweet doesn't begin to cover it.”
“How did you—”
He slipped his fingers out to work your clit, the bud swelling under his touch as your orgasm built, and your words twisted into a moan. He tried to stay focused, keep you on the edge until he was sheathed inside of you, but couldn't bring himself to stop just yet.
“Are you sweet, baby?” He asked, swatting your ass cheek, enjoying the way your flesh rippled.
“Only for you,” you gasped, starting to tremble as that knot wound tighter and tighter.
“That's right,” he praised, undoing his trousers and taking his cock in his hand. He was insanely hard, the head a deep pink, pearly precum beading from the slit. He pumped himself twice to relieve some of the ache, then notched himself at your entrance, not pausing his assault on your clit for a moment. “All fucking mine,” he growled at the same moment he thrust inside of you, burying himself to the hilt.
You cried out, muscles contracting hard around him, and he groaned low in his throat. You were so fucking tight, gooey and supple when you weren't squeezing the life out of him. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your ass cheek in his free hand to keep you spread for him as he pounded into you.
He felt your orgasm hit the second before you did, your cunt clamping down on him a heartbeat before you screamed, your whole body locking up before going completely limp. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook, how much you begged. Your tears left damp spots on the wood, your knees trying to buckle inwards, but he planted his feet on the inside of yours, forcing you to stay upright.
“Good fucking girl,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back. “Doing so well for me, sweet thing.” He was panting, the heat of the greenhouse coupled with the exterior making sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. His knuckles burned from the salt, hands ached from being used long past when they should have been bandaged, but he didn't give a single fuck.
“Draco, shit—fuck me so good.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis.
“Give me one more, baby. I know you can. Then I'll water my favorite plant.”
Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled. You were such a little freak, his little freak, and he loved you all the more it.
“You like being my pretty little houseplant? All mine to take care of?” Fuck, he was close, rambling in an attempt to distract himself and spend just a little longer in the delicious heat of your body.
“Yes, yes—fuck!” You were coming again, your whole body convusling as it ripped through you, and he was done for. He came with a yell, hips stuttering against your ass as he pumped rope after rope of release into your spasming cunt.
“Bloody hell, baby,” he moaned, bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, poor thing, were left drooling and trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “Did so good, love. So fucking perfect,” he murmured, throat tight with affection.
“Squishin’ me,” you giggled, squirming beneath him, and he straightened, nearly toppling over himself at the weak feeling in his knees.
“Sorry, darling,” he chuckled, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on trembling arms. He moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.
“Mm, how did you know he called me sweetheart?” You asked, peeking over your shoulder at him while he grabbed his wand to clean you both up.
“I have my methods,” he replied, righting your clothes and helping you stand up, relishing in the lingering tremble in your limbs.
“Were you spying on me, Draco Malfoy?” You teased, tugging him down by the tie so you were face to face.
He smirked. “Perhaps.”
“What a horrible invasion of privacy,” you snickered, giving him a playful peck.
“You want to punish me for it?” He nipped at your lower lip and you grinned, pushing lightly on his chest.
“Enough you, I have to administer the antidote before my plant gets any sicker.”
“Good thing I already cured mine,” he teased, and you swatted him before slipping out of his arms.
“You're insufferable.”
“And you're adorable.”
You grabbed some items from the shelves and a watering can, then paused, turning to look at him, a deadly serious look on your face. “Can we get takeaway after this?”
He snorted, his heart doing a giddy little flip. “Of course we can.”
summary: 6k. after your other friends bail, you beg your best friend (who you def don't have a crush on), Bucky, to go with you to the Halloween festival. But, some things are scarier than haunted houses and corn mazes...
cw: MDNI 18+, equal parts fluff/smut, best friends to lovers, reader is oblivious and bucky is fighting for his life, semi-public, protective!bucky, d/s dynamics, elements of primal play, p in v, holy hay bales, bucky has beef with scare actors
masterlist | divider by @strangergraphics
“Bucky, pleeaaasssee?” You whined, flopping down beside him on the couch, legs flung over his lap.
“No.”
“But I have no one else to go with!”
“Take Yelena.”
“She has plans.”
“Mel?”
“She doesn’t like haunted houses.”
“Oh, so I’m your last choice?”
Heat scorched your cheeks. Bucky, one of your closest friends in the world, was your first choice for everything. Though, you’d ever tell him that.
“No—god, why are you so annoying?”
“Me? Can barely hear the movie over your chattering,” he gruffed, pausing Jason Voorhees mid-chop. It was well past midnight in the Watchtower, and you and Bucky were staying up late to binge on pizza, Val’s candy stash, and some classic horror films. The lounge was dark, save for the glow of the TV and a burning pumpkin-scented candle you’d dug up from a storage closet.
“Why don’t you want to go with me?” You swung your legs around, sitting up. “Are you scared?” You teased, quirking a brow.
A smirk hooked the edge of his mouth, lethal as a weapon in the flickering candlelight. “Crowds, drunks, screaming kids, clowns—not my thing.”
“The Mighty Winter Soldier, scared shitless of a couple of masked high schoolers—”
“Why can’t you just take no for an answer?” He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, but you caught the ghost of a full smile tug at his cheeks.
You pretended not to notice the way his muscles strained the logo on his t-shirt, the veins running along his right forearm. Friends didn’t notice that sort of thing, and that’s all you were. Friends.
When you accepted Val’s offer of joining the CIA as a lead scientist, you never expected to spend your days keeping the Thunderbolts’ tech and suits intact. For a band of super-soldiers and super-spies, they sure knew how to get themselves into trouble. And break shit. But, they always had you to help pick up the pieces.
After an emergency where Shuri was forced to teach you how to fix Bucky's metal arm on the Quinjet, you and Bucky had grown especially close. A real friendship bloomed, something you knew was rare and precious for the hermit-like Winter Soldier. And you'd never do anything to violate that trust he placed in you, no matter how desperately you wanted something more.
His safety mattered more than your heart.
“Fine.” You mimicked his pose, slouching onto the couch with your arms crossed. “I guess I’ll just go by myself.”
His smile vanished, eyes narrowing. “You can’t go by yourself.”
“Well, apparently I have to.”
His head fell back against the couch, throat bobbing as he swallowed. The image of you latching onto his throat like a vampire flitted through your mind, but you shoved it away. “Alright, brat. When is it?” He asked, rolling his head to peer at you.
Your palms went slick at the pet name, heart tripping out of rhythm. “Next Saturday, gates open at 6.”
“…I’ll think about it.”
Which, in Bucky-language, meant ‘I’ll do it, but I’m going to complain the whole time’.
You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck. His cologne filled your nose, skin-warmed and laced with clove. “Thank you, thank you! It’s going to be so fun. We can do costumes, and—”
He went rigid beneath you, hands tightening to fists against the couch cushions as his heart rate lifted, beating conspicuously in the hollow of his throat. “No costumes,” he bit, trying to sound stern, but he could never quite manage it with you.
“Fine, no costumes,” you conceded, since the idea of it clearly appalled him. “But, thank you for not making me go by myself,” you said, pecking his scruffed cheek before retreating to your side of the couch.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, tossing the blanket back over your legs and unpausing the movie. “Now, shut it before you wake everyone up.”
You curled up under the blanket, biting back a bratty retort, and returned your attention to the movie, willing your racing heart to settle. But just when you’d finally managed it, squashing all the un-friend-like thoughts into the back of your mind where they belong, Jason popped up onto the screen with a clash of strings and startled a yelp out of you.
Bucky’s metal hand fell onto your thigh to steady you, squeezing lightly. “Easy, doll,” he soothed. “Sure you can handle a haunted house?”
You stuck your tongue out at him, not trusting yourself to speak around the lump in your throat.
He snickered, removing his hand to drape his arm over the back of the couch. “Don't worry. Those teens will have to get through me first, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, hiking up the blanket to cover your expression, certain your pupils had turned into cartoon hearts at the brief contact. Platonic, friendly contact, you reminded yourself, even as your knees pressed together, ribs knitting tight around your lungs.
Yup, totally platonic.
You knocked on his door at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, practically vibrating with excitement. The two of you agreed to meet at his place because it was closer, despite his insistence on picking you up. Ever the gentleman. But you were friends, this wasn't a date, and him picking you up at your door would only muddy the waters of your mind further.
You reached up to knock again, nerves making you impatient, when the door swung open under your fist.
Bucky stood on the other side, haloed by his hallway light, metal hand braced against the door frame. Your stomach did a kickflip.
“You're going to freeze,” he said flatly, eyes skimming your fishnets and mini-skirt, over the distressed, cropped sweater that barely covered your tits, let alone kept you warm, before flicking up to your face. He was dressed in black jeans and a charcoal colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“It's like 60 degrees, you dinosaur.” You rolled your eyes, slipping under his arm and into the apartment. It was cleaner than usual, pictures dusted and straightened, books in their proper places, blankets folded and draped over the back of the couch. You could even see fresh vacuum lines on the area rug, and you stopped looking before your brain could wonder if he tidied up just for you.
“The sun hasn't set yet,” he argued. “You need a jacket. Or pants.”
“Bucky, I'll be fine—Alpine!” You cooed, spotting the cat sitting primly in the doorway of Bucky's bedroom, tail swooshing across the hardwood in mild interest. You crouched down towards her, and she allowed you to scratch the top of her snow-white head. “I’ll be fine, won't I, Alpine? Yes, I will.”
He made a frustrated sound in his throat, and you heard his boots tread towards you. For a breathless moment, you thought he was going to grab you, but he just stepped around the two of you and into his bedroom without so much as a downward glance.
The rest of the team constantly complained about the Winter Soldier sneaking up on them, but you swore you could hear him moving around through the walls, always knew when he was about to step around a corner or out of an elevator, just from the way the air shifted. His energy was tangible across your skin, electric as a thunderstorm.
“If you catch a cold, don't come whining to me,” he gruffed, re-emerging with his own coat. Of course, it was the leather jacket that made your knees go a little weak every time he wore it. “Did you at least eat a real dinner before we go to this thing?”
“Does a protein bar count?”
His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “No, but popcorn is a whole grain, right?”
“Right!” You beamed.
“Good enough, I'll get you some popcorn at the festival—you sure you don't want a jacket?”
“Oh my god—yes, I’m sure.”
He held his hands up in surrender, then grabbed his glove from the table by the door. “After you, brainiac.” He winked, opening the door and gesturing outside.
You playfully checked his shoulder as you walked by, smirking up at him. “Bye, Alpine! I'll have him back by midnight!” You tossed over your shoulder.
His gloved hand found your lower back, nudging you out into the hall. “Don't claw my couch,” he added, pointing towards the cat before shutting and locking the door behind him.
The festival was straight out of a nineties film, with orange and black striped tents, glowing jack-o-lanterns hanging from half-bare trees, and fog machines spilling across the leaf-strewn ground. It was chillier than you expected, the sky clear and moon-bright, a light wind making the pumpkins bob and sway overhead. “Monster Mash” mingled with the multi-colored fog, the lights thumping in time with the music. It was crowded, certainly, but not so much that you couldn’t move freely around the walkways and tents.
Or, maybe that was due to the glowering super-soldier-turned-guard-dog on your left.
You tossed another piece of popcorn into your mouth, crunching happily as you perused the row of vendors. There were custom soy candles and tea blends and orange blossom honey, homemade jewelry and crystals and handpainted decor. Food stands were littered throughout, serving fresh apple cider donuts, their sugared scent heavy on the air, foot-long corn dogs, and slices of pizza the size of your head.
When you stepped up to a booth, managed by a young person selling crochet cryptids and monsters, Bucky stepped right up to your back to shield you from passersby, close enough that you could feel the heat of him burning through your open-knit sweater. Suddenly, you couldn’t read the little sign in front of you, the letters jumbling as all your attention zeroed in on his proximity. The scant inches between his body and yours.
“What’s that one?” Bucky asked, his voice low and way too close to your ear as he reached around to point to a plush in front of you. You suppressed the shiver that dripped down your spine.
“That’s, uh, M-Mothman,” you stuttered.
He hummed, his hand moving to grab a teeny gray Frankenstein’s monster, a keyring attached to its head. “Hey, look. They’ve got me too,” he joked, thumb wiggling the monster's stitched-on arm to wave at you, and your heart lurched so hard you got a little dizzy.
“Frankenstein’s monster is my favorite,” you mumbled, hoping he couldn’t see the way your hands trembled from this angle.
“How much?” He asked the vendor.
Your knees went gooey. “Buck—”
“Let me.”
And five minutes later, the little Frankenstein’s monster was bobbling merrily from the strap of your purse.
“Tell me about Frankenstein,” he said, slinging an arm over your shoulders when a group of boys veered too close and tucking you into his side.
Excitement lit like a firework in your chest. “Frankenstein’s monster,” you corrected, and dove into half a dozen lectures’ worth of lore while you continued meandering around the stalls.
Bucky nodded along, raising his eyebrows at all the appropriate moments, and you could have sworn his eyes were twinkling brighter than the fairy lights, softening with every run-on sentence and abandoned point. But then he reached across you while you walked, snatching a handful of popcorn before you could wrench it away.
“Hey!” You cried, feigning indignation. “That’s mine.”
“I bought it, but fine,” he argued after swallowing. “May I have some of your popcorn?”
A wicked idea flitted through your mind. “Sure,” you said, grabbing a particularly large piece. “Catch!” You tossed the popcorn up at him, and he leaned right, mouth open to catch it, and it bopped against his forehead before falling to the foggy ground. “That was terrible,” you teased.
He scoffed. “Try again. And actually aim this time.”
You tossed another kernel, deliberately sending it too far left, and burst into a fit of giggles when he nearly toppled over trying to catch it.
“Alright, brat.” He caught your wrist as you readied the next projectile, bringing your hand to his mouth.
The world stilled around you, eyes focusing like a camera lens on his lips as they parted, the pink of his tongue darting out as he ate the piece of popcorn directly off your fingertips. No actual contact was made, but you felt it all as keenly as a kiss.
“Was that so hard?” He smirked, turning forward to continue strolling like he hadn’t just knocked your world off its axis.
Panic skittered between your rib bones. This was veering way off the friendship course. You were just his friend, you were not supposed to be studying his mouth like it was a circuit board. Abort, abort, abort.
You stuffed your hand into the bag of popcorn and launched a handful at his face. “That better?” You teased.
He didn’t fight it, catching a few pieces as they showered over him, his smirk never faltering. “Not quite, but I’ll take it.”
You rolled your eyes and desperately tried to ignore the growing ache in your chest and between your legs as you walked into the area with all the carnival games. This area was louder than the last, filled with bells and horns, the clicking and whirring of games, the cheers and boos of the players. Kids ran around with arms full of stuffed skeletons, ghosts, and candy corns, and you tried not to look too longingly at the plushes. But, of course, when you glanced up at Bucky, his eyes were already on you.
Another flurry of butterflies tickled your lungs.
“Do you want—”
“Come and test your aim! Only five dollars for five shots! Gotta pop five balloons to win!” One of the workers shouted from a dart-throwing game, cutting him off. “C’mon, man! Think you can pop all five and win your girl a prize?”
Your girl. Your girl. Bucky’s girl. No, you internally scolded yourself. Bucky’s friend.
Thankfully, Bucky didn’t engage, attempting to steer you away when you turned to look.
“Ah, that’s what I thought!” The worker pressed on. “Bro doesn’t want to embarrass himself! Come over here, sweetheart, I’ll win a prize for ya’!”
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.
“Bucky, don’t let him—”
“You wanted a prize, right?” He dragged you behind him up to the booth, and slapped a five-dollar bill on the table in front of the worker, who was very obviously no more than seventeen years old, his name badge reading Mike.
“Just five rounds? You sure, old-timer?” Mike goaded.
Bucky shrugged. “I’m feelin’ lucky.”
Mike set the darts on the table and stepped off to the side, leaning over the table to peer at you. “You think he can do it?” The teen asked with an oily smile.
“With his eyes closed,” you replied curtly, moving back to give Bucky some room.
Bucky glanced down at you, a warm smile melting the ice in his eyes, before he loosed his first dart. The balloons were organized by color, with a few gold and silver ones scattered throughout, presumably for the larger prizes hanging from the awning.
The first dart hit one of the gold balloons so hard, it nearly tipped the board backwards.
Mike choked on his drink. But before he could say anything, Bucky threw the next four darts, one for each golden balloon, the pops loud as firecrackers. Each one made your heart jump higher in your throat, beating like a drum beneath your skin.
“Holy shit,” the teen mumbled, eyes wide. “Are you like—”
“I believe that earns a jumbo prize,” Bucky taunted, pointing at the giant purple bat hanging in the corner.
Mike tugged on one of the darts and found that it had hit so hard, the tip had bent into the wood. He’d almost certainly need pliers to pry them out. “Sure, uh, y-yeah.”
“It's barely going to fit in my apartment,” you giggled, wrapping your arm around his and squeezing. “Thanks, B.”
He winked at you. “’Course, doll—actually,” Bucky interrupted the teen as he struggled to reach the bat. “We’ll come back for it later.”
“But what if someone—” Mike started.
He dropped another ten on the table, letting his sleeve hike up just enough to reveal his metal wrist. “You’ll keep an eye on it for me, yeah?”
Mike's jaw dropped, nodding frantically. “Yes, sir! Whatever you need—”
Bucky waved and steered you away before he could make any more of a fuss. “Fucking kids,” he grumbled when the two of you were out of earshot.
“Yeah, well, you showed him,” you chuckled, noticing that your arm was still looped in his and quickly retracting it.
“Didn’t do it for him,” he said, a smug smile crinkling the corners of his azure eyes, and you nearly dissolved into a puddle right then and there.
God, you were hopeless.
Only a few people separated you and Bucky from the entrance to the haunted house. It was vampire themed, built to look like a gothic mansion, draped in cobwebs and red velvet, bloody footprints and drag marks along the sidewalk leading up to the entrance. Organ music blasted from a nearby speaker, the resonant notes sprawling out like the crimson fog at your feet.
Bucky stuck tight to your side, head on a swivel as you inched along, metal hand gripping the railing to create a barrier between you and the people behind you. Not that they dared get closer than a few feet, but Bucky didn't seem to care.
“Hey,” you said, drawing his attention from the scare actor prowling a dozen paces away with a plastic chainsaw. “Everything okay?”
He made an affirmative noise in his throat, gaze returning to the actor.
“Welcome to Count Dracula's castle!” The greeter at the door crowed, flinging his red-lined cape wide. “Are you ready for a tour?”
You and the rest of the group going in with you whooped with excitement as he lead you inside. Bucky shifted to stand behind you, and you had to admit, it did make you feel a little less nervous than you normally would.
The house was dark and winding, with flashing red lights and swooping bats. The metallic smell of blood was pumped through the vents, faint enough to creep you out without being too visceral. Nothing had jumped out yet, but Bucky still inched closer to you, a hand falling to your hip.
The shock of it nearly made you stumble, the bare skin of his real hand scalding against your exposed midriff.
Then, with a screech of organ keys, a girl covered in blood came tearing out of one of the rooms, screaming her head off as she raced through your group.
You jumped, a giddy peel of laughter bursting out of you, and Bucky’s arm slid fully around your waist, turning to iron as he yanked you back against his chest. You could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, but he kept you moving forward when you tried to peer back at him.
Every scare actor that jumped out seemed to ratchet Bucky's stress higher and higher, but you were having a blast, adrenaline surging through you as you moved deeper into the castle.
“Having fun?” He murmured against your ear as you passed through a quieter hallway overlooking a haunted graveyard.
You nodded, grinning ear to ear, and some of the tension in his shoulders ebbed.
Then, the group was split up, leaving just you and Bucky to navigate the next section. You clung a little tighter to him, the music growing soft and eery, shadows creeping closer. A distant scream made you jump back into Bucky's arms, and he wrapped you up in both of them. One across your waist, the other around your shoulders.
“I've got you,” he shushed, nose brushing the shell of your ear, and your lower belly flooded with heat, thighs tensing.
And of course, a poor scare actor chose that moment to throw himself at you from a dark wardrobe, wielding a kitchen knife above his head.
Bucky was there and gone in a blink, moving so fast he was little more than a lethal blur. He grabbed the actor's wrist in a crushing grip, slamming it back against the wall so hard the plastic knife clattered to the ground. Bucky kicked it away on instinct, sending it skittering into the shadows.
“Bucky!” You gasped, reaching for him, but knowing better than to actually touch him.
“Jesus Christ, man!” The actor wailed, squirming under Bucky's ruthless hold. “It's not real!”
Bucky dropped him just as quickly as he'd seized him, letting the kid crumple to the ground, cradling his wrist to his chest.
“I think you broke it, asshole,” he whined, scooching away from the still looking super-soldier.
“You're lucky I didn't rip it off,” Bucky snarled.
“Alright, alright—” like grabbing the collar of a growling dog, you tucked your fingers into Bucky's palm and urged him to take another step back. “We're really sorry, just—just put some ice on it and, uh, pick a different target next time. Bucky, come on.”
After a few racing heartbeats, he finally relented and let you drag him out of the closest exit sign and into the bustling festival once again.
“Are you okay?” You asked, leading him into a quieter corner behind one of the vendors.
He clenched his jaw, eyes lowered to the ground. “I shouldn't have come.”
Your heart cracked. “Bucky, no—”
“You were having fun and I—I can't control myself—”
“Hey—” you cupped his jaw, lifting his eyes to yours, “—it was an accident. There's no one else I'd rather be here with.”
His eyes softened, his pupils expanding slightly, but he shook his head. “I'm not good at this sort of thing, and you and I both know it.”
And suddenly, you weren't talking about the festival anymore. Your hand fell limp at your side as anxiety slithered up your throat, snaring your tongue so you couldn't speak.
Friends, friends, friends. Just friends.
He tilted his head, brow furrowing. Something in your expression must have given you away. The anxiety tipped into panic, and suddenly you needed to be anywhere but here before you made a complete fool of yourself.
“Hey, why don't we, uh—let's try the corn maze!” You said, definitely a little too loudly in your haste.
“Right now? Honey—where are you going? Wait—”
You were already gone, peeling off into the crowd and across to the entrance for the corn maze, marked with giant scarecrow guardians and a wooden sign illuminated with multi-colored lightbulbs: “Linus's Corn Maze: Find the Great Pumpkin!”
He caught up to you before you could plunge into the dimly lit path, hand circling your wrist. “Why are you runnin’ from me?” His accent slipped out; it always did when he was frustrated, but you couldn't handle the fizzy way it made your blood feel. Like freshly popped champagne.
“No, no—I’m not!” You couldn't look at him, racking your mind for an excuse. You just needed a second, just a moment to get your head straight so you didn't fuck this all up. “I bet I can find the Great Pumpkin before you!”
“Wait, just hang on—”
“Last one to the center has to buy funnel cake!” You dashed to the left, disappearing around a wall of corn, pretending not to hear him shouting your name. God, you were stupid. So, so stupid. That was about the lamest excuse you could have possibly come up with, but it slipped out before you could rangle it in, desperate to regain a semblance of control.
You kept walking, keeping a brisk pace as you took random turns, going deeper and deeper into the corn maze as you tried to sort out the thoughts swirling in your head. Eventually, you stopped passing other festival-goers, the shadows growing longer, darker, as you drifted further from the festival lights. Your path is illuminated by flagging fairy lights and the moon. The music was distant now, muffled by the crinkle and hush of countless rows of cornstalk.
He was going to be so pissed when he found you. And he would find you. It was only a matter of when.
Why had he been looking at you like that? Calling you honey? Did he know how you felt and was just toying with you? Or was he just oblivious to the effect he had on you?
No, Bucky never missed anything. The slightest hitch in your breath would have him looking up from his work. He could read you like a book.
But Bucky wasn't cruel, either. He wouldn't lead you on or tease you for developing feelings. So, what was he doing? Trying to pick you up at your apartment, fussing over your needs and outfit, buying you the little trinket that you were now holding in a death grip as you walked. Was all that his idea of being friends? Because you weren't sure how much more of this you could take.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, lungs drawing tight as you walked and walked and walked. Every snapping twig and scuffle made you flinch, wondering if it was Bucky about to spring from the stalks. But there was something else coiling in your belly beside the fear, something heady and slick, a thrumming between your legs that grew stronger with every passing second. Mixing with the adrenaline to create an intoxicating cocktail that was soaking through your underwear.
Fuck, where were all the other people? Surely, it wasn't just you in this maze…
You turned another corner, stepping out into a larger clearing. Hay bales and pumpkins were littered around the space, brightened with extra string lights and paper lanterns. The Great Pumpkin sat on a platform at the center with a giant, toothy grin, mocking you. Because standing right beneath it, jacket discarded and beefy arms crossed over his chest, was the Winter Soldier.
“Hey!” You called, plastering on a smile even faker than the pumpkin. “You win! Guess I have to…”
The intense look on his face stole the breath from your lungs, words puttering out. He crooked a gloved finger, a silent order to approach, and your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.
You crossed the clearing, stopping an arm's length away. “M’sorry,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around yourself to cover your body, the cold wind passing straight through your pathetic little sweater.
“For what?” He asked, his voice not quite as sharp as his expression.
“For running away…”
“Look at me,” he ordered, stepping closer and tilting your chin up with his right hand. His eyes were burning, firelit, but not with rage. You knew what he looked like when he was angry, and this was something…different. Something you hadn't seen before that had your legs trembling. “Why did you run?”
Your lungs withered in your chest, excuses dying on your tongue. “I—because, uh—”
“You want to know what I think?” He asked, voice rough as the gravel underfoot. “I think you've been running from me for a while.”
You knew better than to lie, so you said nothing, frozen like a rabbit.
“We’re done with that,” he purred, hand sliding along your cheek to card into your hair, tugging at the roots to crane your head back. He leaned in closer, warm breath fanning across your wind-bitten lips. “I’ve caught you now.”
Unable to bear it another second, you shifted forward, closing the last few centimeters between you, and pressed your lips to his in a tentative kiss. It was barely a peck, but it damn near knocked your soul out of your body, streaking through you like a bolt of lightning.
He groaned low in his throat, grip tightening, and kissed you back with a fervor that made your head spin. His mouth pillaged yours, rough and claiming, teeth dragging along your lower lip until you gasped, and he tangled his tongue with yours, swallowing the breathless little sounds you made. You curled into him, hands sliding over the solid expanse of his chest, relishing in the warmth of his body as it sheltered you from the biting October wind. Both of you pushing and pulling, desperate to be closer.
You couldn't believe this was happening, that he wanted you as badly as you needed him. If it wasn't for the near-painful grip he had on your ass and the burning heat of his kiss, you'd think you were dreaming. Or had died and gone to heaven.
But it was real. He was here, in your arms, kissing you like he was starving and your mouth was his favorite meal.
“Bucky,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to mouth at your throat, the muscle of his tongue hot and heavy against your pulse.
“Taste so fucking sweet,” he gruffed, teeth scraping across your collarbones. “Knew you would, my sweet girl.”
Fuck, maybe you had died and gone to heaven.
“Your girl?” You squeaked, heart racing like a rabbit trapped beneath your ribs.
He lifted his head, those ferine eyes boring into yours. “Mine.” Eyes still locked with yours, he walked you backwards until you bumped into a stack of hay bales, the straw rough against the tender skin of your thighs, and you gasped. His mouth was on yours again, seeking, hungry, and he tossed you on top of the stack like you were weightless. Hips wedged between your knees, a leather-clad hand spread across your lower back, anchoring your body against his.
“Bucky, where—” a moan splintered your question, delicate as shattering glass, when his pelvis tilted against yours. “Where are all the people?”
“Cleared them out,” he sighed against your lips. “They were getting in the way.”
“In the way?” Your brain was rapidly emptying, gray matter turning to mush as you rocked back against him, need spiraling like an inferno through your body.
He nodded, his bare hand dipping between your bodies. “Had to find you—needed you.” His fingers hooked through the netting of your tights, grazing the soaked gusset of your panties. “May I?” he asked, grit-laden, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“Please.”
His elbow wrenched back, tearing through the nylon with an audible snap. “Chasing you made me fucking crazy—you make me fucking crazy.”
You bobbled your head, his words barely registering as his fingers dragged over your panties, pressing the fabric against your puffy heat. Making you feel just how wet you were for him. Pleasure rippled through you, the relief bordering on agony, and you burrowed your face in his shoulder, as if you could escape from it. Hide from the intensity of how he made you feel.
“Ah, ah,” he tsked, gloved hand scruffing you like a kitten and tugging you back. “You’re done hiding from me, remember?” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, gliding through your slick to smear circles around your aching clit. “Your body can’t lie, hm? You liked running as much as I liked chasing, didn’t you? Quick little thing.” His voice had taken on a saccharine edge, whiskey-sweet with just as much kick. It burned through you, intoxicating.
You whimpered, tipping your hips into his searching palm, fingers curling in his sweater.
“Use your words, smart girl,” he purred with a wolfish smile.
“Y-yes, Bucky,” you stuttered. “But I never meant—I-I didn’t know you wanted me—fuck—that you wanted me too,” you confessed, your train of thought slipping like silk through your fingers.
“Oh, honey,” he said, releasing his hold on you. His belt clinked, zipper sliding down. You felt it then, just how desperately he wanted you too, hard as a fist and thrumming as he sawed through your slit. “I would chase you to the ends of the earth.”
Your thighs clenched around his hips, a broken moan escaping when the head of his cock nudged against your clit. “I can’t wait anymore—please—”
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he grated, jaw flexing as he notched the tip at your entrance. “Breathe for me, baby—oh, fuck—” he eased inside, just the tip dipping into your heat, and both of you gasped, the stretch bordering on euphoric. “That’s a good girl, taking that cock so well—goddamn, you feel unreal—”
He slid about halfway in, inch by brutal inch, your body tight as a clenched fist, but you were flying high, pleasure washing over you like the tide. He was everywhere, everything, and you clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He bracketed an arm around your waist, drawing you closer as he sank to the hilt, muffling his moan into your hair.
“How’s that feel?” He asked, stroking your hair while you trembled around him. So tender it made you dizzy.
“More,” you whined, mouthing at the harsh angle of his jaw. Savoring the feel of his stubble against your skin. “Fuck me, baby, please—”
He didn’t hesitate, drawing his hips back painfully slow just to slam back into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You keened, vice tightening around your guts as he set a punishing pace. All you could do was cling to him and take it, the obscene sounds of your bodies echoing into the night air around you. But, he held you like you were made of glass, despite fucking you like you were anything but. Careful to keep his metal hand laid flat against the hay behind you, though you could hear the soft whirring and clicking of the plates from the effort of holding still.
“Feel like fucking heaven—knew you would,” he panted, smearing a sloppy kiss to your shoulder where your sweater slipped down. “My good girl, huh?”
You nodded, meeting him thrust for thrust as the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. “Yours.” You dragged him in for another blistering kiss, teeth knocking together in your fever. His hips lost their rhythm, stuttered as he groaned low in his throat.
His fingertips found your clit, rubbing tight little circles that had your toes curling in your boots, eyes crossing as you pleasure mounted higher and higher. Teetering on a razor’s edge of oblivion.
“C’mon, honey. Come for me—fuck, I’m right there with you—” his cock kicked inside of you, surging even deeper than before, and you shattered.
Bliss spilled through the cracks of you, brilliant and burning as liquid gold. Bucky tipped over the edge with you, muffling a cry into your neck as he fucked you both through it, ringing out every drop of pleasure until you both sagged against the hay, panting and delirious.
“Baby, baby—” he cooed, peppering kisses across your sweaty temple as he smoothed the hair out of your face. “Are you okay?”
You nodded, picking a piece of hay out of his hair with a grin. “Perfect, now.”
He smiled back, shoulders dropping, and he kissed you again, this one slower, sipping, savoring. “Naughty thing, letting me fuck you in the middle of a corn maze—” he teased.
You gasped, giggling and swatting at his shoulder as he hauled you up. There it was again—that fuzzy, champagne feeling. “And now I’m gonna let you buy me a funnel cake.”
“But I won!” He protested, grabbing his jacket from a nearby stack and wrapping it around your torso.
“Yeah, and already got your prize.” You smirked, pecking his cheek.
“Fair point, brat,” he hummed, catching your chin to draw you in for another kiss. “Taste sweeter than funnel cake, anyway.”
Bruce Wayne would never call you his wife before you were truly his wife.
He's not one to say "look at my wife" or "this is my wife" when you're just dating.
No. To him, that title is important, too important.
He remembers his father putting a beautiful pearl necklace on Martha's neck, remembers how his fingers would brush the skin of her neck while his mother's gaze was fixed on the mirror in front of them.
Thomas would only look at her, and when he fastened the necklace and she turned to look at him, he remembers how their eyes would meet and his father would always smile and say "my beautiful wife" in the softest tone he'd ever heard.
So no, Bruce doesn't take the title lightly, because marriage means you choose him forever, with all his virtues and despite all his hundreds of flaws, despite his stubbornness and his difficulty showing emotion.
Having Martha Wayne's ring on your finger means to him that you'll wake up next to him every day, that you'll kiss his scars and be there to hold his hand in his worst moments.
It's devotion, it's giving your all, it's loyalty.
Eternal love.
Because no matter how complicated it gets, when he's standing in front of you looking into your eyes, when he says "I do," he says it forever.
He won't even say those words at the wedding reception.
He'll call you "the love of my life" or "the queen of my heart," but not "my wife." Not yet.
He only says it after the confetti has already fallen, the champagne glasses are empty, your shoes are on the floor, and his tie is lying somewhere.
He says it when no one else is around, when it's just the two of you with happy smiles on your faces despite the tiredness from hours of dancing, laughing, and drinking with your closest friends. He takes your hand, caresses your knuckles, and brings it to his lips.
Lingering longer than necessary as he softly kisses your skin, which to him is more valuable than diamonds and more delicate than porcelain.
He looks into your eyes and smiles with such truth on his face, a twinkle in his eyes.
"My wife."
He tucks one of your wild strands of hair behind your ear even though his hair is a complete mess.
He brings his face close to yours, so close that your noses touch and you can feel his warm breath on your lips as he looks at you as if your eyes contained stars.
"My dear wife" his husky voice, so cold and intimidating to others, was now, to you, the definition of love, of affection, and warmth.
So no, Bruce Wayne is not the kind of man who would call you his wife before you are officially his.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—★—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
My dear husband, how much I love you.
English is not my native language. Requests are open. Reblogs, likes, and comments are greatly appreciated.
last night I woke up in the middle of the night in panic but couldn’t remember if I had a dream or not so I assumed I was gonna throw up and I was like you CANNOT throw up so I sat there until I fell asleep again 🙂↕️ don’t believe the rumours guys saliva is NOT a sign that you have to puke you can fight it
Alfred felt as though it was incredibly inappropriate for a butler to accompany his young master to any sort of gala or gathering so Bruce had to get used to being by himself very quickly at a young age
Due to being left all alone when he would usually be with his parents, Bruce was put in increasingly unsafe situations over and over. Most of the time, there was no safe adult for him to feel comfortable enough telling. And if there was, how would he know they were safe?
He could tell Alfred, but what good would that do? Alfred has told him time and time again that he is his employee, nothing more and nothing less. Alfred cannot help him. Alfred cannot save him
Alfred doesn’t want to
I believe that at a very early age, due to how most of the socialites and rich people are in Gotham, Bruce had to get used to unwanted stares, touches, and advances
And he’s so pretty. He’s been so pretty ever since he was small, even with his parents alive they had to work hard to keep him safe. To keep others away. To draw a hard line in the sand for what is acceptable and what is not. But now they’re gone and he’s trying to keep himself safe. But people always want to touch, take, possess, and destroy pretty things
But all of his children are pretty too.
With all of his kids he makes sure that they’re as safe as can be, unlike how it was with him
The first time that he brings Dick to a gala, he holds the boy the entire time. Dick’s face is mostly tucking into Bruce’s suit jacket, shielding him from the flashes of the paparazzi and unwanted stares. Especially with his ‘exotic’ heritage of being Romani… it’s a recipe for disaster in Gotham
Bruce refuses to let a single person touch Dick, even socialites that he trusts. He knows how quickly someone you trust can turn on you once they realize you’re vulnerable.
He keeps Jason by his side as well. Gotham high society hates anyone who didn’t grow up rich. If he’s not by Jason’s side, he makes sure Dick is. Dick can now fend for himself, but Bruce always makes sure they’re in his line of sight.
Tim has been to these parties before, and considering how negligent his parents were… Bruce makes sure to tell Tim that he would never be mad at him for anything that happened and he is not to blame. That adults should have protected him and saved him. He tells Tim all the things he wished someone had told him when he was younger. They hug and cry about it.
He’s always so thankful that Stephanie never wanted to go to galas as mean as it makes him sound. She never had to be subjected to the cruelties of adults who had no business leering after young girls. Now that she’s older and sometimes pops in if Tim’s going, Bruce knows that they’ll protect each other.
Cass is strong and smart, but she’s also very very new to this life and more vulnerable than the rest of his kids. Bruce wishes he could give her a sense of normalcy. It’s just another thing that’s he failed at.
He knows that if push came to shove, like the rest of his children, she would not hesitate to defend herself. But there should be no shove. She shouldn’t have to. Bruce dances with her all through the night every time she decides to grace a gala with her magnificent presence. It keeps her happy, it keeps her away from harm
His youngest baby is a fire cracker, ready to take on anyone and anything that could possibly be perceived as a threat to him and his family. As much as his other babies joke that he keeps Damian nearby to stop him from stabbing people, he doesn’t want anyone to look at Damian.
Damian is barely older than he was when he returned back to Gotham high society. The only difference is that Damian now has him and all of his siblings. It’s still hard to let go, even if he knows his children are there to keep an eye on everything
Duke is very similar to Jason in more ways than one, epically since he was also born on the ‘poorer’ side of Gotham that most elites loathe unjustly. He’s seen it before, even with high standing black families. Being suddenly accused of stealing a watch or pickpocketing an expensive pearl necklace. Lives ruined simply because of the color of their skin
Nothing like that will ever happen to Duke in his presence. Bruce knows he can’t protect Duke from all the racism in the world, but man if he doesn’t want to try
Bruce has never let his family deal with his issues. He believes he’s simply not worth the trouble. So whenever he gets hit on at galas in ways that make him uncomfortable he just fakes a smile. When he feels unfamiliar hands touching him and grabbing at his body, he fakes more smiles and leans into if there are too many people watching.
Just as he’s about to make an excuse, any kind of excuse to finally get away and take a breather, Dick suddenly pops up in front of him while he feels Jason and Duke slide up behind him, pushing away the elites that had circled him
Bruce makes a soft confused sound, trying to figure out what was happening, but then Damian’s tugging on his sleeve and he already has his baby in his arms. The whirlwind that is Tim and Steph together sweep him away from the confused group of elites.
The group makes their way back over to where Cassandra is smiling expectantly, giggling softly at the confused expression on Bruce’s face.
“Dance with me?” She requested softly, knowing that Bruce would never refuse her. Bruce squeezes Damian to his chest before handing him over to Tim, which Damian surprisingly doesn’t protest
Bruce takes Cassandra’s hand and they dance around the ballroom floor with ease, over and over one of Bruce’s children came and swept him away before anyone else could get the chance
“Don’t worry, we got you Dad.” Dick smiled softly as Bruce spun him around before being passed over to Stephanie and Damian.
“I know.” Bruce chuckled, feeling so safe for the first time in a long time. “I know.”
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