Lost my limit cause I'm dumb and I'm passionate

Warnings: the reader is described as a girl/woman and has a vagina and breasts, and as with most of my fics, the primary pronouns used for the reader are you/yours - at one point, the reader is referred to by a teacher as ‘Miss’; the only aspect of the reader’s looks that is described is her body type - she is described as fat/plus sized, and this is something that Isaac finds heavily desirable (even if other side characters and other people in this universe do not); mention of the reader being called rude names due to her body type by an outside random character; one mention of Isaac lifting the reader - but it’s not unrealistic, credited to his supernatural strength; the reader’s clothing is somewhat described - she is described as wearing a dress and heels (and being generally feminine); other aspects of the reader’s looks are not described - the reader’s hair type, hair colour, eye colour, and skin colour/race are not described in anyway; the term Y/N is used (in this case, the term L/N, as in Last Name, is also used) (and as with all my fics, I highly recommend getting a word replacer extension to make the experience more immersive and fun); mentions of Erica x Boyd as a background ship; mentions of Scott x Allison as a background ship (and technically, mentions of them having rough consensual sex when Scott experienced a similar rut); hints at Erica x Isaac as a background ship, mostly mentions of them having casual sex; mentions of Isaac’s past trauma (his mother and brother dying, his father’s abuse - glossed over, not discussed in detail); mentions of Isaac being taller than the reader - this is based on the fact that he is over six feet tall and would be taller than most people; this is mostly smut with very little plot; this could possibly be seen as dubious consent with it being a rut fic, but I have made it clear that the characters very much want this, so not really; Isaac experiences a ‘rut’ - he experiences a rush of hormones due to the adrenaline of having a panic while being in close proximity with a potential ‘mate’; scent kink - mentions of how Isaac loves your scent and how werewolves identify a potential ‘mate’ by scent; mentions of Isaac’s claustrophobia; descriptions of panic attack symptoms (Isaac has a claustrophobic panic attack); there are no specifically defined roles, but Isaac is more submissive and the reader is more dominant (Isaac is very subby, because I am such a sucker for Sub Top Isaac); the reader calls Isaac ‘puppy’ and ‘good boy’ (would it really be one of my Isaac fics if that didn’t happen?); hair pulling (towards Isaac); praise kink/verbal praise - both ways, but a lot towards Isaac; oral sex - reader receiving; unprotected sex - penis in vagina sex; breeding kink (generally undertones of it throughout because it’s a rut fic); reader gets scratched by Isaac’s claws - a small, minor injury; I think that’s it, but please let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: I love this one SO MUCH. I love dumb puppy Isaac, and I don't think I could write him as a dom if I tried (maybe unless it's him and reader aggressively topping Stiles together) - but yeah, this is my favourite form of Isaac fic to write, and I hope to write 10,000 more.

...

Isaac craved a normal day.

Of course, his life had been anything but normal since he had received the bite of an Alpha and became a freaking werewolf, but hey – a guy could hope. (Of course, when he truly thought about it, his life hadn't really been normal since his mother had died and his brother had gone off to Iraq, eager to die at the hands of the military than at the hands of their grieving father. But – he didn't have time to unpack all that.)

He just tried to move through life simply, taking it one day at a time. And of course, his hopes for a single normal day were flushed down the drain when he saw you. Beautiful, perfect, amazing you standing in the foyer of the school, handing out flyers for… something. 

Of course, you were charismatic and confident enough to go up and approach people at random, and ask them about whatever you had to say. You were so bright, so brilliant, your smile lit up a room so well. And Isaac had to avoid you at all costs.

He tried to sneak past you, but of course - you saw him first. 

“Isaac!” You called out his name and ran around the table you had set up, bringing a bright green flyer toward him with an outstretched hand. “I'm working with a group that's building a community garden this weekend - it's a place where they can teach kids how to grow their own food, and the excess produce goes to a food pantry.”

Of course, you, with your big heart… you were always working on some kind of charity project. You were such a good person, and it only made Isaac infinitely more attracted to you.

“I understand if you're busy,” You looked at him through your lashes, probably more an affect of his height than you intentionally trying to be demure, pure shining hope in your eyes that pulled right at his gut. “You – you probably have some busy, blooming social life.”

You let out a nervous chuckle, and Isaac truly had no clue what to say. Currently, his social life consisted of trying not to die at the hands of blood-thirsty Alphas and hanging out on the couch with Scott, playing video games and eating junk food. Did you assume that he was popular for some reason?

When he didn't speak, and only stood there staring at you awkwardly with his jaw clamped shut, you continued on:

“But you know, if you have some time to spare, we could really use the help of a big, strong guy like you.”

You reached out and gently squeezed his arm, as if to emphasize your point by proving just how strong his bicep was underneath the bulk of unseasonably thick cardigan sweater, and a wave of heat rushed through his body at your touch. You pulled back too quickly for his liking, letting out another nervous laugh, taking the widening of his eyes and the way he bit his lip to mean that he hadn't received the touch well.

Wait – were you flirting with him? 

You had a distinct look in your eyes, and he thought he was delusional for mistaking it as affectionate. 

“Yeah, I-” He laughed nervously, reaching out and grabbing the flyer, not truly looking at the paper as it became wrinkled in his nervous grip. “I – I'll see.” 

“Thanks.” You grinned at him, your smile so sweet. Fuck – how were you so perfect? “And, I dunno, maybe we could go out afterwards? And maybe… we could go get coffee or something? You know – just the two of us?” 

Isaac wanted to scream. He wanted to say 'yes' so badly, but he knew that it was such a terrible idea. Scott had warned him about being alone with a girl he liked too much...

And on top of that, he knew that he might not even have the time. How much of an asshole would he look like if he made plans with you and then he had to stand you up because Scott needed his help or because Alphas were attacking again?

He knew that realistically, he would probably get wrangled into some plan by Scott, or just end up spending his weekend alone. But it was nice to imagine spending his weekend with you, out in the sun, watching you sweat as you knelt down in the dirt… 

He swore he could smell you in the air now, your skin so close… 

“Isaac?” 

Blood began to thump harder inside his veins, and he felt his cock dangerously swelling to life... he swore, if he lapped at the air hard enough, he could practically taste your skin.

“Isaac? Are you okay?”

The deep rooted concern in your voice only made his blood hotter.  

“I have to go.” He grunted out rudely, turning sharply on his heel and marching in a direction that he definitely had not intended to go, eager to get away from you as quickly as possible. 

“Okay.” You sighed quietly to yourself, disappointment ripe in your voice. “I'll see you later, I guess.”

… 

Isaac liked to believe that he hadn't changed much in the grand scheme of things. He liked to believe that truly, he hadn't changed much since Derek had turned him. Sure, an Alpha's bite was the definition of change - giving an ordinary human the ability to transform into a powerful werewolf, causing them to sprout razor sharp claws and large canine teeth, giving them speed-healing and impossible new heightened senses. But Isaac liked to believe that beyond all that, he hadn't truly changed that much as a person. 

But deep down, he knew that wasn't true.

Even though he hadn't been the one to kill his father, he had still cowered in the man's shadow before his father was met with a violent, but seemingly karmic death. Before Isaac had ever known about the existence of werewolves or Kanimas or Alphas in Beacon Hills, he had been a very different person. He had been quiet, shy, reserved, someone seemingly terrified of his own shadow. He had been someone terrified to set a single toe out of line, fearful of the consequences that his father would reap down on him if he did. 

And now, Isaac was someone entirely different.

He knew that he had been a bit wild with the freedom when he had first tasted it. Threatening Lydia Martin so openly when the preteen heartbreak she had doled out onto him wasn’t even something he was still all too upset about, mostly seeking out a justification to hurt her because Derek had ordered it and he didn't want to believe that he was following the man too blindly. Brazenly raking his claws against lockers because it made him feel powerful, dry-humping Erica on the crowded dance floor of a rave when he wasn't even that romantically interesting in her just because it made him feel alive. 

He loved that feeling of being powerful, feeling like he could do anything. Before, being trapped in his father's house had made him feel so damn helpless, and it was addictive, finally being released from that, and getting to drink in the most anti-helpless feeling in the world.

It was something he had only previously tasted on the lacrosse field, only because his father had encouraged him to try out. His 'winning is everything' overly violent attitude caused him to only cheer for Isaac at games when he smashed into other players and nearly broke their bones with excessive force. Isaac knew that his father had the wrong ideas about what made someone a man, and he never truly got into the sport because he wanted some claim to brotherhood. Isaac himself just liked to run, liked to let it all out on the field. The only place his emotions were truly allowed to be free. And over time, he had come to like the pain of colliding with another person and feeling them crumble underneath him.

And somewhere in between, he did find balance. Under the guidance of Scott, who had been raised a lot better than he was – he learned that between freedom and power, there was a way to do right. He had learned something he never thought was possible – that he was capable of good. He made friends, even though he felt like he kept losing them at an impossible rate to dangers popping up all around him. 

And now, Isaac wasn't someone who cowered at every shadow or feared going home to his father's fist. He wasn't someone who feared being locked in a freezer for the smallest perceived wrong.  

He was someone who could confidently ride a motorcycle through the halls of Beacon Hills High and do a back-flip off the front of it, only thinking of revenge and spite, not even considering what punishment or consequences would come his way. 

However, that mindset did lead down another troubling path – because when he was met with the consequences of his own stupid actions, he didn't consider just how awful they would be. 

“Lahey, you're with Miss L/N - restocking the janitor's closet.”

This immediately presented two big problems for Isaac: the closet and you.

See, that was another big thing that had changed for him since The Bite – how he felt around you. Derek and even Scott had tried to warn him that dating would be very different, and how he would act around people he was attracted to would become entirely different because he would start to feel different.

Derek had given him a very blunt talk about how not to maul someone to death during sex, giving him straight forward and crude reminders about his claws and teeth. A topic that had come up after Isaac had helped him pull Boyd and Erica apart during a full moon where it looked like they were trying to maliciously tear each other to pieces, but Derek insisted that it was natural. He said that was how wolves 'mate'.

Scott had been a lot more tentative, treading around the subject, asking Isaac what his relationship status with Erica was like he was fishing for gossip, and telling him that things would 'feel' different now that he had heightened senses and the wolf in him would be triggered by a sudden rush of adrenaline. He had warned Isaac to be 'gentle' with any future partners, and told him that he should rush off and back away if he ever felt himself getting 'too out of control'.

Isaac had never really known what either of them meant, not to feel it for himself – not until he had been around you again. You were someone that Isaac had been crushing on for a long time. He had admired you for a distance long before the Bite had changed his life. In his opinion, you were the most gorgeous girl at Beacon Hills, far above Lydia or Erica or Allison – between your sparkling smile, your airy, excited giggle, your curvy figure, and the cute way you dressed, you were someone who had invaded his most private thoughts for a very long time. 

But between his father turning his life into a battle to survive and the newly discovered battle for survival that Derek had introduced him to, with the monsters and the new strange dangers around every other corner, there wasn't really time for him to date. Isaac wasn't ready to ask you out, not even with his newfound confidence.

He had spoken to you from time to time. The two of you were acquaintances – mild friends, at best. You had worked on a couple of class projects together, you had spoken to him in congratulations a few times after lacrosse games, and he had poorly flirted with you when he came into your work (a local hardware store downtown) by chance sometimes. But the two of you had never specifically 'hung out' outside of school before. Isaac liked to think it was because you had better things to do with your time, not because up until a few months ago, he had basically been on house arrest because his father demanded it. 

And with his father's presence being lifted from his life, he found it harder and harder to avoid spending time with you. Because he knew that according to Derek and Scott's warnings, he had to avoid getting to close to you.

Recently, Isaac found being around you increasingly more difficult. The few times a week that he was forced to be around you, in classes that you shared together or by chance outside of a class when you tracked him down to say hello: it was slowly driving him insane.

Whenever he caught a whiff of your scent - not just the lovely strawberry watermelon body mist that you always wore, or the vanilla lip gloss that you had swiped on, but something deeper, something that was so truly you. Your scent. Something so much more natural that he didn't want to believe was the raw scent to your pussy weeping between your thighs, somehow wandering up to his supernaturally strengthened nose. He couldn't stand to think on it for too long, because fuck – if he knew for certain that he was actually smelling your pussy through your clothes, then he might just lose it.

Whenever that scent hit him, his blood would pound hard through his body, and he would start to go feral. His claws would sprout against his will, the world would go blurry around the edges, and even though he couldn't see himself, he knew that his eyes were glowing. And at times, if he stuck around you too long, he would lose the capability of words, and he would start to pant like a fucking dog. 

He knew that you likely saw him as colder and more rude, because every time he was around you, he kept cutting off perfectly polite, calm conversations with a caveman grunt in order to storm off, eager to get away from you. He was afraid of what he would do if he had to stand there much longer, inhaling your scent, becoming more devolved from it by the second. He knew you wouldn't understand, but ultimately, it was more polite for him to cut you off and run away.

There was just something about you that was actively driving him insane. 

At one point, Derek had called it a rut. He said it was what werewolves called it when they were driven to their most basic instincts to mate and breed. Another animal instinct that they needed to fulfill that humans weren't as susceptible to.

(That word along had nagged at the back of Isaac's brain, delivering pictures of him pinning you down and shoving his cock deep inside of you, fucking you so full of his cum while you moaned for him, your body so hot around his cock – and he had spent more than an hour jacking himself raw, thinking about it.)

Derek said that it was most often triggered by two things – being around a compatible mate, aka being around someone who's body chemistry 'aligned with your own'. That, and being in a situation where one's adrenaline was forcefully spiked – a situation of fear, panic, or anger. And a combination of those two things was lethal, likely to trigger a rut that couldn't be stopped, even by the most masterful and experienced Alpha. Most likely because werewolves evolved to fight for their mates, so there was an underlying sexual impulse to fuck a compatible mate after you had just fought for them and won. 

At the time, Isaac didn't fully understand it. His brain had faded out a few times during the conversation, admittedly, not fully paying attention.

But now, he definitely understood more and more as he was gaining the real life experience, feeling the true effects of what Derek had been saying. And he knew for certain that he couldn't be near you for extended periods of time, because he likely wouldn't be able to control himself.

Which meant he especially couldn't be with you in the janitor's closet – a tight space that would likely trigger his claustrophobia and cause him to panic. If what Derek had told him was true, then he wouldn't be able to use the calm, level-headed control that Scott had taught him to keep himself sane in the face of your maddening scent. And he would never forgive himself for mauling you, for doing something so harsh to you against your will. Even if it wasn't technically his fault in the end. How the hell would he be able to explain that to you? You would end up thinking of him as a monster. And he would never recover from that.

As much as Isaac desperately wanted you, wanted so badly to push deep into your soaking wet cunt between those thick, plush thighs and pound into you with reckless abandon until you were stuffed full of his cum - he never wanted to hurt you. He would never do anything to you without your permission. He could never do that to you. So he needed to protect you from himself. At least, he needed to protect you from the hungry wolf inside of himself that wanted so badly to devour you.

“Mr. Clark, can you send me somewhere else?” Isaac asked quietly, shuffling out of his seat to crowd closer to the scrawny teacher to be heard. He didn't want to make this inquiry too loud or too obvious. Naturally, he didn't want to embarrass you by making it seem like he didn't want to work with you.

“No.” Mr. Clark said bluntly. “If you didn't want to be punished, you shouldn't have been fighting. Make better choices next time, Mr. Lahey.”

Isaac let out a sigh of frustration, wondering how the hell he could get out of this aside from simply tucking tail and running out of the classroom, which would inevitably only get him into more trouble later on. But then, you might not be there next time.

“Fighting?”

You disrupted his thoughts with a chuckle, coming up behind him, having risen from your seat at the back of the room. Your scent quickly came to engulf him like a deadly cloud as you brushed past him to grab the keys from Mr. Clark's extended hand - a small key ring with a couple of keys on it, one for the basement storage room with the cleaning supplies, and others for the janitorial closets around the school. Isaac found it strange that students were trusted with these, but he guessed that the free labour being brushed off onto them was worth the risk.

“I wanna hear that story.” You grinned at him. “Come on, big boy.” 

You put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him out of the room, throwing the nickname out there so casually, obviously having no clue that it practically buckled his knees. Despite everything he had been convincing himself of, he rushed to follow you down the hallway like a good, loyal dog, completely forgetting that the goal was to keep his distance from you. It was too late now. He was entranced by your presence, already feeling himself losing his better sense because of that scent. Feeling himself getting lost in his stupid wolfish instinct because of you, because of the sway of your wide hips directly in his sight, because of the jiggle of your thighs peeking out from under your skirt. 

He had to do something. He had to control himself. 

He had to try and distract himself.

“So - what are you in for?” Isaac asked, having to swallow thickly around the drool pooling in his mouth in order to form words. 

Conversation would be a good idea. He needed to focus on something else. 

He never thought you would be someone fit for detention anyway. You always seemed like such a good girl. Naturally, it caused him to wonder what you had done to land yourself in detention alongside him. 

“Guess,” You told him, looking over your shoulder at him, tossing him a sweet grin with a mischievous glint lighting up your eyes. 

Isaac found it far too adorable. The sight made him light headed with his affection for you, and he tripped down one of the stairs as the two of you descended down to the larger supply closet in the basement. You let out a cute giggle at this, and before you could pose concern over his clumsiness, Isaac spoke up again. 

“What? Did you turn in your homework too early?” He posed jokingly. He really couldn't imagine you doing anything worthy of punishment. Perhaps one of your teachers just had a vendetta against you. That would be the more logical reasoning for you to be here in his mind.

“No.” You chuckled softly in return, shaking your head as you used the keys to unlock the basement supply cage – a place that would have been intensely creepy if not for your shining presence there. “Come on, Isaac. I'm not such a goody-two-shoes. I can be bad sometimes, ya know.”

These words instantly put a picture in his mind of you down on your knees with his cock in your mouth, desperately trying to prove just how 'bad' you could be. He was instantly thankful for the relative darkness in the room and the fact that you were distracted with loading up supplies onto a cart, too busy to notice him adjusting the harshness of his zipper across his cock. You didn't see, and you couldn't make any comments about how terribly perverted he was for touching himself in that area. You couldn't stop and consider what kind of thoughts he might be having. 

Isaac forced himself to think about the awful smell of the boys locker room, dead bodies, anything to will his cock back down before he moved in to help you gather the supplies. He took a sharp breath, and finally mustered a reply.

“Seriously-” He said, his voice far too rough for his own liking, that stupid sex-addled, wolf-y adrenaline taking over his body again. Control yourself. He forced himself to have an aura of control. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Seriously, what did you do?” 

“You know Jason?” You posed. 

“Greenberg?” Isaac replied, mostly only knowing the annoying, obnoxious guy by his last name – often because Coach screamed it so much to yell at him in complaint. 

“Yeah.” You nodded. “Well, during class, he made a stupid 'joke' about how he couldn't see the board past my 'giant ass'.” 

You put both of these things furiously in air quotes, obviously not thinking that Greenberg's words had been anything comparable to funny, and only quoting his insensitive words to communicate just how much of an idiot he had been.

Isaac flared with anger. He knew that your beautiful body type – for some stupid reason – wasn't what most people considered attractive. It was something that was intensely difficult for him to comprehend. You were the most gorgeous creature he could conceive of – you were so much more, so round, so curvy, so perfect. If you ever blessed his presence by wearing something even slightly form fitting, he was distracted by even the slightest glance of you, loving every single roll and curve of your body, loving each dimple and ripple of your skin that he was able to catch a glimpse of.

Why didn't every single guy imagine fucking a bigger girl and feeling that thickness bouncing on their cock? Why didn't every guy dream of snuggling up to that soft warmth?

Isaac didn't like to spend long contemplating the stupidity of others, especially not people like Greenberg. Although sometimes, it gave him a flare of pride because he knew that he saw your beauty where others couldn't. Part of him was glad that there wasn't an entire mob of guys chasing you, especially not a bunch of idiots from the lacrosse team that would have spoken filth about you in the locker room. He knew that his rampantly jealous side wouldn't be able to handle it if half the guys on the team wanted to fuck you as badly as he did – he probably would have ended up benched for the rest of the season if he ended up carrying out that jealousy. So reasonably, part of him basked in their stupidity, enjoying the fact that he was one of the only ones who looked at your wide hips, your rolling curves, the slope of your stomach and saw gorgeous handles to grab onto while he fucked you into an oblivion (again, not that he was ever actually going to let himself do that). 

But he was glad that he got you all to himself, even if it was only in his daydreams.

Still – he would have to remind himself to check Greenberg extra hard on the field during their neck practice. 

“It wasn't even clever.” You laughed, a harsh bite in your voice that said those idiotic words, no matter how thoughtless and stupid, had still hurt you in some way. Isaac resisted the urge to reach out and pull you into a hug. “Anyway – I was just getting so tired of him. His voice constantly whining behind me, so – I smacked him with my textbook. And – apparently I broke his nose, or something.” 

You grinned at Isaac as you said this, and he couldn't help the sharp laugh that escaped him. 

“Oh my god.” He grinned back. “That's fucking amazing.” 

Another beautiful thing about you? Your confidence.

The two of you then made your way back upstairs, via the freight elevator, which you directed Isaac to because you knew how to use it. Apparently you had been down in the basement and used it to get extra chairs up to the gym during a drama night that the school held to raise money for charity – because of course, you spent your free time doing things like that.

In the small lulling silence, you turned your attention back to the reason that he had been put in detention. 

“So - you're also in detention because you hit someone?” You posed. “Mr. Clark said you got into a fight?” 

Isaac felt a wave of guilt rush over him, and hated that he couldn't explain the details to you. 'Oh yeah, the Alpha twins went psychotic on me because I realized that they've been killing people.' He just hoped that you didn't think of him as someone dangerous, or some kind of monster.

“Uh… yeah.” Isaac replied.

Technically, he hadn’t been in the fight that he had been blamed for, even if he had wanted to beat up the twins, very, very badly. And taking simply credit for that fight was much easier than trying to explain all the strenuous drama to you – especially when he didn't want you knowing about the existence of werewolves in Beacon Hills. He didn't want you getting involved with any of it. 

So instead, he just took the wrap of being someone who got into a fistfight on school grounds in the middle of the day. Which wasn't even entirely unlikely for him. He hated what you might think of him. He really didn't want you being afraid of him. 

Instead, you looked pensive as the two of you continued to walk to the janitor's closet together. 

“What was it about?” You asked, giving him a chance to explain, not immediately perceiving him as dangerous or guilty. Naturally, you saw the best in Isaac. 

“It's… complicated.” He sighed. “Just - you know those twins? The new guys?” 

You nodded. 

“You should stay away from them. They're really not good guys, and I… I don't want you getting hurt.” Isaac hesitated with the last part, not wanting to sound too affectionate or too sincere, and his stomach tightened at the way your eyes practically sparkled in reaction to his words. 

Little did he know, you were glowing inside – absolutely alight with your own bubbling affection at him being so warm towards you. For a while now, you thought that Isaac disliked you for some reason or found you annoying, even though it seemed like he actively sought you out. But it was a lot of mixed signals, with the way he had been cutting off your casual conversations, seemingly looking for an excuse to escape you when the two of you had only been interacting for a few minutes. And you hated being left confused when he ran off, even if he had been the one to first say 'hello', or if he spent entire class periods staring you down like you were the most interesting subject in the world.

You were left with that horrible emotional whiplash once again when he he snatched the keys from you in order to unlock the janitor’s closet, turning his back on you completely, not saying another word as he began to unload the supplies into the shelves. 

You sighed heavily, frustration knotting into your gut.

“Okay, did I do something?” You asked, picking up a bottle of cleaner and entering the spacious closet with him, caring much more about the conversation than the task you had been given.

You shouldered off your purse and dropped it carelessly in the corner, focused much more on Isaac – watching his whole body tense as he continued to work. He bent down to poke at some things on a lower shelf, keeping himself mindlessly busy, very intent not to look at you. He didn't say anything, continuing to ignore you.

“Isaac?” You pressed, slightly more stressed that he wouldn't even answer you. “Hello? Did I do something to piss you off? Because if I did, I would rather you just tell me-” 

“Look, it's not you.” Isaac said, standing abruptly and turning to face you. You were now entirely aware of his towering height, especially because of how you had to crane your neck slightly to look up at him. 

“Well, what is it then?” You pressed, trying not to let your words falter – hating now your attraction flared up at being this close to him.

“It's complicated.” He answered, his voice small, muting off with intense thought. 

“Isaac, if you're upset about something, you can talk to me.” You told him, reaching out to gently grab his forearm, something that only made him more tense. You reacted quickly, pulling away sharply, not wanting to force your touch onto him if he didn't want it. “I know you and I aren't very close, but I'm a pretty good listener, and I won't judge-” 

Just then, your words were cut off by a harsh bang – the sound of the closet door slamming shut, shrouding the two of you in complete darkness. You heard a distinct 'click' as it was locked from the outside, and then, harsh scraping. The sound of something intensely heavy being shoved across the floor and propped against the door to prevent the two of you from being able to get out. 

Panic flooded Isaac as the closet door slammed shut from the outside. 

No.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no!” 

He couldn't be trapped in here. 

He couldn't be trapped in here with you. 

Isaac pounded fruitlessly on the door, and reached for the handle, twisting it, becoming more horribly panicked as he felt it not budge an inch. Then he began to shake the doorknob so hard that the entire door shook in its frame – but he still couldn't move it. Not when something so large and heavy was blocking it from the outside.

He shoved his shoulder against the door, harshly, a few times, trying to bust it down, trying to shove that heavy thing out of his way. He was feeling his lungs swell more inside his chest each time, feeling his chest muscles becoming concrete, fighting him, his breaths becoming more intense and rapid each time – his panicked gasps sounding more and more like crying with each passing second. 

“No, no!” He cried out. “It's blocked from the outside.” 

He finally paused, pressing his forehead against the door in defeat. Suddenly, he felt all too hot, all too trapped inside of his own skin. 

He rushed to peel off his heavy cardigan, desperately needing some cool air, needing some way to breathe. You felt a pang of guilt as your eyes were drawn to the curve of his back muscles, the heavy slope of his shoulders as he panted, the sinful way his tight white shirt clung to his skin, especially now that sweat was gathering there. 

You felt terrible, looking at him with lust when he was clearly so upset, so panicked. 

“Isaac, it's okay, it's gonna be fine-” You reached out, trying to comfort him, but the second your fingers grazed across his shoulder, he let out a near feral growl. 

The sound startled you, and you let you a quiet squeal from the back of your throat.

“Get away from me.” He barked at you, his head still pressed tightly to the door, not looking at you. 

You drew back sharply, brewing with even more intense guilt. Okay – so he didn't like to be touched when he was upset. That was fine.

Isaac shook the door handle harshly again – he couldn't be trapped in here with you. He couldn't be this close to you, he couldn't risk getting caught up in your soft touch...

Every single panicked breath he took caused him to draw in more of the confined air, caused him to take in more heady lungfuls of your scent. And with each passing second that he was trapped inside this tight space with you, gulping down your scent, knowing that you were so damn close, he was losing it. The intensity of the blood thumping, claustrophobic panic was rapidly turning into a maddening, mind-melting lust.

He had to get out.

He had to escape.

If he didn't get out soon, then he wasn't going to have any sense left. And he was going to do something that he wouldn't be able to turn back from. Something that he might not even regret. A tiny part of him hoped that you wouldn't regret it either. A tiny little shred of hope lived inside of him that you might even want it, that you might want him -

He let out another feral growl, forcing himself to shake off that thought. No, you would never want him.

You spiked with fear as Isaac pounded on the door harshly, letting out a sharp, angry scream. 

“Let me out!”

“Isaac! Isaac, stop!” You yelled, trying your best to scream over him. “That's not helping!” 

He took a breath, pausing for a moment. His body craved more oxygen, and more of your gorgeous scent planted itself deep in his nose, so heavy on his tongue.

He was so fucked.

“Look, you need to calm down.” You said quietly, fearful that he would hurt himself if he kept this up. “Then we can figure out how to get the door open.” 

Painfully, he knew that you were right. But he didn't know how the hell he was going to calm down. Not with you so close by.

He collapsed onto the floor, squeezing himself back into the corner that was farthest away from you, putting a hand flatly over his mouth and nose, trying to douse down as much of your scent as he could. Your beautiful, raw, sweet scent – but of course, he was still bathed in it, absolutely undeniable. He was trying his hardest to even out his breathing while his muscles shook furiously. 

Your mouth became dry as you took in how truly pitiful he looked – his eyes wide and glassy, his forehead licked with sweat. Your stomach curled with a unique ache of sympathy, and you wanted nothing more than to help him. 

“I read somewhere that eating sour candy can help with panic attacks, I think I have some in here-” You were eager to help, rushing to get the words out as you thought of the solution.

You moved to grab your purse where you had dropped it earlier, bending at the waist to grab it off the floor, and that was when Isaac was truly done for. 

The way you bent perfectly revealed your underwear to him – your dress riding up just enough to reveal your panties, unintentionally revealing a little peek of your cloth-covered pussy to his eyes. And more importantly, exposing it to his nose.

The movement caused the scent to spike just enough in the open air to have his brain truly melt between his ears; his cock alive and throbbing inside his jeans, his claws sprouting out against his will, his eyes glowing a gentle yellow in the dark of the space. Mindlessly, his jaw lulled open in order for his tongue to spill out and lap at the air mindlessly, causing him to look more like a dog by the second, his body needing to drink more of that delicious fucking scent. 

Isaac, now panting much more like a bitch in heat than like someone having a panic attack, began to crawl mindlessly across the floor toward you, desperately seeking out more of your scent.

He startled you harshly when you felt something bump up against your panty-covered pussy lips from behind – in that moment, not knowing that it was the tip of his nose. You let out a yelp and jumped away from the sensation, accidentally dropping your open purse in the process, spilling the easily forgotten contents all over the floor as you tried to orient yourself and figure out what had just touched you. You shoved your body right up against the shelves that held the cleaning supplies, looking around through the darkness (that your eyes had well adjusted to by now), looking for what had touched you...

And you were met with an entirely strange picture – something right out of one of your fantasies. 

Isaac was on his knees in front of you – a very clear outline of his cock pushing up against his jeans, his white shirt sticking to him with sweat, making each of his beautiful muscles even more defined. His chest was heaving as he panted, open-mouthed, his eyes closed as he clearly tried to collect himself. 

“Sorry,” He panted quietly, a whiny edge on his voice that made him even more pathetic and even more sweet at the same time. “Sorry, I-” 

And then he crawled closer to you again, closing the gap, pinning you right up against the shelves, his body a hot, deadly force against your own. Even on his knees, as tall as he was, his head easily came right up to your waist, and he slouched, sloping his neck to rest his head against the soft plush of your stomach. You couldn't mistake the sound when he hummed contently, pushing his cheek into you, seemingly soothed by being closer to you.

Okay, so he did want to be physically comforted. 

“It's okay.” You told him, trying your best to use a soothing, soft voice. You reached a hand up on instinct and ran your touch through his hair – it was slightly damp from sweat, a burning heat coming off his skin. “It's okay. You're alright.” 

He let out a warbling moan, a sound that cut right through you, humming against your core like a tuning fork, reminding you just how badly you had always wanted him.

In an instant, you knew that claustrophobia was no longer the major issue at hand for him. Not when he was making sounds like that. It was almost like he was feral. Like he was some kind of animal. As though he was so turned on that he could no longer control himself.

You had no clue what to do, especially not when his large, hot hands came up to grip your hips, and his knees tightly bracketed your ankles, effectively keeping you from running away. Not that you ever would have wanted to. But it made it much harder to think when all you could feel was the thickness of his cock pressed against your calf, and his big, warm hands holding onto you like you were something so damn precious.

You felt an odd sharpness poking into your side, and when you glanced down, you saw that his nails had somehow sprouted into thick, brown claws. When he opened his eyes and looked up at you, instead of that sweet baby blues you had come to know, you were looking down at a unique, nearly shocking yellow. 

And then, somehow, it all came careening into perfect clarity.

You should have been terrified. But an incident with Allison about a month earlier meant that you knew exactly what was going on here. You went to her place early to pick her up for a nail appointment that the two of you had scheduled, only to find her room a chaotic mess, and to see her covered in bruises, with her shoulder bloody and clawed. You grabbed your phone, rushing to call the police, or at the very least, her father. And you had only panicked more when she knocked the device out of your hand and begged you not to. It led to her sitting you down and telling you about Scott. She told you all about his 'special abilities', and how her tempting him and teasing him on a full moon had led to the best sex of her life. 

You had no clue when the next full moon was, but it had to be soon for Isaac to be acting like this. 

An excited, lustful ripple went through you, and a distant murmur in the back of your mind told you that it was a terrible idea to have sex in a school supply closet. You really wanted to hush that voice.

“I - I thought you were having a panic attack.” You gasped, coming to the conclusion aloud for it to truly be real. 

“I was.” Isaac admitted in return, his voice oddly small, as though feeling guilty that he had somehow deceived you.

Isaac let out another whine, pressing his forehead tighter into your stomach as he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, desperately trying to hold himself back. He couldn't let this happen. No, no, no. You smelled so good – but no. His hands gripped your hips harder, his claws digging into you slightly. You were so close, but he wasn't allowed to touch you.

Allison saying the words 'best sex ever' kept ringing through your skull. You had imagined being with Isaac for so long, and now he was on his knees in front of you, so visibly desperate. Your pussy began to get wet as the thoughts truly hit you and the smell reached Isaac's nose within seconds. 

“Sorry, I'm sorry,” He whimpered, unsure what he was apologizing for – the thoughts he was having about you, or the fact that he might actually act on them with the rapid way that his self control was crumbling. “Sorry.” 

He nosed down to the edge of your dress, his actions entirely contrasting his words. He felt the need to apologize, but he ultimately, deep down, he knew that he couldn't stop what was about to happen. He couldn't help himself as he tightly shoved his face right up against the front of your underwear under your dress, causing your muscles to tense up in shock at the sensation, your thighs almost clamping around his face.

But still - you didn't find yourself hating it, not one bit. You just weren't used to guys being so brazen and direct with what they wanted from you. If anything, this was more of a turn-on.

You continued to pet soothingly through his hair as nosed tightly against your mound, the tip of his nose tracing a pattern on the front of your underwear that quickly sent dizzying tingles through you. He was panting even harder now, his breath fanning out over your thighs – seeing him so needy and wanting making you wetter and wetter by the second. 

“Don't be sorry,” You said, finally gathering more words past the horrible dryness of your mouth. “Don't be sorry. It's okay, puppy.” 

The nickname slipped so naturally from your lips – because how else could you think of him? On his knees for you, panting like a dog, looking at you with his big, sweet puppy eyes. He was a sweet, loyal little dog, and you wanted to keep him at your side forever. You wanted him to be your puppy.

Isaac let out a sharp whimper when he heard it, only further adding to your theory. You had wired into his animal nature, the way he looked so perfect on his knees for you, the way he was so desperate and mindless, looking for a command, silently begging to hump. He was your puppy now. 

You used your other hand to pet across the broadness of his shoulders, hating the intense tension that you felt there. You had no clue that he was ripe with stress from him holding himself back, forcing himself not to rip your clothes to shreds just so he could get at your pussy. Instead, for now, he settled for letting his tongue out – licking wetly at the cotton fabric of your panties, making your whole body jolt and making you cry out, bucking towards his face when he accidentally skimmed across your clit through your underwear. 

He let out another whiny moan.

The taste was so much better.

Unconsciously, a part of him hated sucking on the fabric, but another part of him said that he wasn't allowed to touch, wasn't allowed to move the stupid fabric out of the way, so this was definitely the next best thing. Part of him knew that he was lucky to be on his knees like this for you, that he was lucky to drink your scent like this. He was lucky to even be in the presence of a goddess like you.

His brain continued to melt away and be barely noticed when he began to hump against your leg like an animal, unconsciously grinding his cock against the firmness of your calf, seeking any friction that he could get against his aching, angry hard dick. 

“Isaac, puppy,” You breathed out, giving a gentle tug on his hair, trying to force him to look up at you – when he did, he was so damn beautiful. 

His eyes had calmed back down to that beautiful blue – somehow, soothed by having you under his tongue. Soothed by finally letting himself drink in your scent, rather than denying it. And though his eyes were still tearful and watery, there was something so utterly beautiful in how pathetic he looked – a proper fucking dog, on his knees for you, panting hard with his tongue out, wordlessly begging to serve his master. 

“Come on, it's okay,” You said, further trying to soothe him, an instinct inside of you nagging, telling you that you needed to take care of him in this vulnerable state. “Tell me what you need. Whatever you need, puppy - I'll give it to you.” 

Your whole body was vibrating – you had never been so turned on in your life, and if he asked you to runway with him at that point, you likely wouldn't have thought twice before packing a bag.

Isaac let out a sob, absolutely incoherent, and shut his eyes again, seemingly distraught as he pressed his head against your stomach. He was once again enjoying the softness, soothing himself there. He took in a few more greedy lungfuls of your scent before he spoke. 

“No.” He whined out. “I can't.” 

“What? Why not?” You asked, disappointment ripe in your voice. 

“I – I like you too much. I can't – I like you too much.” He declared between gasping breaths, his cock nagging even harder against his zipper, reminding him what he was denying himself of. But no – he would never let himself hurt you. “That's my problem.” 

For a moment, you thought that he was opposed to having sex with you under the idea that it might be 'no strings attached' sex. You thought this was him confessing that he had feelings for you, and he didn't want to get emotionally attached to you to you through sex if you didn't want him in return. 

Fuck, he was so damn sweet.

“That's not a problem, Isaac.” You told him. “I like you too.” 

The warm fondness in your voice only made things harder for him, only made more tension ripple through his shoulders. He held back another sob.  

“That's the problem.” He pressed, his voice ripe with bitter urgency, trying to force you to understand, his whole body shaking now.

You couldn't help but to rub another soothing hand over him, your heart aching as he let out more sharp tears. 

“Why, puppy? What's wrong?” You asked, truly and utterly confused.

Isaac's eyes snapped up toward you again, and what he said shook you to your very core. 

“Because – I'm gonna fuck you.” He declared, his voice warbling with hurt, his words so entirely certain, as though it would happen no matter what, as pure as gravity or the passage of time – somehow filthy, even tainted with the sadness ripe in his voice. 

“Isaac-” You gasped in return, and he easily cut you off. 

“I'm gonna fuck you, and I’m not gonna stop.”

He nearly choked on his own words, so passionate, the beast inside of him desperately trying to rise up again. He choked it back down, taking in another harsh breath. He closed his eyes once again, petting his hands softly across your curves, desperately trying to remind himself that your body was tender and gentle and he had no business unleashing himself upon it.

“Y/N, please – you have no idea of the things I wanna do to you…” 

His voice had a unique kind of pleading, as though begging the universe to rid his mind of the filth you wanted nothing more than to know through a close-up demonstration.

You let out a whimper this time, and Isaac snarled when he smelled more wetness flooding out of you, this time truly soaking through the fabric of your panties, making it so much more potent in the air. He was losing that last little grip he had on his self control.

“I'm gonna ruin you.”

He rasped out, his voice so tired and wrecked, even though the two of you were still fully clothed, even though technically, nothing had happened. At least not yet.

“I'm gonna fucking ruin you… I'm gonna ruin this pussy, Y/N-” He spoke these words with scorn, as if it wasn’t the hottest thing you had ever heard, as if it didn’t make your very legs shake. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry-” 

“Please, Isaac.” You said, tugging on his hair again, forcing his face up to look at you once again. 

He was so tearful, so beautiful, so pathetic – his pretty blue eyes were wide with shock, unsure that he had heard you correctly. 

Were you actually asking him to-? 

“I want you to ruin me.” 

“Y/N – you, you don't know what you're asking for.” 

“I do. I do, Isaac.” Truthfully, you didn't care. You had a good enough idea of what you were asking for, and you were becoming just as needy as he was. Your cunt was throbbing and you had a feeling that you needed it as badly as he did. “Make me yours. Please, Isaac.” 

“I wanna be good.” He whimpered, the last shred of reservation still tattering around inside his brain.

He didn't want to hurt you. He would never hurt you.

But it would be hurting you if you asked for it, if you wanted it -

“You are good, you're so good,” You replied, your voice full of breath, the lust finally beginning to become maddening for you too. Finally, you grabbed one of his hands, guiding it to slot into the waistband of your underwear, practically begging him to pull them off you. “You're so good for me – you're such a good boy. Such a good puppy for me.”

The words caused something to light up inside of Isaac. Nobody had ever said anything like this to him. Not ever. 

He stuck his tongue out again, greedily licking against the fabric of your panties. And then he outright sucked the fabric into his mouth like someone licking a wrapper clean before devouring their favourite treat, as though he was sucking all the goodness off the packaging before he got to what he knew would be the best part. It was something that caused you to gasp, causing another sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Take them off, puppy, please-” 

Isaac was good, he was being good. He was being a good puppy, he assured himself as he hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled down, partially ripping right through it with the sharpness of his claws, neither of you truly caring about that right now. He made quick work of having your underwear in a useless pile around your ankles and baring your cunt completely to him now. 

What a perfect prize.

It was all mindless from there. He dove forward with an intense hunger and you couldn't help but to open up your legs to him, having to detangle yourself from the tenseness of his thighs bracketed around your ankles and the scraps of your underwear in order to do so. Of course, he was too far gone to care about the clumsy exchange of limbs, or the way you used a demanding grip on his hair to shove him further into your pussy. You slung a leg over his shoulder, drawing him in even deeper, and he hummed in enjoyment, glad to be closer to you. 

He was in heaven. If catching passing glimpses of your scent was maddening before, then this was being driven off into insanity and fully enjoying it. He was coated in your scent now, your wetness smeared across his face as he shoved his tongue deep inside of you, desperate to have more. He was desperate to drink right from the source, happily bouncing his nose against your clit to further bury himself in that perfect scent. He would do anything to have more of you – more, more, more. 

With the plushness of your thighs resting against either side of his face, every single fantasy he had ever dreamt up about you was quickly coming to life. He was completely lost in you, so perfectly smothered against your beautiful, fat mound, loving the feeling of your round body so soft against him. The rest of the world shut out and forgotten – for once, he was enjoying a tightness and closeness, being wrapped in the warmth of another person, rather than being abandoned and alone in a tight, cold, forgotten place. With you, he wasn't forgotten, he wasn't alone. With you, he belonged. With you – he was good.

“Fuck, Isaac!” 

There was a certain discomfort in being pinned against a row of plastic shelves while having the life sucked out of your cunt, but you couldn't bring yourself to truly care, and you absolutely did not want it to stop. Not when it was Isaac, shoving his tongue deeper inside of you, moaning madly against you as though he was getting more pleasure out of this than you were.

It was so fucking good.

He was so good, so messy, practically fucking you with his nose like he knew every little move that he made would drive you closer to the edge. He was seemingly determined to shove his face as far inside of you as possible and not caring how wet and messy it made him. He wasn't eating your pussy in some dainty, hesitant way – he wasn't performing this pleasure as some mandatory step on his way to get his dick inside of you. No, instead, he was truly devouring you because it was what he wanted, what he needed, and that knowledge alone was making your legs shake. 

You easily felt the warmth of an orgasm curling in your gut, something that was as firm as the fact that Isaac was going to fuck you. It truly struck you when Isaac let out another needy moan into your cunt, vibrating you to your core, continuing to lick and suck at your wetness as though it was the most divine thing he had ever consumed. Your pussy pulsed harshly and your thighs quaked, and he grabbed onto your hips harshly, holding you closer to keep you from squirming away as your body shook harshly with the orgasm. 

“Isaac! Isaac!” You cried out, becoming increasingly breathless, your body becoming much more slack and urging to lean against the shelves, which did not feel like they were going to support you, your legs shaking more and more. “Isaac, I'm gonna fall-!”

You gasped out the words, and the simple phrase set off alarm bells in Isaac's lust-foggy head. He would never let you fall. Only a second later, Isaac had firm hands under your lower back, sweeping you off your feet – quite literally – as he lifted you in a smooth move to lay on the floor. You didn't have too much time to think about how perfect and easy that had been for him, how impossibly strong he must have been.

He hesitantly moved his face away from your cunt, his new favourite place to be, inhaling one last greedy breath from between your legs before he moved his head up your body, checking to see that you were okay. (Of course, that would always be his priority – knowing that you were okay.)

The feeling of his nose taking a sharp breath against your bare, raw cunt caused another pang to ring through your body, like a sharp note being played on a piano, and you let out a last harsh whimper as his face came to meet yours.

“Y/N?” He rushed out, his voice so soft, so impossibly full of concern, making you swell even more with affection for him.

“Isaac.” You answered back, unsure what else the answer could possibly be.

All there was in that moment was him.

You felt awash with intense affection at the sight of him – his white shirt slightly stuck to him with sweat, his face downright filthy with your wetness, his cheeks tinged pink, his eyes once again back to that seemingly innocent, pale blue and glassed over with lust.

You couldn't help but to pull him into a kiss, needing to be closer to him, needing to feel those now slick lips on your own. You moaned against his mouth, feeling pure heat coming off his swollen lips, loving the taste of your own tang on his mouth, and he let out another needy moan in return. He shoved his deep tongue into your mouth, feeling so lucky to be able to kiss you. Finally, finally – he was able to kiss you. It was something he had been dreaming about for so many months, something he had wanted for so long. 

His cock gave another demanding throb against the zipper of his jeans, and even though he was soothed by being surrounded by your scent, practically bathing in you, his balls ached with sheer need and he felt his claws threatening to burst out again. He wouldn't let himself hurt you. He knew that he had enough of a taste to control himself, so he either had to find a way out, or he had to - 

“Please.” He moaned against your mouth, pulling back from the kiss just enough to breathe, his voice broken and gravelly and so truly desperate. “Please, please, please, Y/N. I need to be inside you, I need to touch you, I need you, you're so perfect, your pussy is so perfect, you're so good, you're so warm, please-” 

“Yes.” You choked out in return, unable to find the backbone to tell him that horrible word 'no', not when he was still glistening with your wetness, not when his tone was so desperate, not when he was looking at you with those deadly sweet eyes.

Of course, you knew how utterly insane it was to have sex in the middle of a school day inside the janitor's closet – even if the door was blocked off, someone could come across the two of you at any moment. But there was a bit of a thrill behind it too, the possibility of getting caught. You twisted your head to the spilled contents of your purse, wondering if you had another condom or if you had given away your last one to a friend at a party the other weekend. Part of you wondering if you would even truly care if he used one or not, because this was Isaac Lahey, the hottest guy at Beacon Hills, the pretty faced, tall boy that you had been pining after for months, openly begging to fuck you.

“Yes, come on, I want your cock, be good for me – be a good puppy-” 

Those words were a soothing relief to Isaac.

“Thank you.” He moaned out, becoming breathless at the idea that you had even given him such sacred permission. “Oh, thank you.” 

And taking another good look at you, seeing you so beautiful below him, looking up at him with a pleased smile and lustful eyes, that was when he truly noticed that your head was pressed against the hard floor, and something harsh panged inside of him. Something beyond every single part of him screaming with lust, his nerve endings torn up by adrenaline, ravaged by your scent, something deeper inside of him was screaming: 

Take care of your Mate. 

So he took a quick glance around and he grabbed up his forgotten sweater, folding it nicely into a little pillow, and as he moved to put it behind your head, you quickly realized what he was doing and lifted your neck to make this easier for him. A tingle ran through you at the sweetness of the act as you laid your head back down, finding that it was much nicer cushioning to lay on. Isaac gently brushed your hair away from your face, nosing along your hairline – a deep, low, pleased growl coming from inside him, something bordering on a purr. He was deeply contented, filled with the pleasure of knowing you were comfortable, knowing he had taken care of you, and smelling that you were now surrounded by his scent, that possessive streak in him soothed and eased. 

“Isaac-” 

You spoke his name again, so beautifully, so softly – fuck, you were so perfect.

He cut you off with another deep kiss, reaching for his belt buckle as he properly situated himself between your thighs, becoming so clumsy with need once again that he struggled to get the belt open. As you parted your knees for him to get closer, a fresh wave of your scent wafted through the air, catching on his nose and making him even more desperate, another harsh throb going through his cock.

He parted from the kiss and inhaled deeply, his mouth falling open once again and his tongue lulling out to taste the air, drinking up every essence of you that he could get. He felt downright drunk on it, his new favourite sensation in the world. His head fell into the crease of your neck as the lustful dizziness overtook him, and he began to lick up the bits of sweat that had gathered there, once again mindlessly chasing his instincts, only caring about what was right in front of him, even while his cock was angry and painful with need.

You took pity on him and knocked his clumsy hand away from his belt and undid it for him, instantly thrilled by the large bulge under your touch – eager to explore the large, thick cock throbbing against his jeans, begging to get out. 

“You really are a big boy, huh?” You purred against his hair, your hands beginning to shake slightly, unable to contain your excitement as you reached for his zipper. “So good, such a good puppy. Such a good boy for me.”

“Thank you.” He hummed into your neck once again. “Thank you, thank you – oh god.” 

His words tumbled into a moan when you got your hand around his cock, pushing his underwear down just enough to free it. You got him warmly in your grip, getting a good feel for the hard, thick nine inches now under your hand, throbbing and flushed pink, standing tall from a nest of soft blond pubic hair that wrapped around his heavy, aching balls. You were only able to pump across him a few timed before he finally jumped into action.

He didn't wait, he couldn't wait.

He reached over and knocked your hand out of the way, just barely taking a moment to push his pants down more to free himself, his ass now bared to the room as the fabric slid partway down his thighs – but it was only a blink of a moment before he finally pushed his cock into you. It was a nearly clumsy slide against your abundance of wetness, his thickness fitting into you so perfectly, sinking home in a swift, needy, demanding movement. A single firm shove of his hips causing him to sink all the way inside of you – deep, so, so, deep.

“Oh my - Isaac.” 

“Holy fuck.” 

There was no shyness about it.

No hesitation, no more asking or begging – Isaac's body had taken over, his instincts now driven by need. It was that thing Derek had talked about: the need to find his mate, and breed.

Feeling you so close, so warm, he needed you now more than ever – he needed his cock so deep inside of you. And he was rewarded with the tight, hot clench of your pussy fully surrounding his cock now, a perfect home that he never wanted to leave. The softness of your belly and your breasts pressed up against him, the plush of your thighs fluttering beside his hips, surrounding him.

The part of his brain that was truly feral was angered by the fact that you were still wearing some clothes, that he couldn't truly feel every inch of your round softness pressed right up against him, that he couldn't feel every naked detail of your body so perfectly. And though he ached to tear your clothes off, he couldn't even focus enough to do so. He was too distracted by the perfect feeling of your wetness surrounding him, your heat. 

(He would remember this next time, and he would rip your clothes off without hesitation.) 

“Isaac, Isaac, fuck, oh my god.” You gripped onto him tightly, your hands moving up his back, underneath his shirt, your fingertips a cool spark against his overly heated skin as your thighs gripped tightly onto his hips. “Come on, puppy, you gotta move.” 

There was a unique pleading in your voice, something anchoring him against his feral mindlessness. The part of him that was convinced he had finally found a home, one that was warm and safe and so different from the world he had known, a place he wanted to live forever. But yet, his cock panged with need and his balls were still aching in protest and all his muscles were so tight and you were fluttering around him, gripping into the thickness of his cock like a silent signal, and -

Yes, that was it. 

He needed to move. He needed to fuck you. 

A wounded sound warbled out of the back of his throat, a clash as his whole world came colliding into perfect harmony. And finally, he steadied himself on his knees, and he began a sloppy rhythm.

Usually he would have tried to woo you, would have tried to impress you with some kind of purposeful skill – he would have intended to have you cumming on his cock and begging for more. (If he wasn't completely mindless, he might have remembered some of the things that Erica had tried to teach him.)

But his mind was completely wiped blank, and any essence of intention or skill had completely left his body in favour of need, lust, want, the instinct to be deeper inside of you, to feel more of your wetness and heat against his cock. He let out a whimper against your neck as he fucked harder and faster into you, creating a downright sloppy sound inside the small, closed off space as you began to pant and moan, his body becoming overwhelmed by the pleasure of you against him. 

“So - so good.” You moaned out, your breath dissolving into his sweaty hair where his head was collapsed against your breast. “So good for me.” 

Good? 

It was a word that had been quarantined away from Isaac all his life, and hearing it on your lips became damn near addicting in an instant. He was stripped away of everything, acting on his most naked instincts – and you called him good. This was the most bare version of Isaac in the world, the most unprotected he had ever been... and you thought he was good. He let out another needy moan, determined to hear it again – he was going to be good for you, he was going to be good for you – yes, yes, yes. 

Bouncing between the spark of that word in his head and the hot tingle of your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew he needed more. He reached for the edge of your dress, tearing it upward, needing to feel more of you, needing to see more of you, inadvertently driving his hips forward harder, making a harsher slap of skin on skin as he devoured more of you.

With his conscious sense all but gone, he had no clue when his claws had sprouted again but he didn't have the slightest bit of will to retract them now, and he did feel a pang of guilt when he heard fabric ripping and saw an angry red streak up the gorgeous fat mound of your stomach. He had been so desperate to move that fabric out of the way that he was now wrecking things in his wake, but fuck – now more of you was exposed. That gorgeous, round fat that was bouncing with every movement of his cock, so hot and perfect and soft for him – fuck, he really couldn't stop himself now if he tried, far too hypnotized by the sight of you leaking around his cock, the feeling of your heat consuming him. 

“Sorry.” He whimpered, trying to apologize for that weeping red scratch he had unintentionally left on you, a sting of pain that only made you wetter around his thick cock. “Sorry, sorry-” 

“Hey, shh.” You grabbed him by the hair, tilting his head up, forcing him to look you in the eyes before you kissed him on the forehead. “D-don't be s-sorry, pup.” You struggled to get words out, your body quaking around his cock as your orgasm drew near once again. “Fuck - ah! Fuck! You're so good!” 

So good. 

The words rang through his head again, bouncing off his cock like a scared song, and it drove his instincts into overdrive. He grabbed both your hands, weaving your fingers forcefully with his own – some deeper part of him knowing that this would be the best way not to let his hands wander, not to have his sharp claws pierce anymore of your perfect, tender flesh. And he pinned your hands above your head, now stretching his body over yours completely flat, pinning you to the ground with the full, overwhelming weight and heat of his body in an intensely intimate position that forced his cock deeper inside of you. 

You throttled out a moan as you felt it, felt his thickness pushing so deep inside of you. And he continued to fuck into you in deep, harsh thrusts, his hips bruising your own with each movement, rattling the fat of your inner thighs in a way that was sure to leave satisfying marks later on. 

“Mine.” He growled out, his words slightly muffled past fangs that were bullying their way into his mouth – something that should have scared you, but instead, caused another telling flood of wetness around his cock. “Mine.” 

Yours. Your Mate. Fill her up. Scent her. Cum in her. Make her so full of you.

“All yours.” You let out in a breathy whine. “All yours, pup. Come on, cum for me-” 

Fill her up. Fuck her good. Breed her so good. Fill her, make her yours - 

With a bright, snarling growl that sounded more like a whine, Isaac fucked his cock in deep, pressing his cock all the way inside of you and finally cumming, letting out bits of frantic bits of drool across your cheek as his eyes glowed that fantastic yellow once again. 

“Such a good boy, such a good boy for me-”

You gasped out, breathless, quickly following him over the edge, your orgasm hitting you like a brick as you were overwhelmed by the parade of sensations. The topper was feeling those thick spurts of cum flowing inside of you, feeling the overwhelming heat of his cock pulsing as he continued to fuck you through it, his hips stuttering in the most messy, sweetly selfish way. 

He shoved his head down into your neck, reducing to tiny whimpers and whines as he became overstimulated by the feeling of your pussy gripping and fluttering around his cock, but of course, he couldn't bring himself to pull out of the warm, perfect home he had made there. Especially not when one of your hands came to pet at his hair and you kissed along the side of his face, making him feel so loved in a way that he never had been before. You drew him even deeper into that wave as you wrapped a knee around his lower back, embracing him, keeping him there, further swallowing up both of your bodies in that filthy mixture that the two of you had created. 

“Such a good boy. Such a sweet puppy for me.” 

That deeper part of him was now entirely pleased by the way your two combined scents were filling the small space, and he realized that this was what he had been seeking all along – not just more of your scent, but the contentedness that came from the two of you together, the two of you ultimately close, the scent and feeling of you covered in him, the satisfaction his baser instincts felt of having you filled with him.

He let out a deeply content sigh and it was only then that he realized, laying happily on your breast, his cock softening inside of you, that his claws had withdrawn on their own, and his fangs had as well, and his heartbeat and adrenaline had entirely calmed. (He took the opportunity of his claws now being gone to reach a greedy hand down, groping across your thighs and your stomach and down to your ass, enjoying the fat and the smoothness that he had stared at for so long but never gotten to touch.) He was trapped in a closet, in a tightly confined space, for the first time in his life, not panicked by it. Being perfectly soothed by you, having you close. 

You were the cure to any horrors he had experienced in life.

“Are you okay, Isaac?” 

You asked, your voice small. 

Better than ever. 

“Yeah.” He replied, his voice having a sex-worn rasp to it now. “Look, I am sorry if I-” 

Of course, he had to be interrupted yet again. 

His stomach curled nervously when he heard the sound of scraping – something being moved harshly across the floor. And a moment later, someone harshly ripped open the door that had been snapped shut, originally trapping the two of you into the closet in the first place. Isaac blinked his eyes against the harsh burst of light and instinctively moved to shield you with his body for modesty, not caring that his pants were halfway down his thighs and his bare ass was sticking out. 

It wasn't until the person spoke that he recognized them. 

“Isaac? Y/N? I – oh my god! I thought you were in trouble!” 

Scott. Of course.

“Shut the door!” Isaac barked in return. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Shut it!” 

Scott did as asked, and Isaac was relieved when you burst out laughing. 

“I'm glad you found that funny.” He griped sarcastically, moving to hide his face in your chest once again, his face absolutely bleeding with embarrassment now.

“Well – the whole… bizarre-ness of the situation just really hit me.” You told him, your voice light. “And – at least the door's open now.” 

Isaac let out a laugh too.

...

A/N: Please note, this fic is a oneshot, and there will not be a continuation or a 'Part 2', and I find it rude when people rush to the comments to ask for one. If you would like to comment, please discuss the content of what has been written. I love talking about my fics and my favourite characters with fellow fans, so you are definitely not bothering me by commenting love for the fic or just the fandom in general. If you're feeling shy, feel free to come into my inbox and comment on anon.

I really, really appreciate comments and reblogs, and I highly appreciate when people trend against the culture of only leaving a like on a fic. I put a lot of hard work into my fics and something as simple as a short comment or a reblog makes my day.

If you want to read more for this character or this fandom, please feel free to check out my Teen Wolf Masterlist, or check out My Main Masterlist, which has everything I have written for all the fandoms I enjoy.

I hope you have a great day, and thanks for reading!

next chapter

The cart stops in a small clearing where the road dissolves into little more than a strip of packed dirt swallowed by the forest. The trees here grow tall and close together, their dark trunks rising like silent pillars toward a sky you can barely see through the tangled branches above. 

You remain seated, your fingers fidgeting nervously on your lap as you peer around. There is nothing here. No house, no smoke curling from a chimney, no narrow path leading to some distant cottage. Only dense trees, through which the late afternoon light filters in thin, pale streaks that never quite reach the ground, carrying the stale smell of moss and damp bark.

“Why are we stopping?” 

Your brother climbs down from the cart, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He stretches his back and rolls his shoulders as if the journey has been a long and unpleasant chore.

“This is where you need to wait for him.” He says simply.

The words make your stomach churn with unease.

You slowly climb down after him, grimacing as your shoes sink slightly into the soft ground. Leaves crunch faintly beneath your feet and you look around again, trying to spot any sign of the man you are supposed to meet.

“But… What if he doesn’t see us?” 

“He will.”

Your brother speaks as though the matter is already settled. He doesn’t even look at you while he checks the harness on the horse, adjusting a strap with rough, practiced movements.

“I thought…” Your voice falters. “I thought we would meet him in the village.”

“He doesn’t go to villages much.”

That answer does nothing to settle your nerves.

“Why?”

Your brother shrugs, pulling himself back onto the cart. “Does it matter?”

You stare at him in disbelief. “You’re not staying?”

He finally glances at you, brows drawing together in faint annoyance.

“For what? I’ve already wasted half a day to bring you here.”

Your blood runs cold at his harsh indifference. With a wary glance back at the forest, you notice how the silence presses in around you in a way that feels almost unnatural, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves somewhere high in the trees.

“But this place—” You murmur. 

“You’ll be fine.” He waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be here soon.”

“I just thought…” You trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the tight knot of dread that has been sitting in your chest since the news of your marriage. “I thought you would at least stay until he arrived.”

Avoiding your eyes, he exhales heavily, the same way he did when he was fourteen, back when you would pester him to take you along to the market square. As a child, you never failed to test the last thread of his patience.

For a brief moment, his expression softens just a little.

“Look,” he starts, voice less sharp now. “The man paid fairly. People from his village said he’s decent. You could do worse.”

He clears his throat with an awkward, impatient sound at your lack of answer. 

His words, meant to soothe, fall upon you like stones, pressing you down until you feel no taller than the dust at his feet

Finally, you whisper. “Then I… I suppose this is a goodbye.” Letting the words drift into the still air, your brother hesitates for the briefest moment, before clicking his tongue at the horse. 

“Good luck.” 

The horse turns back toward the narrow road you traveled together only minutes ago. You remain rooted in place, shoulders hunched against the chill, your eyes following it until the trees swallow the cart whole and its creaking melts into silence.

You draw your shawl tighter around your form, suddenly aware of how alone you are.

A husband.

You know almost nothing about the man you are supposed to marry, only that he lives somewhere beyond these woods and that he was willing to give your brother enough coin to make the journey worthwhile.

After your parents died, the responsibility of your life had fallen entirely on him. At first, things were manageable, but the years had not been kind. Poor harvests, mounting debts, and too many mouths to feed at the table. You had seen the strain long before he ever spoke of it. His wife counted sacks of grain with tight lips, quiet arguments carried through the thin wooden walls late at night, bitter glances were sent your way whenever food ran short.

You had become something disposable in their eyes.

So when a stranger passing through the village asked about you, offering enough coin to lift the debts that had hung over the household like a storm cloud, your brother accepted.

Not cruelly. Not happily. But so effortlessly that the ease of it stabbed at you, a sharp reminder of how little your own voice seemed to matter.

Girls get married every day. Only this time, the union came with payment instead of a dowry. With a contract instead of courtship. 

With men shaping your fate while your own voice went unheard.

You sigh softly, allowing your gaze to wander back to the forest.

Perhaps he is simply shy. Perhaps he lives somewhere deeper in the forest and prefers not to travel far. Perhaps—

A dull thud echoes faintly from somewhere beyond the clearing.

Your body tenses.

You are quite certain you had imagined it. Then it comes again, and the ground beneath your feet trembles ever so slightly, low and heavy, the rhythm sinking into your bones.

Your breath catches in your throat.

That is not the sound of human footsteps. They are heavier. Slower. As if something... Beastly is moving through the forest.

A shiver runs down your spine. You fold your arms across your chest, palms feeling slick and useless as they twist and curl, clutching the fabric of your sleeves, seeking something solid to hold onto. 

The branches sway with a force you cannot see, until a twig snaps abruptly to your right, and you whirl around. 

Could it be a bear? A wolf? 

You take a step back— no, two— your eyes darting wildly, straining to locate the source. The forest seems to close in: every shadow writhes in your vision, bursting into a thousand uncanny shapes; every rustle of leaves has you twisting in apprehension, forcing your body to shrink into itself.

Thud.

Closer.

Thud. 

Perhaps it is only a deer. 

But no deer would make the ground quake. No deer would carry weight like this.

Another step, another tremor shaking you. Your throat tightens, your mind screaming for some kind of explanation, some sign. 

And then, a massive figure rises among the low-hanging branches. His broad shoulders stretch beneath dark clothing, his arms thick and knotted, capable of felling trees as easily as a child might snap a twig. His skin is the grey of stone, and from his jaw curve two tusks, pale and frightening.

An orc.

He stops when his gaze falls on you, his expression shifting into something that looks suspiciously like surprise.

But you do not linger long enough to process it.

Terror floods your body so swiftly it tears the air from your lungs.

Your shoes skid over loose dirt as you bolt toward the road your brother took, your heart hammering like a drum beneath your ribs.

Behind you, the forest falls unnervingly silent.

Then it comes. Heavy footsteps shattering the quiet.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Wait!”

The voice echoes behind you, low and rumbling, causing your limbs to momentarily freeze. Fear hits like a bucket of icy water, the world shrinking to nothing but the pounding of your heart and the tremor of the ground beneath him, as if the earth itself fears the beast. Branches claw at your arms, sleeves catch on rough bark, roots rise like hands to grab you. Every step is a plunge into a dark well, cold and endless, threatening to squeeze the air from your lungs.

Your legs wobble, muscles screaming, but they force themselves forward, straining against the terror, until you nearly collapse within a few trembling strides. A slip on damp leaves pitches your body forward. Your heart slams violently in your chest as you imagine for one terrifying moment that you are already on the ground, already caught, already feeling those enormous hands closing around you.

Somehow you manage to catch yourself, arms flailing wildly before forcing your legs to move again, faster. Behind you, the pounding reverberates, its ominous rhythm thrumming through the air like a herald of doom.

“Please, don’t run from me!”

His voice trails after you, strained with something that almost sounds like panic, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Your brother left you alone in the heart of this forest with nothing: no knife, no stick, not even the small blade you used to carry when gathering firewood. The bitter thought slams into you with painful clarity.

Why would he imagine you needed protection? Why would he think  danger might touch you, when he had already decided that whatever became of you was no longer his concern?

The realization hits harder than the sting of branches scraping across your skin, and a desperate sob claws its way up your throat as your legs threaten to buckle.

You cannot fight a monster.

You cannot outrun something so imposing.

And yet you keep running, because the fear in your heart leaves no room for reason.

Your foot catches again, this time on a thick root hidden beneath the leaves. Your ankle twists, causing you to stumble forward with a startled cry, barely regaining your balance. Pain explodes up your leg, sharp enough to blur your vision, but the roaring of those massive footsteps behind you drives you onward, forcing your body to keep moving even as every muscle screams in protest.

“Stop— please!”

The voice is closer now.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him barreling through the trees— huge, relentless, impossibly agile— sends another surge of panic through your veins.

And this time, when your foot trips over another hidden root, your exhausted body simply cannot recover.

The world tilts and you fall forward with a cry. Your knee violently slams against the ground, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Dry leaves scatter beneath your palms at the impact, the taste of dirt bitter on your tongue.

For a moment you can do nothing but gasp, your chest heaving desperately as you struggle to regain your breath.

The footsteps behind you stop so abruptly that the silence afterward feels almost unnatural. Dread coils tight around your ribs, thick and suffocating: the creature no longer needs to chase you. By collapsing before him, you relinquished all hope of escape. Fingers dig weakly into the fallen leaves as you force your head up, though every instinct screams not to look at the thing that followed you like a nightmare made flesh.

He stands only a few paces away.

Up close, he is even larger than your panicked mind imagined while you ran, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the ground where you lie miserably. His shoulders calmly rise and fall beneath his shirt, untouched by exertion. The sheer size of him is overwhelming, hands large enough they could likely close around your wrist with humiliating ease. 

Yet he does not move the way you expect.

Instead of advancing like a hunter closing in on a wounded prey, he stands strangely still. His expression shifts from alarm to something that looks disturbingly like distress, eyes sweeping over you and taking in the way you struggle to breathe, the twisted angle of your leg, the tremor that rakes your body with terror. 

“Oh.” The sound escapes him like a startled breath rather than a proper word. When he finally moves, his hands do not reach toward you in violence but rise slowly into the air, palms open and empty. Your mind cannot reconcile it with the monstrous shape looming above you. 

“I did not mean to scare you.” His voice softens, rough with worry as though the sight of your fear unsettles him as much as it horrifies you.

But the words barely reach you through the haze clouding your mind.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, loud enough to drown out everything, except for the memory of him crashing through the trees. It haunts your thoughts cruelly as your vision begins to blur at the edges, dizziness creeping in, your surroundings tilting strangely while the pain in your knee pulses without mercy.

You try to push yourself backward, crawl away even a few inches, but your shaky arms cannot hold your weight. The effort only sends another wave of darkness over your sight. 

The last thing you manage to see before your strength finally abandons you is the alarm on the orc's face breaking the cautious distance he had kept until now. He reaches toward you with desperate urgency when the forest spins. Shadows deepen, and the world slips quietly out of your grasp.

At first, there is only a dull ache in your body, a deep soreness that settles sharply somewhere in your leg, followed by the feeling of a soft surface beneath you. This is not the hard, uneven ground you remember collapsing onto.

For several seconds, you lie perfectly still, your breathing slow and shallow, trying to piece together fragments of memory floating at the edges of your mind.

The forest. The running. The monstrous figure chasing you.

Your eyes snap open.

Panic claws at your chest before your mind has time to catch up. You push yourself up with a startled gasp, wincing as pain shoots through your injured knee. The abrupt movement makes the world tilt unpleasantly, a dull sting hitting your temple. Beneath you, a thick patch of moss and dry grass cushions your weak body, carefully cleared of stones and twigs. Draped over it is a broad piece of rough cloth— perhaps a cloak, or a traveling blanket— spread wide enough to keep the damp soil from touching your dress.

The realization that someone must have placed you there sends a fresh wave of fear crashing through you.

You look up frantically, eyes immediately landing on an imposing figure.

The orc sits several paces away. Even in the shifting shadows of the forest, his form is impossible to mistake: his back rests against the trunk of a tall pine, long legs stretched before him. Despite the distance he keeps, his presence dominates the clearing effortlessly.

When your sudden movement catches his attention, he straightens at once, shoulders tensing as if he had been waiting for this moment, and dreading it at the same time.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you speaks.

You stare, frozen, and though his hands rest quietly on his knees and his posture does not threaten you, the sight alone is enough for tears to gather at the corners of your eyes.

Why are you still alive? Why does the creature that chased you now sit there, watching you with what looks like anxiety instead of malice? Why move you to a softer patch of land instead of leaving you there?

The helpless uncertainty only causes your breathing to grow uneven.

He notices the tears almost immediately. Exhaustion on his face gives away to unmistakable concern. He does not move closer, but when he speaks, his voice is still careful. 

“Please, don't be afraid.”

The tenderness in his tone lets the first sob slip free from your throat before you can stop it. You slap a hand to your mouth, horrified by the sound, but it does not halt the tears spilling down your cheeks.

The orc’s brow furrows deeply, his large hands curling slightly where they rest on his lap, as if restraining himself from stepping forward.

“I am sorry for scaring you earlier,” the words are gentle. He fears that even speaking too loudly might frighten you further. “I did not mean to chase you. I only wanted to introduce myself. I was coming to meet you.”

You inhale sharply.

“To… Meet me?” You manage weakly, voice trembling.

“Yes.” He nods once, though the movement seems hesitant now that he notices your growing bewilderment.

“I came to fetch you. Your brother told me he would bring you this far.”

You stare at him as though he has spoken another language.

“Why?” The question leaves your lips in a broken whisper.

The orc blinks, worry shifting into something uncertain as he studies your face.

“Oh,” he breathes after a long moment, the small sound carrying its own hint of confusion. “Did—Did your brother not tell you about me?”

Your heart stutters painfully.

Staring at the creature, the thought feels so absurd it steals your ability to respond.

Your brother arranged a marriage to a stranger, perhaps a secluded man who lived beyond the town, someone wealthy enough to offer money in exchange for a wife he barely knew.

But an orc?

You shake your head slowly, fingers trembling where they clutch the edge of the rough cloth.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely, disbelief shining in your glassy eyes. “He never mentioned…”

The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue as the horrifying truth hangs between you.

Why would your brother send you here if he knew this was the creature waiting for you? And why, of all things, would an orc want you at all?

The silence stretches like a thread pulled too tight, and the orc across the clearing seems as uncertain as you are. The confusion on his face lingers a moment longer, before his brow furrow, his gaze landing on your leg, genuine concern taking over his features.

“Your knee…” 

The words are hesitant, chosen with great precision. And when his eyes lift again, they stop short of meeting yours, opting to watch the ground between you.

“You fell rather hard.”

Only then does the dull throbbing in your knee make itself known. Your skirt is torn where it scraped against the forest floor, a dark stain soiling the fabric where skin beneath has broken.

The orc shifts slightly.

“May I… Look at it?”

The question is gentle, yet your entire body goes rigid.

The unspoken meaning rings in your mind, loud and undeniable. He would be closer, looming over you as you lie on the ground, unable to run.

He notices instantly, reading the widening of your eyes as if you had spoken your fear aloud.

His movement dies at once, large frame settling back against the tree. “I apologize.” His gaze drops shamefully. “That was foolish of me to ask.”

He seems to consider something, fingers brushing absently against the small leather pouch tied to his belt. Then, very slowly— making sure you can see each motion— he unties it and places it carefully on the ground beside him. He does the same with the water flask hanging at his hip.

Without standing, he nudges both items forward across the ground, until they stop somewhere close to you.

“There are herbs in the pouch, and a clean strip of cloth. They should help… If you wish to tend to it yourself.” His voice softens further. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “The water is fresh.”

Then he leans back again, hands lifted in a gesture that makes it painfully clear he has no intention of approaching.

You remain still for what feels like eternity, warily observing him, expecting that he might close the distance the moment your guard lowers.

But he does not move. Beneath the tall pine, shoulders hunched slightly as if to make himself smaller, he simply waits.

Cautiously, you finally reach forward.

Your fingers close around the pouch first, snatching it before retreating quickly to your spot. Your eyes flick immediately back to the orc. He has turned his head slightly, enough to keep you in view but no longer staring at your injured leg.

The unexpected kindness leaves you momentarily disoriented.

Trembling, you open the pouch. Inside are crushed herbs wrapped in a scrap of cloth, along with the promised strip of clean linen. The scent rises distinctly, earthy and familiar, stirring memories of scrapped knees and innocent laughter.

As you pour the water from the flask, you fight not to flinch at the sting on broken skin. You then press the herbs carefully, clumsily binding the cloth tightly around your knee as you glance toward the orc every few seconds, checking that he has not moved.

He keeps his unspoken promise, immense and patient.

The restraint unsettles you more than if he had simply stared.

Pieces of memory shift and rearrange themselves in your mind, small details you had dismissed earlier. Your brother said the town was too far, that your husband rarely visited villages. He told you he preferred to meet you here instead.

At the time it sounded odd, perhaps even rude, but nothing more.

Now the meaning feels like a knife in your chest.

He never goes to villages.

Of course he doesn’t. Why would an orc walk openly among humans?

Your brother never spoke of him beyond a few careless remarks; you knew he was a carpenter, for instance.

A carpenter.

Your gaze drifts hesitantly to the massive hands resting on his thighs. Hands that could snap a spine with a flick of the wrist, yet capable of carving wood with intricate precision.

If this creature truly is the man your brother intended you to marry… Why hasn’t he forced you to come with him? Why didn’t he seize you the moment you fell? Why hasn’t he dragged you deeper into the forest to have his way with you?

The stories you grew up hearing painted orcs as brutal, merciless creatures. Raiders who stormed villages at night, wielding massive axes and clubs, smashing through doors and snatching livestock— or worse, people— before vanishing into the wilderness. Mothers whispered warnings over supper about what would happen if you wandered too far from home, eyes nervously darting to the tree line. Travelers passing through told tales of children stolen from gardens, farmers dragged screaming into the woods, entire homesteads left burning by creatures that moved like shadows and hit like hammers. They were monsters with jagged teeth, gray skin, and tusks curving from the lower jaw. Tainted souls who carry death wherever they go. 

Every whispered warning, every hushed tale from the corners of your village, had carved one truth into your mind: orcs are to be feared, avoided, and never trusted.

But the one sitting across from you has done nothing but keep his distance. He gave you water, herbs, time to catch your breath. And now he sits quietly, staring at the ground as if afraid of frightening a wounded animal.

At last he exhales, long and quiet.

“I think,” he says slowly, his voice carrying a strange heaviness. “That perhaps something has gone… Wrong.”

You find the courage to look at him, yet he still does not meet your gaze. Instead, his eyes linger somewhere near the ground between your feet, hands clasped loosely together as if to steady himself.

“I believed your brother had explained the arrangement to you.” He continues. “When we spoke, he seemed certain you understood.”

His voice is measured, but there is a thread of disappointment buried somewhere beneath, faint enough that you almost miss it.

“If that is not the case… Then I have no wish to force anything upon you.”

Slowly— almost reluctantly— he lifts his head. When his eyes finally meet your wide ones, there is no anger. No impatience. Only a quiet sadness that softens the sharp lines of his face.

“If you would prefer to return to your brother,” he swallows. “I will take you back to him.”

The words settle over the clearing heavy and strange in their gentleness.

This creature, this enormous being who could easily overpower in an instant, is offering to bring you home. Not demanding obedience, not claiming what he paid for. Simply… Giving you a choice.

You stare stunned, though the weight in your chest grows almost unbearable.

You cannot go back, not after everything.

Your brother had welcomed you into his home without hesitation, even though he already had family of his own to care for, even though another mouth at the table stretched their household thinner than either of them liked to admit. You cooked, cleaned, mended clothes, watched the children when they cried at night. Yet the guilt never left. Because no matter how much you tried to make yourself useful, the truth was undeniable: you were another burden.

And if this marriage would ease the strain on his family— even a little— then perhaps it was the least you could do in return for everything he had given you.

Now, the tears return before you can stop them. But this time you swallow them quickly.

You lift your head, finding the orc watching you, his expression unreadable as he waits for your answer.

Your voice wavers when your lips finally part.

“I cannot go back.”

A knot sit heavy in your throat, and you swallow around it, even if it hurts.

“My brother has done too much for me already.” Your fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your skirt. “He has his own family to take care of.”

The admission comes quiet, almost ashamed.

“If he arranged this marriage…” You sniffle, lifting your chin. “Then I will honor it.”

Your voice trembles at the edges, but you refuse to divert your gaze.

“I will go with you.”

For a moment the clearing falls completely silent. He studies your face carefully, as if trying to discern whether these words are truly yours or spoken out of obligation alone.

At last he sighs softly, thoughtful, and after a moment, he nods.

“Very well.” He answers quietly, before his gaze drifts briefly toward your injured leg. “Do you feel well enough to walk?”

You glance down at the bandage around your knee. The pain has dulled somewhat, though the joint still throbs unpleasantly whenever you shift your weight.

“I think so.”

The orc hesitates. Then, a little awkwardly, he gestures toward you.

“I could carry you,” he offers carefully. “If walking becomes too painful.”

Your head snaps up instantly, eyes widening in alarm, and the refusal spills from your lips before you can even think about it.

“No!”

The word bursts out louder than you intended. You rush to soften it, your explanation tumbling over itself.

“I—I mean, I can walk,” you add quickly. “Truly. It will be fine.”

The panic in your expression is unmistakable. You are almost certain something akin to disappointment flicker in his eyes, but it vanishes at once.

“Of course.” 

Clearing his throat, he rises to his feet. The movement is smooth and unhurried despite the sheer size of him.

Your knee protests sharply when you place weight on it, but it holds. The orc watches silently, making no attempt to approach, even when you sway slightly at first.

Only when you steady yourself does he incline his head toward the deeper stretch of forest behind him.

“The path is this way.”

You hesitate only a moment, taking a deep breath before following.

And so, beneath the quiet canopy of the trees, the long journey toward your new home finally begins.

You expect the orc to walk ahead, him striding forward with those powerful legs while you struggle to keep up behind him, forced to hurry despite the pain. It would make sense. He is the one who knows the path, the one leading you somewhere deep within this unfamiliar forest. 

But that is not what happens.

Instead, he walks beside you. Not close enough for your arms to brush against, yet close enough that you feel his presence with every step. His pace is slow— so slow, in fact, that it takes you a moment to realize he has matched it deliberately to yours.

At first you assume it is a coincidence, then the truth becomes impossible to ignore.

His stride alone would easily cover twice the ground you manage with your limping steps, yet he never moves ahead, never urges you forward, never shows even the slightest sign of impatience.

You keep your gaze mostly on the ground, watching where you place your feet, though every so often curiosity gets the better of you and your eyes flick briefly to the towering figure at your side.

His shoulders are broad enough that low branches brush against them when he passes, and his arms swing slowly at his sides with the steady rhythm of someone accustomed to long journeys on foot.

Yet despite the size of him, his movements are careful, measured. As though he is constantly aware of the space you occupy beside him.

Another detail reaches you gradually.

At first you think it is simply your mind playing tricks, but the faint scent drifting through the forest air grows clearer whenever the wind shifts between the trees.

You glance at him again.

He smells… Good.

The realization surprises you so much that you nearly miss your footing.

No heavy musk, no sourness of sweat or damp fur like the animals kept in village barns.

Instead there is something clean about it. Fresh like the forest itself. Pine, perhaps, or the faint resinous scent of cut wood, mixed with the crisp sharpness of cold air and something earthy beneath it, like soil after rain. It reminds you strangely of the men who worked the lumber yards near the edge of your old village, returning home at dusk with the smell of sap and sawdust clinging to their clothes.

Except even they rarely smelled this clean.

You glance at him again, eyes lingering longer this time.

His clothes are simple but well-kept, sturdy fabric worn by someone who works with his hands. Faint marks dust the sleeves and shoulders where wood shavings must have settled earlier in the day, and the leather belt around his waist holds several small tools you do not recognize.

The silence stretches further, until eventually the question pressing at the edges of your mind grows too heavy to hold.

Your voice comes out small when you finally speak.

“Where do you live?”

The orc’s head turns toward you, surprised enough that he almost stumbles over his own feet.

“Ah—” He clears his throat quietly, caught off guard by your sudden composure.

“My village is called Oakshire.” Warmth seeps into his tone. “It lies not far beyond the edge of the forest. We should reach it before nightfall if your knee does not trouble you too much.”

Oakshire.

The name rolls gently through your mind.

You hesitate before asking the next question, unsure whether you truly want the answer.

“Is it… An orc village?”

The moment the words leave your mouth you brace yourself, expecting him to take offense.

Instead his face brightens.

“No, oh no.” He chuckles, a small note of enthusiasm slipping into his voice. “Not only orcs.”

He glances toward you again, clearly pleased to have something to talk to you about.

“Humans have lived there for a very long time. The town was built generations ago when traders from both sides began traveling through the valley, and over the years the settlements grew together.”

A faint smile touches his mouth as he continues. “Now the two communities are simply… One.”

You blink in surprise.

“Humans and orcs live together?” You ask quietly, eyebrows shooting up.

“For centuries,” he nods amused. “Some families have lived there so long no one remembers who came first.”

The image forms slowly in your mind: humans and orcs walking the same streets, sharing the same markets, living side by side without fear or violence.

It's preposterous, and yet the quiet pride in his voice makes it sound perfectly ordinary, as though it had always been his reality.

When your eyes land on him again, something other than fear flickers in your chest for the first time.

The change in your expression is small, barely visible, but his sharp eyes catch it without fail. The tension that had been sitting heavily in his shoulders loosens just slightly, relief softening his features. He looks almost hopeful. Seeing even the smallest spark of interest in your eyes means more to him than you can imagine.

You notice the way his gaze lingers, and that awareness diverts your attention back to the path.

Silence returns soon after, but this time it is not as grim.

The road leading toward Oakshire stretches quietly ahead,  and you manage several careful steps before the pain in your knee flares again.

You stagger, clutching at a low branch as your foot catches on a hidden root tangled in fallen leaves. Your breath hitches as the wound pulses again, sharper this time, forcing you to slow even further. Every step becomes a careful negotiation: foot over root, heel pressing against moss, knee bending in protest. 

You stumble once more, almost falling, causing your fingers to scrape against the rough bark of a nearby trunk as your legs shake beneath you. 

“We can stop,” he says gently. “We walked a lot, and you could use some resting.”

You bite your bottom lip, stubborn despite the ache twisting through your leg. 

“I can keep going.” Your voice comes out tight, refusing the admission even to yourself.

The forest seems to close in as you push forward, and then, inevitably, your foot catches again in another root, and this time a sharp cry tears from your throat as you lurch forward, clutching at the air. Before your mouth can taste the dirt, a hand promptly closes around your forearm, lifting you upright with surprising gentleness. The strength behind it is immense, yet the grip itself is careful, steadying rather than dragging.

You blink up at him, breath hitching and chest tight with a mixture of fear and helplessness, but he adjusts his hold at once, supporting your weight without crowding, or touching no more of you than necessary.

“Easy.” He murmurs, his voice a calm tether in the dizzying chaos in your head. “There’s a soft patch up ahead. Lean on me if you need.” 

He does not urge, does not pull you forward. He simply waits, letting your body find its own balance, guiding rather than commanding.

You stumble the final few steps, leaning lightly against his strong arm, and when you finally reach a small patch of land where the moss grows thick beneath the trees, he reaches over his shoulder.

“Wait a moment.” 

Before you can question him, his fingers nimbly unfasten the traveling blanket he carries rolled among his things. The familiar piece of rough cloth— the same one you vaguely remember waking upon earlier— unfurls in his large hands before he bends and spreads it carefully across the ground, smoothing the edges so no stones or damp earth press through.

“There,” he clears his throat, stepping back immediately to give you room. “It will be more comfortable.”

You hesitate only briefly before lowering yourself down, a shaky exhale escaping your parted lips. Your chest heaves as your hands press into the fabric of your dress, trying to stop the trembling that refuses to leave your limbs. 

The orc kneels nearby, just far enough to give you space. Still aware, still watchful.

You know, in a way that both frightens and fascinates you, that he could easily do anything he wanted, yet every gesture, every pause, every soft word communicates respect. It is a patience so quiet, so deliberate, that your mind struggles to reconcile it with the monstrous shape beside you.

Because nothing in the stories you grew up hearing ever spoke of an orc choosing gentleness over dominance.

A small bundle is pulled from his pack and placed on the moss beside your hand, intentionally within reach. 

“You should eat something.” His eyes flick briefly to yours with a weight you cannot name, so intense it feels almost tangible, as though he is memorizing you.

You hesitate, unsure whether to accept it. So he breaks off a small piece of bread and extends it toward you, the gesture so delicate it makes your chest tighten.

“You don’t have to force yourself, but you need the energy.” 

The faint scent of pine and earth clinging to him seems to wrap around you, calming, grounding, and against your better judgment, you take a small bite. The warmth and simplicity of it almost makes you forget the exhaustion in your bones, though the reality of your situation constantly gnaws at the back of your mind.

He produces the same flask he gave you for your wound, and a folded leaf, tipping a small amount of water gently into it. 

“Here.” 

His eyes study your face as you drink, lingering on the way your lips curl around the edge of the leaf. They take in every detail without letting it disturb you, patient, almost reverent, before his thumb absently brushes the edge of the leather strap of his pack, adjusting it as though he suddenly remembered something needing attention.

You decide to ignore the faint pink on his cheeks.

He does not touch you once, yet in his small, careful movements— in the way he leans slightly forward to ensure you are comfortable— you sense the quiet undercurrent beneath it all.

When your stomach settles enough to ease the tightness within it, your gaze absently drifts to the carvings tucked inside his open pack— a tiny fox, and a bird mid-flight. Slowly, you reach out, lifting the fox in your hands. 

His gaze follows the movement, softening as you turn the little figure over, tracing the smooth curves with a tentative finger. 

“I make these.” He shrugs, almost shyly. “For children, sometimes for travelers. They are like… Little reminders.” 

Unexpected tenderness is threaded through his words.

Your thumb follows the careful curve of its tail, the tiny ears, the delicate indent that marks the eyes. The work itself is simple, yet there is patience in it— patience and quiet attention, the kind that can only come from someone willing to sit for long hours shaping wood without tiring.

You glance up without meaning to. 

The moment your eyes meet his, he looks away almost immediately, lowering his gaze toward the forest floor as though he has been caught doing something he should not. One of his large hands rubs absently at the back of his neck, a small, awkward gesture that feels strangely out of place on someone so imposing.

You look back down at the carving.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The forest hums quietly around you, leaves stirring overhead while somewhere deeper in the trees a bird chirps.

“There are always children running through the market.” He hums, almost thoughtfully. “They like to watch when I bring new carvings. One of them— little Tomas— tries to guess what animal each piece will become before I finish it.” A quiet huff of amusement escapes him. “He is wrong most of the time, but he insists he will learn.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches faintly.

The image forms in your mind without permission: a market square, smiling children weaving through the stalls, and this enormous orc sitting somewhere among them with a knife and a block of wood, patiently shaping animals while a little boy peers over his shoulder.

Monsters are not supposed to carve toys for children.

You shift uncomfortably at the thought, your knee protesting as you move, and his head lifts immediately, attention snapping back to you.

“Does it hurt?” 

The concern in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“It’s… Manageable.” You cough, the words coming out weaker than you intend.

His gaze drops briefly toward your leg before returning to your face just as quickly, careful not to linger.

“There is a baker in the market,” he steers the conversation somewhere gentler. “An old woman. She pretends she does not like me very much.” 

A small smile tugs faintly at one corner of his mouth. 

“But every time I bring her a carving for her granddaughter, she gives me a warm loaf of bread.”

Your fingers continue to fidget gently with the little fox, feeling the faint ridges left by the carving knife. 

“Do the children ever try to steal them?”

The soft breath that escapes his nose might almost be a laugh.

“Not steal,” he grins gently. “But they do try to claim them before they’re finished.”

Your head tilts curiously.

“Little Rose insists every carving I make is meant for her. She follows me around the market until I promise to bring her another the next week.”

“And do you?”

“Yes.”

You study him for a moment, unsure what to make of that simple answer.

“She names them.” 

You blink. “The carvings?”

He nods once with a faint smile.

“She says they should have names once they’re finished, because that’s when they’re born.”

Your thumb brushes over the carving’s tiny ears again.

“You must spend a lot of time there.” You murmur.

“When I’m not working.”

“What do you build?”

“Furniture, mostly.” He straightens slightly without seeming aware of it. “Tables, cupboards, doors. Whatever people need.”

Your attention falls briefly on his hands.

The knuckles are broad and scarred in places, the fingers thick and calloused— hands that would be suited for lifting beams and splitting logs, not for carving animals small enough to fit in a pocket.

“You work alone?” 

“Most days.”

“And the rest?”

“Sometimes people ask for help,” he shrugs. “Fixing a roof. Replacing a broken step... That sort of thing.”

The simplicity of it throws you off balance.

The things he describes sound… Ordinary. Peaceful.

You lower the figure into your lap, glancing around, and you notice that the forest has changed.

The golden light of afternoon has faded into something cooler. Shadows have lengthened across the ground, stretching thin and dark between the trunks, the canopy above slowly swallowing what remains of the sun.

You shift again, testing the leg without quite meaning to. The movement is small, but the orc notices it anyway. His head lifts, though he glances past you, focusing on the trees surrounding the clearing, and for a moment his eyes linger there.

Then, he rises to his feet.

The motion is decisive, his tall frame straightening as he firmly observes the perimeter, as though seizing something only he can see.

“It’s getting late.” 

When he looks back down at you, his expression is pensive rather than concerned.

“We won’t reach Oakshire before nightfall, and traveling through the forest in the dark wouldn’t be wise. Not with your knee in this condition.”

The words are spoken calmly, without pressure, but there is certainty in them.

“We should stop here for the night.”

Your fingers twitch once around the wooden toy.

The thought of spending the night out here— alone in the forest, with him— sends a weak ripple of unease along your spine that he seems to notice right away.

“I’ll make a fire,” he adds gently. “There’s a stream not far from here as well. You’ll be safe with me.”

Then he turns, already stepping toward the trees in search of wood.

For a moment you simply watch him go. And then it strikes you, oddly and belatedly, that through all the confusion, the fear, the stumbling journey through the forest, there is something absurdly simple you have not asked.

“Wait!”

The word escapes you before you have fully decided to speak.

He stops at once, turning back so that his full attention returns to you. The fading light filters through the branches above him, catching briefly on the curve of his tusks and the dark strands of his long hair, leaving the rest of him in soft shadow.

Your fingers tighten once again around the little wooden fox resting in your lap.

“What—” You pause, unsure why the question feels so difficult. “What is your name?”

Something shifts in his expression, almost startled. 

“My name?” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

You nod faintly. “Yes.”

As he observes you, his features soften in a way you cannot quite decipher, a surprised warmth touching his eyes before he seems to remember himself.

“Bucky.” He says at last.

The name is simple. Human, almost. Not what you expected. You repeat it silently in your mind, testing the unfamiliar shape of it, and when you lift your gaze again, he is still watching you.

That's when he clears his throat, the spell of the moment breaking.

“I won’t go far,” he gestures toward the trees with a small tilt of his head. “Just enough to find some dry branches.”

Then he turns again and disappears a few steps into the dimming woods, leaving you sitting on his blanket with the little carved fox to keep you company and the weight of his name lingering softly in the evening air.

He did not ask for yours.

Coming back to Hogwarts after a long summer of fun with his friends was always bittersweet. Lorenzo loved the castle—loved the way its magic still managed to surprise him, even though he’d grown up in a pureblood household surrounded by it all his life. He loved rooming with his friends, seeing them every day, laughing until curfew and sneaking out when they felt like it. He loved the independence, the freedom of living outside his parents’ reach. He loved Hogsmeade trips, the pranks, the nights that blurred together with mischief.

But the welcome feast always came with a reminder: tomorrow morning meant the return of classes, essays, and exams. The monotony of academic life loomed ahead. Lorenzo wasn’t looking forward to that.

For now, though, he lounged at the Slytherin table, waiting for the food to appear while watching the Sorting Ceremony. His eyes skipped over the first years’ faces, and he chuckled as a wave of nostalgia hit him. Some looked terrified, some confident, some wide-eyed with awe at the enchanted ceiling and floating candles. One by one, they were called to the stool. Cheers erupted with each new addition, and Lorenzo even offered a warm smile and polite claps for a shy little girl sorted into his house.

When the last eleven-year-old scurried off the stage, Lorenzo expected the feast to materialize. Instead, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and glanced at her scroll again.

“(Y/N) (L/N).”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Great Hall as an older student—one who had been sitting temporarily at the Hufflepuff table—rose and walked toward the front.

“Is she a transfer? From another school?” Draco whispered.

“Who gives a shit,” Mattheo muttered, eyes following you, “The new girl’s fit.”

“Forget the feast,” Theo drawled, “I’d rather have her for dinner.”

“Agreed,” Blaise chimed in smoothly, “She’s beautiful.”

Lorenzo frowned at that. Blaise rarely announced his interest so quickly, especially not in front of the rest of them. His gaze drifted back to you. Yes, you were beautiful. He wouldn’t deny that. But so was Daphne, or Astoria, or—Merlin help him—even Granger on her best day. So what was all the fuss about?

Onstage, you perched on the stool with a pink blush coloring your cheeks. The Sorting Hat slipped onto your head and murmured things only you could hear. For a moment, the hall was hushed, tense with curiosity. Then, with a booming voice, the Hat declared:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table erupted louder than it had all night. You slipped off the stool, thanking Professor McGonagall, and began your walk toward them. Students scrambled to make room, even Mattheo shoving at Lorenzo to budge over so you might sit beside him. From the other tables, Ravenclaws craned their necks, Hufflepuffs gawked, and Gryffindors all but drooled as you passed.

You hesitated for a moment, eyes scanning the table, before they lit up at the sight of Pansy.

“Hello, Pansy.” You greeted warmly.

“(Y/N)! Welcome to Slytherin. Come, sit!” Pansy beamed, sliding over. You quickly sat across from Lorenzo, and he noticed immediately how the group’s posture shifted—everyone unconsciously leaning toward you, as though you were a magnet.

“This is (Y/N),” Pansy announced proudly, “We met on the train. She’s a transfer from Beauxbatons.”

You smiled, inclining your head politely, “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“The pleasure is all mine, darling,” Mattheo jumped in smoothly, flashing his most practiced grin, “Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You chuckled and shook his hand, “A pleasure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, crossing his arms as Mattheo practically melted into his seat trying to impress you. Blaise was already leaning forward with that lazy grin of his, and even Draco — who usually acted like he was above such displays — was listening a little too intently.

He tried not to roll his eyes when Blaise leaned forward, elbow on the table, voice smoother than usual, “So, Beauxbatons, hm? Explains the accent. How do you find Hogwarts so far?”

“It’s… bigger,” You laughed softly, and the sound of it made half the boys at the table sit up straighter, “Different, but beautiful.”

Merlin. They were hanging on your every word like you’d just recited Shakespeare. Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the table, his irritation bubbling.

Merlin’s beard.

Theo had inched closer now, his grin lazy but his eyes sharp, like he’d just spotted his next favorite pastime. Mattheo, of course, was already trying too hard, throwing you a wink every other sentence. Even Draco—bloody Draco—was smiling politely at you, as if he hadn’t just sneered at the first years minutes before.

It was ridiculous.

It wasn’t like he didn’t notice you were… well, gorgeous. Anyone with eyes could see that. But the way the others reacted was downright embarrassing. Every time you tilted your head or smiled politely, it was as though you’d cast a collective Confundus over half the table.

Lorenzo stabbed a roasted potato with his fork, muttering under his breath, “She’s not a bloody unicorn.”

Unfortunately, Theo heard him, “You blind, Berkshire? Look at her—”

“I am looking,” Lorenzo cut in, voice sharp but quiet, “She’s pretty, sure. But so are half the witches in this school. You lot are acting like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

"Nah, mate. She's in a class all her own, no one else here can even measure up."

And that was when you noticed him.

Across the table, just beyond Pansy’s shoulder, his eyes met yours. Unlike the others, they weren’t hazy with infatuation or glassy with awe. They were sharp, steady, cutting right through you like he was trying to figure you out.

Your lips stilled mid-smile.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the rest of the hall blurred into static. The noise of Mattheo’s laughter, Theo’s chatter, the scrape of cutlery—all of it faded.

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, almost involuntary. For just a moment, it felt like the two of you shared a secret that no one else at the table knew.

Then Pansy said your name and the moment snapped. You turned back, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Theo was spinning, but not before sneaking one last glance across the table.

Lorenzo was still watching.

***

Eventually, Lorenzo had come to a conclusion. The only reason everyone was falling over themselves for you was because you were new. The mysterious foreign girl from fancy Paris. That was all.

Never mind that he’d been to Paris more times than he could count and could firmly attest to the fact that Paris wasn’t shit. The city was overrated, the people were snobs, and the food? He’d had better at his grandmother’s table. If Paris was your only selling point, then Hogwarts was collectively delusional.

He assumed the fascination would wear off after a few days, once the novelty faded and everyone went back to their routines. But apparently, he’d been far too optimistic. Because if anything, the infatuation only seemed to increase.

Crowded hallways parted for you as if you were some sort of queen, while Lorenzo got shoved and elbowed like every other unfortunate soul. In Potions, students passed you the freshest ingredients without hesitation, while he was left picking through shriveled roots. In Herbology, you somehow ended up with the intact, pristine equipment, while his gloves had holes and his shears were always half-rusted.

And the worst part? You didn’t even seem to notice. You stuck close to Pansy, sharing her bench, chatting quietly, utterly oblivious to the chaos orbiting you. You didn’t gloat, didn’t preen, didn’t even bat an eye when half the room bent itself out of shape just to hand you something.

Which should have made it easier to ignore. But it didn’t.

Instead, something in him twisted tighter each time. A hot, coiling irritation whenever he saw someone pressing a perfect ingredient into your palm, or rushing to adjust your chair, or lingering too close just for the chance to brush against you.

And it was hypocritical, wasn’t it? He wasn’t exactly a stranger to pretty privilege. All it took was a charming smile from him, a tilt of his head, and half the girls in their year would fall over themselves to offer the same things. He’d accepted it plenty of times without a second thought.

So why, then, did it bother him so much to watch it happen with you?

Why did it feel different—sharper, almost personal—when it was you being handed things in the hollow of your palm?

Lorenzo didn’t have an answer. He only knew that every time it happened, something stirred in his chest, a restless frustration he couldn’t name. And he hated it.

***

Lorenzo wasn’t much of a Quidditch enthusiast, but he always made it a point to watch the first match of the season. His best mates were on the team, and if nothing else, it gave him a chance to shout himself hoarse at Gryffindors for an afternoon.

He didn’t bother leaving early—front row seats were a nightmare, bodies pressing against your back, threatening to knock you clean over the stands. He much preferred the upper rows where he could see everything without being jostled.

Maybe, if luck was on his side, he’d even snag a seat in the section usually reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. They never missed Draco’s first match of the year, and his auntie Cissa always insisted he sit with them if space allowed.

He had just made his way down into the common room when Pansy practically lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of him.

“Enzo! Thank Merlin you’re here!”

Before he could even respond, she was hurrying toward him, tugging someone by the wrist—someone he hadn’t realized was standing just off to the side. You.

“Do you mind just taking (Y/N) down to the pitch for me? She’s never been and I don’t want her to get trampled.”

Lorenzo blinked, only now noticing you hovering just behind her. You looked slightly embarrassed, as if you’d walked into a conversation mid-plot.

“Pansy, it’s fine, I can—” You started.

“Nonsense,” Pansy cut in, waving off your protest, “He’s going down there anyway. Just go together, what’s the big deal?”

For some reason, Lorenzo’s stomach soured at the idea. He shifted uncomfortably, hands sinking deeper into his hoodie pocket.

“Why can’t you take her yourself?” He asked flatly.

“I’ve got a meeting with Flitwick about future careers,” Pansy sighed, clearly annoyed, “Apparently this is the only time he’s free all week. And the others are already on the pitch. And—” She gave him a sharp look, “because I trust you.”

Lorenzo frowned. What did trust have to do with walking someone to the bloody Quidditch pitch?

Lorenzo’s brows knit together, but he sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, “Fine.”

“Perfect!” Pansy chirped, already steering you toward him, “Have fun, (Y/N)! Cheer enough for the both of us, please!” She gave you a quick hug and darted off before either of you could argue further.

That left the two of you standing there in the flickering green light of the common room. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, turned toward the exit, and muttered, “Come on, then.”

You shifted under his gaze, then offered a small, polite smile, “We don’t have to go together if you’d rather not. I can find my own way.”

He sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck, “It’s fine. I’m headed there anyway.”

You nodded, lips pressing into a small smile as you fell into step beside him.

The walk stretched long and quiet. The air was crisp, the chatter of distant students drifting down the stone corridors, but between the two of you, silence reigned. You tried, a few times, to break it.

“So… do you play?” You asked lightly.

“No.”

You waited a beat, hoping for elaboration. None came.

“Oh. Do you… like Quidditch, then?”

“Not really.”

You exhaled softly, giving up after that, and the walk settled into an awkward sort of quiet. Students kept glancing at you both as they passed, some slowing to offer you a smile or a wave, but Lorenzo didn’t even acknowledge them. His long strides carried him forward without pause, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, expression unreadable.

When you finally broke out onto the grassy slope leading down to the pitch, the noise hit in full force—cheering, laughter, the echo of whistles. Bright banners rippled in the wind, green and silver clashing violently with red and gold. Crowds jostled at the entrance to the stands, fighting for good seats.

You faltered, momentarily overwhelmed by the chaos. The crush of bodies, the sound, the color—it was a lot, all at once.

Without thinking, Lorenzo’s hand shot out, closing around your wrist before someone could slam into you from behind. He tugged you sharply out of the way of a group of Gryffindors barreling past, his grip firm, grounding.

You blinked up at him, startled. He was still frowning, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

“Try not to get run over.” He muttered.

***

Slytherin had won, of course.

The common room was practically vibrating with celebration—emerald banners strung across the walls, tables piled high with butterbeer bottles and Honeydukes wrappers. Music blared from a charmed gramophone in the corner, and the laughter of students shook the stone walls, carrying over the clatter of goblets and cheers.

The party hadn’t officially started until a couple of hours after the match, which gave you and Pansy just enough time to slip away. After her meeting with Flitwick, she had met you at the pitch and guided you back to the common room herself, leaving Lorenzo behind to congratulate Mattheo, Theo, and Draco on a match well played.

By the time they’d showered and returned to the common room, ready for a proper celebration, the party was already in full swing. The moment they entered, the room erupted into cheers, drinks raised, friends hollering over the music.

Pansy had changed into a little black dress that hugged her figure, and you were dressed in Slytherin green, the silky fabric catching the light just right. Heads turned as you both moved through the crowd, the usual hum of admiration for you amplified by the festive atmosphere.

Lorenzo noticed immediately. Not the way the silk of your dress clung to your curves, not the glint of your jewelry that made it look like droplets of water were teasingly sliding down your neck, not even the way your hair caught the lamplight—though, of course, all of that was impossible to miss.

No, it was something else entirely.

It was the way you stayed close to Pansy, quietly observing from the circumference of the party instead of pushing yourself into the throng, even though the center of the room seemed like your natural habitat.

Lorenzo, for his part, had left the pitch and returned in a crisp shirt and dark trousers, looking as effortlessly composed as ever. He moved through the crowed of people with his disarming smirk, a drink in one hand, a girl's waist in the other. Just like the drink, the girl was cycled through the second he got a good enough taste.

Meanwhile, you found yourself staring at the long table lined with bottles of contraband liquor. Firewhisky, mead, enchanted vodka that shimmered like starlight in its glass—and at the center, a giant crystal bowl of alcoholic fruit punch that smelled suspiciously like it could floor a grown wizard with one sip.

Your fingers hesitated over the options before you quietly reached for a slim can of sparkling seltzer—meant as a chaser more than an actual drink. You popped it open, the soft hiss of carbonation disappearing under the music, and let the cool fizz sit on your tongue.

Instead of throwing yourself into the crowd like most of your housemates, you drifted toward the edge of the common room. From there, you could watch the mess of bodies on the makeshift dance floor, their laughter blurring into the bass-heavy beat. Theodore found you not long after, his smirk tilted just enough to be teasing as he dropped into conversation with you.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” He commented sarcastically, nodding toward the chaos in the middle of the room.

You laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. Theo was easy company, his wit sharp but his presence calm, and for a while you let yourself enjoy the quiet exchange.

But soon enough, his attention was claimed elsewhere—cheers erupting as a group of students dragged him away toward the fireplace, insisting he down a row of shots to celebrate blocking the most bludgers that day. You gave him a small wave, lips quirking, and then you were alone again, seltzer can still cold in your hand.

That was when a tall seventh-year slipped into the vacant spot beside you.

His grin was broad, practiced in the mirror too many times, and his eyes glittered with the glassy haze of firewhisky. He leaned in before you could step aside, the smell of alcohol curling off his breath.

“So,” He drawled, voice low in your ear to compete with the music, “is it true French girls kiss better, or is that just a rumor I should test for myself?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness, and instinctively stepped back. But he followed with a half-step forward, crowding you against the back of a velvet armchair. His grin widened, confident in the way boys often were when intoxication blurred the line between charm and intrusion.

Your hand came up to press lightly against his forearm, the gesture gentle, even polite, as you tried to maneuver away. “Haha, that's really more of a myth.” You said, your smile tight but disarming, hoping to diffuse without sparking a scene.

Still, he leaned closer, mistaking your poise for invitation. His hand braced on the back of the chair beside you, effectively boxing you in.

“C’mon,” He said, his voice dripping with cocky amusement, “don’t play coy. One little kiss—it’s a party, isn’t it?” His hand braced on the chair behind you, effectively caging you in, his body heat uncomfortably close.

You shifted, trying to keep the situation from escalating. “Can you move away from me, please?” You replied evenly, eyes darting toward the crowd, “Just because it's a party doesn’t mean I owe you anything.” You pressed more firmly against his arm this time, angling to slip away.

He only grinned wider, his other hand ghosting toward your waist as though he could steer you back against the chair. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” He slurred lightly, the words playful in tone but weighted with assumption, “You’ll like it, I promise—”

And that was when another hand clamped firmly around his wrist, halting his movement midair.

The boy’s hand hovered just inches from your waist when another, firmer hand caught his wrist midair.

“Judging by your ex-girlfriends’ accounts, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t keep.” A smooth, low voice drawled over the music.

The seventh-year blinked, squinting at Lorenzo, swaying slightly on his feet. “Who—who asked you, huh?” He slurred, voice rising with alcohol-fueled bravado, “I was just… just trying to be friendly!"

He tried to lean back toward you, a careless, drunken grin plastered across his face, “C’mon, you want to kiss me, don’t lie.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice, but the weight behind his presence was enough to make the boy falter. The grip on the wrist didn’t loosen; it was firm, inescapable, unyielding.

“You’re drunk. And annoying. Back off,” Lorenzo said evenly, voice calm but edged with warning, “Now. Before I make you regret it.”

The boy stumbled backward, muttering incoherently, clearly unsure if Lorenzo was serious—or if he wanted to test him. He disappeared into the crowd without another word.

You were still shivering slightly, adrenaline leaving your body in uneven waves, when Lorenzo finally released your wrist. The music thumped around you, but the edges of it felt sharp, almost overwhelming after the tension of the encounter.

“Next time someone like that bothers you,” He said, voice low but firm, “Just make a scene. Don’t wait for someone to show up and come save you. You're a witch, are you not? Hex his balls off.”

You gave a small, nervous laugh, trying to steady yourself, though your hands trembled a little, “I—I’m fine. I just… got a little startled, that’s all. Really.”

But Lorenzo wasn’t convinced. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your still shaking shoulders, the weight warm and grounding. His eyes softened slightly as he added, “No. You’re done for tonight. Go to bed.”

“I’m… okay,” You tried again, tugging slightly at the edges of the jacket, “I want to stay. It’s… it’s the first house party. I just....want to fit in, you know?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment he stared at you, the chaos of the party around you fading into background noise, "Can't say you were doing much of that by standing in the corner completely sober."

You sighed, looking up at him, caught between the desire to protest and the strange comfort of his jacket around you, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Lorenzo’s eyes softened ever so slightly, “Just… go rest tonight. You’ve already made an appearance, and everyone else is already sloshed—they won’t even remember if you left early.”

You glanced up at him, eyes catching his in the dim light of the common room. There was something about the way you were looking up at him, something that was hidden behind your eyes that he couldn't quite place but that was way deeper than anything the two of you shared. Something that made the chaos behind him fade into background noise.

"Okay," You whispered, "Thank you, Lorenzo."

***

The next morning, before breakfast, you hovered outside the Slytherin boys’ dormitory with Lorenzo’s jacket folded neatly over your arm. You stood there, staring at the door, debating with yourself. Really, why were you making such a big deal about it? You were just returning his jacket. It wasn’t something that needed to be so thought over.

You could even wait until you saw him at breakfast and hand it over casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all.

But the thought of doing it in front of everyone, of the curious stares and inevitable whispers, twisted something in your stomach. No—better to get it over with now.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked.

There was a pause, some muffled shuffling inside, and then the door creaked open. Lorenzo appeared, still tugging on the cuff of his shirt, his tie hanging undone around his neck. His dark hair was messy in a way that didn’t look careless so much as deliberate, and he blinked at you with mild surprise.

“(Y/N)?” His voice was rougher than usual, freshly woken, the question hanging somewhere between confusion and curiosity.

The sound seemed to spark interest from the room behind him—three other heads popped up almost comically, like meerkats.

“Good morning.” You said softly, shifting the jacket in your arms like it might shield you from the weight of all their stares.

“Good morning, (Y/N)~” Mattheo purred, leaning lazily against the bedpost. His unbuttoned shirt hung off his broad shoulders, exposing the lines of his abs with theatrical nonchalance. The smirk on his lips told you he was very much doing this on purpose.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. With a deliberate shift, he leaned against the doorframe, his frame blocking most of their view of you. His voice came low, smoother than usual but clipped at the edges, “Did you need anything?”

“Um—no, just…” You shifted, clutching the jacket tighter against your chest before finally holding it out with both hands, “I wanted to return your jacket.”

His eyes flicked down to the bundle in your arms, then back to your face. Something unreadable passed across his features. “You could’ve just given that back in the Great Hall.” He said evenly, though his voice carried an undertone of confusion.

You swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck, “I didn’t want anyone to misunderstand.”

That caught him. His brow furrowed slightly as he reached to take the jacket, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. The touch was brief, accidental, but it sent a ripple of warmth through your skin, like a spark finding kindling.

“Misunderstand what?”

The question startled you, making you blink up at him. Surely he knew. Surely a boy like Lorenzo—social, sharp, always aware—understood the game people played at Hogwarts. How the smallest gesture could spiral into whispered speculation by lunch, exaggerated into something entirely different by dinner.

“Um… nothing,” You mumbled quickly, dropping your gaze, your voice thinner than you meant, “Just… misunderstand.”

“Right,” He said quietly, “Thanks.”

***

The library was quieter than usual, a soft hum of enchanted quills and the occasional rustle of parchment filling the high-ceilinged room. Your eyes bounced around the crowded space, books clutched tight against your chest as you searched for an open spot.

Unfortunately, every table seemed taken—clusters of students hunched over their notes, quills scratching, parchment piled high. Some weren’t even studying, just leaning close to whisper and laugh with their friends, and you found yourself quietly frowning. Why would anyone choose to chatter here, of all places, instead of their common room? And why did one student think it fair to take up an entire table for four?

Your gaze kept drifting until it landed on him.

Lorenzo.

He sat alone at a table tucked into the far corner, posture perfectly straight, brow furrowed over a thick stack of textbooks. His quill moved sharply across the page, deliberate and neat, and the way he leaned into his work made it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. The other three chairs at his table sat empty, almost daring you to consider them.

You hovered where you stood, indecisive.

He wasn’t your biggest fan—that much was obvious—and you weren’t sure what he would make of you interrupting while he was so focused. On the other hand… it wasn’t as though his table was overflowing with notes. And if you sat with Lorenzo, you knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t chat you up like half the others in this room.

Taking a small breath, you gathered your courage and stepped closer.

“Um… excuse me,” You said softly, keeping your voice polite, almost tentative, “Is this seat… taken?”

For a moment, Lorenzo didn’t look up. His quill continued its steady scratching across parchment, jaw tight in concentration. You began to wonder if he’d even heard you—or worse, if he was deliberately ignoring you.

Then, slowly, his eyes lifted, dark and sharp, fixing on you with that unreadable expression of his.

“Depends,” He said, voice low and even, “Are you planning to talk the whole time, or can you actually study in silence?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I— I can be quiet.” You promised quickly, shifting the weight of the books in your arms.

His mouth twitched, the faintest smirk threatening at the corners, “We’ll see.”

With a lazy flick of his hand, he gestured toward the chair opposite him. You slipped into it carefully, placing your books down as quietly as possible, suddenly hyperaware of every sound you made—the squeak of the chair, the scratch of your quill, even the way you exhaled.

For several long minutes, you both worked in silence. Lorenzo’s handwriting was fast but precise, his notes neatly organized in a way that made your own look almost childish. You caught yourself sneaking glances more than once, and each time, he seemed to notice.

The library was hushed, the kind of quiet where even the faintest scratch of a quill seemed magnified. You glanced up from your own notes, eyes wandering until they landed on Lorenzo. He was hunched forward, one hand braced against his temple, the other drumming his quill against parchment. His expression was pinched, irritated.

You glanced over from where you’d been reviewing your own work and caught him muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody useless assignment.”

You hesitated, then gathered your courage and padded over. “Stuck?” You asked lightly, tilting your head at the half-scribbled parchment in front of him.

He looked up sharply, quill still in hand.

He sighed, tossing the quill down, “Care of Magical Creatures essay. Three bloody feet on Veela, and I’ve only managed one. I don’t know what else Hagrid expects me to say—that they’re pretty and men lose their minds?”

The words made your stomach twist, but you forced a small, amused scoff to cover it.

You set the parchment down, the faintest nervous energy prickling under your skin. Then, with a scoff you hoped sounded natural, you leaned back in your chair, “I wouldn’t exactly consider them creatures. They’re human beings.”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked up to you at that, a spark of surprise in them. He leaned back in his chair, studying you, "What's it to you? Interested in a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, are you?"

You shrugged, sliding into the empty seat beside him, doing your best to keep your voice casual even though your pulse was picking up. “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of reducing people to… exotic curiosities. Veela aren’t pets to be studied, they’re—” You stopped yourself before you went too far, quickly reaching for his parchment, “Anyway. Let me see what you’ve got. Maybe I can help you add something.”

His lips quirked slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “If you’re volunteering to do my homework for me, I won’t stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tight knot of nerves in your chest loosened just a little as you skimmed the page.

You leaned closer over his parchment, careful not to smudge his ink. Lorenzo’s handwriting was neat but scattered with angry little scribbles—crossed-out sentences and arrows pointing to half-formed ideas.

“So your premise,” You began, trying to sound casual, “is that Veela are basically… a scapegoat for men’s foolishness?”

He huffed, tapping the page with his quill, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous. ‘Oh, I cheated because she’s a Veela and I couldn’t control myself.’ It’s like blaming the weather for burning your house down. And of course, it doesn’t even make sense magically.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head, “How do you mean?”

“Veela magic doesn’t work on the person they’re in love with. The soulmate, or someone they truly care about. When it actually comes to enchanting someone they want to enchant, or someone who truly knows them, the magic doesn't work. What does that say about their allure?"

You couldn’t help a small laugh, shaking your head, “That’s… actually not a bad argument. You’re taking a real angle on it.”

"So you agree with me?"

“Not exactly,” You said, smoothing the paper flat, “It’s just… well, you’re right. Veela charm doesn’t work on the person they care about most. But if you look at it another way… maybe it’s a kind of self-preservation. Soulmates are protected by magic, by design. So a Veela can’t unintentionally—or intentionally—hurt the one person they’re most connected to. It balances the… ridiculous, one-sided effect of their allure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, running a hand over his face, “Wow… that’s actually… really insightful. I think I can actually finish this essay now.”

You grinned faintly, feeling a small spark of satisfaction, “Glad I could help.”

The quiet between you settled easily, almost companionable, and for the first time in weeks, Lorenzo’s usual inscrutable expression softened just a fraction.

You pretended to focus on his parchment, quill tapping idly against the margins, but Lorenzo wasn’t nearly as distracted as you hoped. His eyes flicked from you, to the room, and back again.

He saw the way you noticed.

Every time someone passed the table, their eyes lingered on you just a beat too long. Every time a chair scraped or parchment rustled, you glanced up with that same tiny flicker of unease before quickly lowering your gaze, arranging your expression into something neutral.

You weren’t encouraging the attention—far from it. If anything, it looked like you were trying to disappear into the seat, as though ignoring it might make it stop.

You caught yourself stiffening and quickly smoothed your expression into something casual, turning back to Lorenzo as if you hadn’t noticed at all. The trick was never to react. The more you acknowledged the staring, the harder they tried to get your attention.

And yet, Lorenzo could tell. The tighter way you held your shoulders, the careful curve of a half-smile when someone’s gaze caught yours, the way you deliberately didn’t respond because you knew it would only draw them closer.

“...Doesn’t that get exhausting?” He asked suddenly.

Your head jerked up, startled, “What does?”

He leaned back in his chair, smirk faint but his eyes sharper than usual, “All the staring. The whispering. You pretending you don’t notice.”

For a moment, your mask slipped—the tiniest crease in your brow, the quick dart of your eyes toward the nearby table where two Ravenclaw boys had been not-so-subtly glancing your way. Then, almost instantly, you forced a scoff and straightened.

“I think you’re imagining things, Berkshire.” You looked back at your book.

But his gaze lingered on you, heavy and thoughtful, long after you bent over his parchment.

***

You were nestled into your usual spot in the common room, quietly thumbing through a book. After an exhausting week filled with deadlines, helping Lorenzo with his essay had cut into your own study time, and you’d ended up staying up late that night to finish your work. The next couple of days had been a blur of yawns and half-finished notes, and finally today you were looking forward to some downtime: a warm cup of tea in hand, a quiet chapter to read, and the comforting hum of the common room around you.

Then Lorenzo appeared at the entrance, a cocky smile plastered on his face as he strode over with purpose. Your gaze followed him, curious.

He stopped a few feet away, holding a scroll just inches from your face. You recognized it immediately—it was the essay you had so graciously helped him with. The glaring red “O” on the top and the smug pride in his expression left no doubt: he was in an excellent mood.

Blinking, genuinely impressed, you leaned forward to glance at the paper. Every mark, every sentence flowed logically, clearly showing effort—and, of course, plenty of your input.

“An Outstanding?” You echoed softly.

“Indeed,” He said, chest puffed with pride, “Hagrid even said I was the only one in the class who didn’t talk about Veelas like creatures.” He paused, his eyes meeting yours, a teasing glint in his gaze, “I owe my striking transcript to you, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips, “I see. So now my help is officially ‘life-changing.’ I should start billing by the hour.”

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “Hmm… tempting. But somehow, I think my gratitude will suffice for now.”

Your cheeks warmed at the comment, but you quickly masked it with a casual shrug, “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

He grinned, clearly amused, and for a moment the room faded away. It was just the two of you, comfortable and teasing, the kind of closeness that only comes after trust and a little shared work—and maybe a hint of admiration.

***

The common room was unusually lively for a weeknight. A handful of Slytherins were draped across couches and chairs, laughing and trading stories as the fire snapped in the grate. You sat in the armchair that really just had enough space for yourself, feet pulled up onto the cushion as you absentmindedly played with the threads on the ends of your stockings. Outside, the lights flickered slightly as the giant squid swam back and forth past the windows.

Draco was going on about how his family had just bought a villa just outside Paris over the summer.

“Paris is the best,” Pansy sighed dreamily from her perch on the armrest, “The food, the fashion, the art—honestly, I’d move there tomorrow if I could.”

“Not me,” Blaise said from across the room, tossing a small coin into the air, “I’m sick of the place. Overrated. Clichéd, if you will.”

“That’s the charm, though,” Pansy insisted, curling her legs beneath her on the couch, “The fashion, the cafés… I’d move there in a heartbeat if I could. Honestly, (Y/N), why would you leave the great city of love and lights for dreary Scotland?”

Your chest tightened. The question was innocent enough, but answering honestly was… complicated. You gave a small, wry laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Paris is… beautiful,” You said carefully, keeping your tone light, “I had a good time at Beauxbatons, but I felt like I needed a change. It’s… not as perfect as you guys think it is.”

A brief, awkward silence followed. A few of the Slytherins murmured under their breath, attempting to redirect the conversation—commenting on the weather, Hogwarts, anything to fill the quiet.

But Lorenzo, sitting across from you, tilted his head slightly. His sharp gaze caught the way your hand had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke, the faint blush climbing your cheeks, and the subtle flicker of tension in your eyes as they bounced around the room, gauging the reactions of others, calculating their expressions.

He knew there was more behind that casual shrug than you were letting on. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would take to draw it out of you.

Yet you remained seated, smiling softly, projecting calm and composure. For just a second, he thought he had just imagined the shadow of heartbreak cross your face.

***

The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of baked goods and cider as you wandered through Hogsmeade, purse in hand, eyes scanning the shelves of Honeydukes. You had spotted a few rare chocolate treats imported from Paris, ones you’d adored as a child, and decided immediately that you needed them.

You counted the coins in your hand, but your mental math kept tripping you up. “Wait… if a Galleon is seventeen Sickles, and a Sickle is twenty Knuts—” you muttered in rushed French, frowning and pushing your hair behind your ear. The cashier watched, a quiet, amused smile playing at their lips as the different-colored metal circles in your hand blurred into incomprehensibility.

A shadow fell over your shoulder. “Need a hand?” Lorenzo’s voice was quiet, casual, but the warmth threading through it made your heart skip.

You blinked up at him, cheeks flushing, “I… I think so.”

He crouched slightly to get a better look at the coins, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Here,” He said, arranging them neatly, “That’s one Galleon, fourteen Sickles, and seven Knuts.”

He handed the coins over to the shopkeeper with a flourish, and you collected your treats, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he passed the money. Your heart jumped, and he caught your glance, offering a small, almost shy smile before blending into the crowd of students.

You let out a soft laugh, holding your chocolates to your chest, “Thanks… I don’t understand how your currency works at all.”

He shrugged lightly, eyes flicking up at you with that familiar intensity, “It’s a bit tricky at first. Most first-years make the same mistake.”

You tilted your head, a soft smile playing on your lips, “First-years, huh? So… I’m hopelessly behind, then.”

He shook his head, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “Not hopeless—just inexperienced. But… that’s okay. Consider us even after your help with my essay."

You laughed, "You're gonna have to do alot more than that if you want to thank me for your first O in seven years."

He leaned just slightly closer, the space between you shrinking, and his eyes softened in a way that made your chest flutter. “Oh, I can think of a few ways.” He said, voice low, teasing, but somehow intimate.

You raised an eyebrow, playful, but your pulse quickened. “Do tell." You challenged, holding your chocolate treats like a shield.

He smirked, but instead of answering, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, brushing your cheek gently. Your breath hitched at the contact, and he gave a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes,” He said quietly, “actions speak louder than words.”

You cleared your throat, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks, "And what might that be?"

He let his gaze linger on you for a heartbeat longer, the corners of his mouth tugging into a mischievous, yet tender, half-smile. “Well…” His voice dropped a fraction, softer now, almost conspiratorial, "I could consider letting you be my study buddy from now on."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him, "You just want to steal more of my brilliant ideas."

He gasped, clutching his chest, "You wound me!"

***

The courtyard was alive in that golden, drowsy sort of way it always was when classes had just let out—students spilling across the flagstones in clusters, laughter echoing under the stone arches, the autumn sun slipping lazily between drifting clouds. You had tucked yourself into the shadow of an archway, parchment stretched across your knees, quill tapping absently against your thumb. It was one of the few places you’d found any peace lately, where the noise of the castle blurred into the background.

Peace never lasted long.

“(Y/N)!”

You looked up to find a Hufflepuff boy standing there, a small bouquet of daisies clutched awkwardly in his hands, their petals charmed to shimmer faintly in the light.

Your heart sank. You already knew what was coming. Already braced yourself—carefully smoothing the micro-expressions from your face, steadying your eyes so they wouldn’t flick nervously around the courtyard, doing your best to appear unbothered. Hoping, at the very least, that he would be discreet.

Lorenzo had only just stepped into the courtyard when he caught the tail end of it.

The boy’s cheeks were blotchy with nerves, but his eyes were hopeful when he blurted, “Would you… maybe want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

The world seemed to still around you. You swallowed once, heavily, willing your gaze not to dart to the groups you could feel watching. Then, with practiced ease, you slipped on a polite smile and shook your head.

“That’s sweet of you,” You said gently, “but no. I’m sorry.”

The boy’s smile faltered. He muttered something like, “figured as much,” before shoving the bouquet into his bag and trudging off, shoulders hunched.

The whispers rose immediately.

“Merlin, that’s the tenth one this term—” “Honestly, does she think she’s too good for everyone?” “She could at least give one of them a chance. It’s not like she’s perfect.”

Each word landed sharp as glass. Your smile stayed fixed, your eyes carefully pinned to the parchment as though the ink mattered more than anything else. But your hand trembled faintly against the quill, and though you stilled it with a deliberate breath, Lorenzo saw.

He leaned against a column, a book in hand he hadn’t so much as cracked open, watching. He caught every whisper, every cutting comment, and the slight tightening of your fingers around the quill before you forced yourself to relax again.

It didn’t make sense to him. Couldn’t they see the way their words carved into you? The way you’d looked cornered when the boy had confessed? To Lorenzo, the cracks in your façade were plain as day. Did no one else notice—or did they simply not care?

He hadn’t liked you at first, either. He hadn’t liked how pretty you were, how people seemed to trip over themselves just to look at you, how effortless it all seemed. But even he could see this wasn’t your fault.

And you—Merlin, you carried it like it was nothing. Smile, shrug, carry on. But it wasn’t nothing. Not with the flicker of tension in your jaw, not with the way your eyes skittered briefly toward the whispering groups before forcing themselves back to your parchment.

You waited a little longer, biding your time until the whispers began to die down. Finally, you rose, gathering your things with deliberate leisure before heading toward the castle—quickly, though not too quickly. Controlled.

Lorenzo snapped his book shut with a quiet thud. Enough.

He crossed the courtyard with that lazy confidence he wore like a second skin and fell into step beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just matched your stride, hands tucked in his pockets, expression unreadable. The courtyard buzzed behind you, but it felt like the air between you carried its own kind of weight.

Finally, Lorenzo broke it.

“You know,” He drawled, voice deceptively casual, “you could’ve just said yes. Gone to Hogsmeade with him. At least then people would stop whispering about how you reject everyone who asks.”

Your steps faltered for half a second, and you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowed. “And then what?” You asked evenly, “Go on a date or two, let him think he has a chance, and then dump him? So everyone can whisper about how I led him on instead?”

Something flickered in his expression—quick, sharp, gone in an instant. He’d been teasing, half-serious at best, but the way you said it, so certain, so worn… it sounded like experience. Like you weren’t just imagining what they would say. Like you’d heard it before.

Lorenzo slowed, his usual smirk faltering as his eyes searched your face, “...Has that happened?”

You didn’t answer immediately. The words seemed to stick in your throat, something bitter pressing against your tongue. You forced a shrug, eyes forward, though your voice dipped quieter than before.

“Besides,” You said finally after a long beat of silence, so softly he almost missed it, “I like someone else.”

That stopped him. For a moment, Lorenzo felt something in his chest tighten—surprise, confusion, something he didn’t quite want to name. But he said nothing, only slipped back into step beside you, though this time his silence carried less ease and more thought.

“Oh?” His voice came out smoother than he felt, though it scraped in his throat like glass, “And who’s the lucky bloke?”

It felt like wringing words out of his chest, like something sharp was lodged there. His usual lazy smirk was gone, his lips pressed in something closer to a line.

You gave a small laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t matter,” You murmured, eyes fixed ahead, “He doesn’t feel the same way.”

For a fleeting second, something in Lorenzo’s chest twisted. Too tight. Too sharp. He swallowed it down, burying it beneath the casual mask he always wore.

“His loss.” He said finally, hands shoved deeper into his pockets, but he couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his tone.

***

The walk back from the library was quiet, the crisp autumn air filling the courtyard as you and Lorenzo trailed along the stone paths, your books tucked under your arms. The sun was dipping low, painting the castle walls gold, and the occasional chatter of students heading to dinner drifted around you.

You had both planned to study until dinner, but that plan had been quashed the moment Daphne Greengrass’s boyfriend made a scene in the library, disrupting your session. Apparently, they had a row, and now he was desperately trying to make it up to her, much to the inconvenience of the other students.

“That was… quite hard to watch.” Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head as you both recalled the fifteen-minute spectacle of Daphne laying into her boyfriend, effectively blocking the doorway.

“Poor guy.” You murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Dumbass didn’t even bring her flowers,” Lorenzo said, smirking, “My mother always told me to get a girl a bouquet if you did anything wrong—or anything right, for that matter.”

You shrugged, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips, “Perhaps she doesn’t like them.”

He blinked at you, genuinely perplexed, “What girl wouldn’t like flowers?”

“Well…” You hesitated, adjusting the strap of your bag as you chose your words carefully, “I’d take a potted plant over cut flowers any day.”

Lorenzo arched a brow, skeptical, the kind of look reserved for girls who claimed one thing but wanted something entirely different. He’d known plenty of them—girls who said they didn’t need titles on a relationship but wanted exclusivity, who claimed they didn’t care about gifts but were secretly disappointed when he showed up empty-handed.

“You want a jar of dirt? God, you French are impossible to please.”

“I’m serious,” You said softly but firmly, “Bouquets don’t make sense to me. To have something pretty, you have to kill it. It’s like people don’t value what made it beautiful in the first place—they only care about possessing it, no matter the cost. If you truly wanted something beautiful…” Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, “…you’d let it keep growing.”

The way you spoke, glancing off into the distance as though seeing something he couldn’t, made Lorenzo feel like it wasn’t really about flowers at all. There was something deeper beneath your words, something carefully held back, and it tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Every pause, every subtle gesture felt deliberate, and he found himself straining to memorize it—not just the words, but the way you said them, the weight behind them—even though he didn’t yet understand why he felt he needed to.

He didn’t know why he needed to hold onto it, why it felt so important, but he still tucked that tidbit into the back of his mind, waiting until he'd need to use it.

He chuckled, half-amused, half-intrigued, “Is that why you’ve rejected every single guy who’s come up to you? Because he didn’t hand you a succulent?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

For a moment, Lorenzo was quiet. Then, in a tone stripped of his usual teasing edge, he said almost matter-of-factly, “I can respect that. Just because you want something beautiful doesn’t mean you have the right to possess it.”

The words caught you off guard. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t brushing you off—he sounded like he actually understood. Your chest gave a small, startled flutter, and you found yourself squeezing the strap of your bag. For the briefest second, you considered telling him. Maybe he really would understand.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. You pressed your lips together, tucking the thought away, and only nodded before letting the silence stretch comfortably between you again.

***

The Great Hall was its usual blur of noise, laughter, and clinking cutlery, candles floating high above casting warm pools of light. You were looking forward to the meal, mouth practically watering at the thought of pancakes drowned in strawberries and cream. But the moment you stepped past the doors, your appetite vanished as though someone had ripped it from you.

The room shifted. The buzz of chatter seemed to die down at once, leaving only a faint rustle of robes and the sharp echo of your own steps. Every head turned. Dozens—hundreds—of eyes latched onto you, cold and heavy, pinning you to the spot like you’d been caught trespassing where you didn’t belong.

Why were they—?

A horrible chill crawled down your spine. This was too familiar. The air, thick with judgment. The stares, unrelenting. Your gaze flicked across the hall, trying to separate one expression from the next, but they all blurred together the longer you looked: vengeful smirks, disgusted scowls, wary frowns, indifferent curiosity—but they all blurred together the longer you looked, merging into a faceless audience with wide, domineering eyes. And you were center stage.

“…said she’s a Veela.” “Transferred from France.” “Veelas are common there.” “Now we know why everyone keeps fawning over her—”

Your throat constricted, bile burning the back of it. You took a cautious step backward, your mind scrambling. How much did they know? Was it only rumor? Was your face betraying the truth? You tried to smooth your features into calm indifference, but the anxiety rushing through you pulsed in your eyes, impossible to hide.

Run? Stay? Deny? Laugh? Which would damn you less?

Your eyes darted to the Slytherin table, searching desperately for your friends, for a safe place to sit before someone cornered you. But the moment you spotted them, your stomach sank, the sting of tears burning behind your eyes.

They were staring at you too.

Pansy’s lips were pressed thin, concern buried beneath a veneer of hurt. Theo and Blaise—sharp-eyed, critical, their thoughts written plain as ink across their faces. Draco and Mattheo wore faint masks of disgust. But they all shared that same thin veil of suspicion.

You could practically hear the questions unspoken but loud in their eyes: Did we only like her because of her Veela charm? Has she been using it on us this whole time?

Not again. Please, not again.

Your gaze slipped, almost against your will, to the last of them. Lorenzo.

You almost wished you hadn’t looked.

His gaze was unyielding, pinning you where you stood. He didn’t look away. He didn’t soften. Something simmered beneath the sharpness of his eyes—something that struck you harder than disgust or suspicion ever could.

Betrayal.

The crack in your chest spread, shattering something you didn’t even realize you’d been holding together. You tore your gaze away before the tears could spill and turned on your heel.

And you left.

***

Lorenzo sat in the back of the classroom, notebooks open but barely touched, mind elsewhere. He had barely eaten breakfast, the food tasteless as he replayed the scene in the Great Hall again and again—the whispers, the sharp stares, the way your shoulders had stiffened, the moment you'd finally fled.

The door creaked open, and you stepped in. Your steps were measured, careful, almost like you was trying to make yourself small, to avoid drawing attention. But even through the chaos of the classroom, he could see you—the way your fingers clutched your bag, the faint tremor in your hands as you scanned the room.

Still, you went to your place. To Pansy.

“Hey,” you said softly, the word small, almost pleading.

Pansy glanced at you, her lips parting as if she might answer—but then she pressed them together, eyes flicking to the rest of the room, to the stares and whispers that hadn’t stopped since yesterday.

“Not now.” She muttered under her breath, gathering her things.

You froze.

Lorenzo felt it, the way you stiffened, holding yourself upright with every ounce of strength you had left. He watched Pansy stand, watched her skirt the desk and take another seat across the room, her back deliberately turned.

And then he watched you.

Your eyes lingered on the empty space beside you for a moment too long before dropping to the desk, your hand hovering over the chair as if you weren’t sure whether to sit or flee. The rest of the class pretended not to stare, but the silence was thick with curiosity, with judgment.

You didn’t break—not outwardly. You lowered yourself into the chair, pulled your books from your bag, and kept your head down. But Lorenzo could see it. The way your throat worked as you swallowed. The way your fingers trembled as they straightened the edge of your parchment. The way your jaw tightened to hold yourself together.

It was like watching someone drown quietly in the middle of a crowded room.

And for reasons he still couldn’t name, Lorenzo’s chest ached with every second of it.

The door creaked again, and Professor McGonagall swept in, robes swirling, the usual stern expression softened only slightly by the hint of morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Lorenzo sat up straighter, though his attention never wavered from her. He watched as she carried a stack of parchment to her desk, the classroom settling into the usual quiet hum.

“You may take your seats.” She commanded, and everyone quickly complied. Lorenzo watched her settle behind the desk, and his attention immediately flicked back to you—the way you tried to keep your back straight, the faint slump in your shoulders, the rigid tightness in your hands as you set your bag on the desk.

“Today, we’ll begin by returning your essays on the care and handling of magical creatures.” She announced, her voice firm. The students shuffled nervously, anxious to get their grades back.

McGonagall began the lesson, distributing essays with quiet efficiency. When she reached her, she handed back her parchment with a brief, “Good work.” and Lorenzo saw the familiar red O in the corner.

A quiet swell of whispers started almost immediately.

“She only got it because she’s a Veela, I’m sure of it.” "I guess even professors are not above pretty privilege." "Beauty over brains with Minnie, I guess."

The second you heard those words, your hands unwillingly curled into the parchment, wrinkling your perfect essay. Your eyes turned downward, not wanting to look at the way the students had all turned around in their seats to stare at you.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He wanted to stand, to defend you, to shout that you had earned it. He had personally seen just how much you studied, how much you valued your grades, how brilliant you were, a truly unique thinker.

He could feel your hands trembling ever so slightly as you gripped your essay. The smallest hitch of your breath, the subtle flicker of discomfort in your eyes—it made his chest ache. You were trying, as you always did, to maintain composure, to keep yourself from unraveling under the weight of the scrutiny.

But he tore his gaze away.

***

The common room was nearly empty, the usual warmth stripped down to a few glowing embers in the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the stone walls, flickering and bending with every pop of the fire. You had hoped to slip in quietly, make it to your bed without anyone noticing, but your plans crumbled the moment you saw him.

Lorenzo was there.

He leaned against the edge of the sofa, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dying flames. His posture was rigid, unreadable, and for a moment you thought he might not even notice you. But the way his shoulders tensed as you approached made your stomach twist. You had hoped this encounter would be calm, a chance to explain, to smooth over the hurt—but his presence alone made your chest ache.

“Lorenzo…” You began softly, stepping closer. Your voice sounded small, even to your own ears, “Can we talk?”

He didn’t turn. His voice, low and strained, cut through the quiet, “I have nothing to say to you—and even less to listen.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Your heart stuttered, chest tightening painfully. You swallowed, your throat dry, “Lorenzo, please—”

“No.” His head snapped up, eyes flashing, “You don’t get to ask things of me. You hid this for months! How did you think we’d react? That we’d just… carry on like nothing happened? Without a single ounce of suspicion?”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a mixture of shame and fear that your secret had hurt him more than you had anticipated. You wanted to reach out, to explain, but your hands trembled in your sleeves. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. I just…” Frustration and exhaustion twisted in your chest, making it hard to find the right words.

“You just what?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the embers’ quiet crackle, “You just thought you’d keep it a secret while all of us—while I—began to care about you? How much of it was real, (Y/N)? Are my feelings real? Are you using your appeal even now? Is that the only reason I’ve noticed you at all?”

The words hit harder than you could have imagined. Tears pricked your eyes. “That’s not true, Lorenzo!” You said, your voice shaking, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to treat me differently!”

He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter, and it made something inside you contract. Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Don’t kid yourself. You’ve been different since the second you stepped into the Hall. But things changed since then. We changed. I—” His hand fell to his face, and he cut himself off, the tension in his shoulders radiating frustration, “You should’ve told me before I started to—you didn’t even give me a chance. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” You said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling as you tried to steady your breathing, “I just… I didn’t want to lose you. People have been cruel about this before, and I didn’t want you—”

“That was my choice to make!” His voice cracked, and the anger in it was jagged, “Salazar, and now I’m sitting here thinking about all these months we’ve spent together, wondering how much of it was even real.”

“It was all real.” You whispered, tears spilling over, burning your vision as your throat constricted painfully. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, to make him see the truth behind your fear and your silence—but the words wouldn’t come.

His gaze cut to you again, piercing and cold, and you flinched under it, “And I’m supposed to what? Just trust you?”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight, “I thought… I thought you’d understand.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire. You wanted to tell him everything, to make him see that your feelings—your friendship—had never been about magic, charm, or anything like that. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy and unsaid.

Instead, you pressed your lips together, taking a shaky breath, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He gave a laugh, bitter and hollow, shaking his head, “Great job.”

Before you could respond, he spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs, leaving you alone. Your hands flew to your face, muffling the sob that finally broke free. The quiet of the room, the dim light of the dying fire, and the shadows pressed down on you as your body shook with grief. You crouched there for a long moment, wishing somehow you could turn back time—or at least explain. But for now, all you could do was feel the weight of silence, the sting of misunderstanding, and the emptiness of the space he had left behind.

***

Dawn filtered through the tall windows of Dumbledore’s office, spilling soft gold across the polished floor. You sat in front of the headmaster's desk, shoulders hunched, hands twisting the edges of your robes, heart hammering with the weight of everything that had happened.

A sudden shimmer of magic announced the arrival of your parents. The second you had contacted them, they had immediately arranged to get a portkey ready to Hogwarts.

Before you could think, you were running into your father’s arms, burying your face against his chest. “Papa… I tried.” You whispered, voice breaking as hot tears slid down your cheeks.

He held you tightly, and for a moment the world outside didn’t exist. You felt the familiar strength of his embrace, the solid warmth that had always made the impossible seem bearable. But even through the comfort, one noticed the tight set of his jaw, the subtle furrow of his brow. For all his striking looks and presence, there was guilt there—because he had been the reason you were here, caught between worlds, exposed and vulnerable.

Your mother stepped closer, her hand brushing your hair, a quiet reassurance. You let yourself shiver into their warmth, letting the sorrow, fear, and frustration slip out in shuddering sobs. The morning light caught in your tears, and for the first time that day, you felt a fragment of relief, the sense that at least here, in this quiet, safe space, someone truly understood.

***

Pansy came barreling down the corridor, her heart hammering like a drum. Each step echoed sharply against the stone walls, her breaths coming in short, jagged bursts, leaving her gasping by the time she skidded to a stop in front of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory. Her knuckles flew against the door, the sound sharp and insistent.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a few bleary-eyed boys, squinting at her in confusion. “Pansy? It’s… early. What’s going on?” Mattheo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“She—she’s here, right? (Y/N)?” Pansy practically shoved the words out, desperation threading every syllable, her voice catching in a half-panic.

The boys exchanged puzzled glances. “Why would she be here?” Theo asked, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorframe.

Pansy whirled, fixing Lorenzo with an intense, almost pleading stare, “You two—you both have that weird… thing going on. Do you know where she is?”

Lorenzo froze. His breath hitched slightly at the mention of you. His mind immediately began replaying the last twenty-four hours in agonizing detail: your tear-streaked face, the tightness in your voice, the sound of your muffled sobs echoing up the staircase as he walked to his dorm.

He tossed and turned all night, the words he’d shouted at you replaying over and over. Was he any better than the others when he had treated you like that? Did he have the right to get upset? Were his feelings for you real—or had he just convinced himself they were? Did you even know how he felt? Perhaps you did, perhaps you had made him feel this way.

His jaw tightened, fingers flexing against his side as guilt coiled in his stomach. He shook his head slowly. “No. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.” He admitted, voice quieter than usual, weighed with unease.

Blaise, now more alert, leaned forward, curiosity and concern in his voice, “Wait—what’s going on? Why are you freaking out like this?”

Pansy’s hands flew to her face, tugging at her hair in anxiety, then she pulled them down as if trying to steady herself. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, “I… I don’t know. Her things… they’re gone. Her chest is empty, her desk is empty. I tried asking the others, but—nothing. She’s just… missing.”

A tense silence fell over the doorway, thick and suffocating. The boys exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of her words sinking in. Lorenzo’s chest tightened painfully, the cold knot in his stomach making it hard to breathe. He stepped closer, heart hammering against his ribs, mind racing with a flurry of guilt and fear.

Enzo’s jaw clenched, furrowing his brow as the memory of last night replayed in his head for the millionth time. Had he pushed you too far?

Pansy’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, “What if—what if something happened? What if—because of the way we treated her? Fuck—I went to bed early last night just to avoid talking to her. What if something happened to her?"

The words hit him like ice. His chest tightened further, guilt and fear coiling in a spiral he could hardly control. He couldn’t shake the image of your small frame, trembling, your eyes glistening as you tried to hide your tears. His hands itched to reach out, to make things right—but you weren't there.

Lorenzo’s gaze hardened, jaw clenching as he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

And that’s how Enzo and Pansy found themselves standing outside Professor Snape’s office that morning—a half-dressed, panicked lot huddled together in the dim corridor. Their robes were thrown on haphazardly over their pajamas, hair still mussed.

They pounded on the heavy wooden door again, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and yet none of them flinched at the thought of the torrent of wrath and fury they were about to unleash upon themselves.

The door creaked open, and Professor Snape’s shadow fell across the threshold. His expression was as unreadable as ever, dark eyes scanning each of them with a mixture of mild annoyance and measured calculation. “Yes?” He asked, his voice low, smooth, but brimming with authority that made the air itself feel charged.

Pansy stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to force the words out before the panic strangled her, “Professor… we… we can’t find her. (Y/N). She’s—she’s gone!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting the panic in the students’ voices sink in before speaking, “Her parents picked her up this morning. She went home for the holidays.”

The words hit like ice. Pansy blinked, confusion and disbelief washing over her, “The holidays… aren’t for another week.”

“Yes. She went early,” Snape replied, his tone clipped, precise. He didn’t flinch at the wide-eyed shock on their faces, didn’t soften his words for their panicked pleas.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, the frustration building in his chest like a storm pressing against his ribs, “You just… let her go? Miss a week of school? You’re okay with that?” His voice cracked slightly, more from the helplessness gnawing at him than from anger.

Snape arched a brow, his gaze sharp enough to make even Lorenzo pause. “Mr. Berkshire, despite what you may think of Hogwarts, this is an institution that prioritizes the welfare and development of its students. Ms. (L/N) wanted to go home early, and her parents agreed it was in her best interest. Furthermore, international students cannot always schedule Portkeys according to their own timelines; we provide additional discretion and consideration in such cases.”

Lorenzo felt something cold wash over him. Right, you lived in France. Even if he wanted to visit you, to straighten things out. You weren't simply a hop, skip and a jump away. He wouldn't be able to apparate there.

Snape’s eyes glimmered briefly with a cold, almost imperceptible calculation. He stepped back slightly, his hands folding neatly behind his back, leaving them to absorb the weight of the decision without another word.

The two of them stood frozen in the corridor, a thick silence settling over the stone floor. Pansy let out a small, shaky breath, her hands twisting together nervously. “What...what did we do.” She whispered, voice barely audible.

Lorenzo sank to the nearest bench, chest tight, shoulders hunched, as guilt and helplessness coiled together in his stomach, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped together.

He could still see the way you had looked at him the night before, tears welling in your eyes as he shouted, as he accused you. He had been so sure then, so certain he was in the right—but now the certainty wavered. Was it really you he cared about? Or was it the pull, the allure, the irresistible charm he could never explain?

That didn't make any sense.

If it truly were the veela appeal, the rest of his dormmates would have been banging on Snape’s door with him, wracked with guilt the way he was. But they weren’t. They weren’t the ones who had pushed you, who had shredded your confidence piece by piece, and yet here he was, drowning in guilt, replaying every word, every accusation. He should feel guilty—he had pushed too far, ignored the tears streaming down your cheeks.

And yet… you had wanted to talk to him, not the others. That had to mean something, right? That your connection was deeper than the one you had with the rest? That you trusted him, that he mattered more to you?

But what if that was exactly why you had used your appeal, carefully, deliberately, to keep him wrapped around your finger—to make him want to see you, to apologize to you even though you were the one who had hidden the truth?

And yet—the memory of you voice, the sight of your smile, the sound of your laugh that sent a strange, intoxicating thrill rushing through his veins—they weren’t magic. Not entirely. That was you. That had to be you.

Still, doubt lingered like smoke curling around his heart. He wanted to believe, to trust, to go to you and say everything he hadn’t been able to the night before. But how could he be sure his feelings weren’t… tainted?

He leaned back, shoulders tense, staring at the ceiling as if the answers could somehow be etched into the stone above, and wondered if he would ever truly know the difference between magic and the person behind it.

***

Lorenzo sat slouched low in the armchair nearest the fire, head tilted back against the crushed velvet, eyes locked on the ceiling as though the flickering shadows overhead might hold the answers he couldn’t find. His jaw was tight, thoughts looping endlessly in a vicious cycle—he liked you. He didn’t know if his feelings were real. He liked you. He didn’t know if you had used your veela appeal on him.

Merlin, he loved you—

A sigh slipped out, heavy and tired, cutting the silence.

Theo, sprawled across the sofa with a book he clearly wasn’t reading, glanced up. His sharp eyes lingered for a beat before he let the book drop onto his stomach with a loud thud, “Merlin’s beard, Enzo, you look like either end of a blast-ended skrewt. This brooding thing is starting to get pathetic.”

Lorenzo didn’t so much as twitch, “Mind your business, Theo.”

Theo smirked, undeterred, and sat up, elbows braced on his knees, “Oh, I am minding my business. You moping around affects the whole bloody dorm. I cannot listen to your pathetic, wistful little sighs anymore. It’s like being haunted.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Theo…” in warning, but Theo only shook his head with exaggerated pity, clearly enjoying himself.

“Relax,” He said, leaning back with a lazy stretch, “I’m just saying, stop acting like the world ended. You’ve got the rest of your lives together.”

That snapped Lorenzo out of his haze. His head jerked toward Theo, eyes narrowing, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Don’t fuck around with my feelings, you prat.”

Theo blinked, looking almost innocent, before he arched a brow, “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Lorenzo’s voice was sharp now, defensive, brittle.

Theo studied him for a long moment, then barked a short laugh, “Salazar, you’re denser than I thought. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, suspicion stirring, “…Know what?”

“That you’re her fucking soulmate, scemo.” Theo’s grin spread, slow and knowing, as if he’d just uncovered some great cosmic joke.

The words landed like a Bludger to Lorenzo’s chest. For a second, he just stared, breath stalling. Theo, of course, recognized the look of disbelief and pressed on.

“You were the only one at the opening feast who wasn’t immediately taken with her. Even Malfoy was tripping over himself that night. And you? You said she wasn’t prettier than fucking Granger.”

The firelight danced across Lorenzo’s face as his mouth opened, then shut again, something unsteady flickering across his eyes.

Theo leaned forward slightly, voice dripping with smugness, “Come on, man. You wrote that bloody paper in Hagrid’s class yourself. You know a veela’s soulmate is immune to their appeal.”

Lorenzo wanted to scoff, to tell Theo he was full of shit. But the denial stuck in his throat. Because the moment Theo said it, the memories rushed in—the way he’d been indifferent to you at first, how he hadn’t fallen under your spell like the others, how his feelings had only taken root as you drew closer. It wasn’t instant. It was gradual. Real. And that thought made his pulse quicken, his stomach clench.

Theo didn’t notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He smirked wider, leaning back into the sofa like he’d just delivered gospel, “So quit sulking. Or at least go do it somewhere else—I cannot stand looking at your dumb mug for another second.”

***

The rain had just let up when the doorbell rang. You were curled up on the window seat in your father’s study, staring blankly out at the drenched garden, wondering who would visit in weather like this.

You padded toward the door, still in the soft cardigan you’d thrown on that morning, hair loose around your shoulders. You pulled open the heavy oak door.

And froze.

The last thing you expected was Lorenzo Berkshire standing on your front step, damp from the drizzle, his hair mussed from travel—but none of that made your breath catch.

It was the enormous potted rose bush he was clutching awkwardly in front of him, as tall as he was, the deep crimson blooms brushing his jaw.

“Hi.” He said, voice rough and uncertain in a way you’d never heard before. His usual sharpness, the polished wit, the shield of arrogance—it was gone.

You blinked, throat tightening, hands curling at your sides, “Enzo? What are you doing here? What on earth is that—?”

“I’m sorry,” He said, shifting the weight of the plant so it wobbled slightly in his arms, “I’m here to apologize. To beg for your forgiveness. And my mum always said flowers were the way to go, so…” He chuckled, though the sound was unsteady, holding the pot even higher though you could see his arms trembling.

The corners of your lips parted, but no words came.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” He continued, voice raw, “I should never have said those things. I should never have treated you like that. I… I was just hurt because—”

“Because?”

“Because I thought my feelings for you weren’t real,” He admitted, stepping closer, letting the damp from his coat cling faintly to yours, “Since you came to Hogwarts, I saw people fawn over you, fall in love with you, even if you didn’t spare them a glance. When I found out you were a Veela, I thought… I thought what I felt was just like that. Shallow. Fake. That the feelings keeping me awake at night, driving me crazy… were all the same as theirs.”

He finally set the plant down, stepping closer still, the earthy scent of roses filling the space between you. “But I think I know now.” His dark eyes searched yours, vulnerable, “Am I… really your soulmate?”

A single, constrained nod, and relief softened the pained lines on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, voice breaking slightly.

“My whole life, I’ve been on the receiving end of endless and unwanted love and attention,” You whispered, emotions clogging your throat. “And the first guy I’ve ever—” You swallowed, trembling, "The first guy I’ve ever loved is the only one in the world who isn’t obligated to love me back. I… I was scared. You seemed so aloof… the only person who didn’t immediately fall for me but seemed the opposite. I was scared if I told you, you’d reject it. Say it wasn’t real… or go against it out of spite.”

Lorenzo’s heart sank. He could almost see himself, had he known earlier, dismissing the idea entirely—thinking the whole thing foolish, running from it, ignoring it. He swallowed the sting of that imagined scenario, leaning closer.

“And perhaps it was cowardly,” You added, your lip trembling, “but I just… I wanted to keep you in my life. Any way I could. Even if you didn’t feel the same.”

He cupped your cheek with a trembling hand, rough thumb brushing lightly against your skin, giving you the chance to pull away, to reject him. But you didn’t.

“I do,” He whispered, voice raw and breaking, “I do feel the same way, (Y/N). I have for months now. I love you.”

You searched his face, your breath catching as you found only sincerity there—sincerity tinged with pain, with regret, with something desperate and unguarded. Your heart began to pound against your ribs, hard enough to hurt, your eyes stinging as tears blurred your vision.

“Ever since that day in Hogsmeade,” Lorenzo continued quietly, voice trembling but steady, “maybe even before that… I began to see past what other people wanted to see. And I began to see you. Just you. And I loved what I saw. Those feelings have only gotten stronger with time.”

You blinked up at him, your fingers curling lightly into the sleeve of his coat. “Really?” The question came out small, almost childlike, as if you were afraid to believe it.

“Yes.” His answer was immediate, certain, “And I don’t think what you said that day was true.”

Your brows furrowed, “When I said what?”

“That the reason the Veela appeal doesn’t work on your soulmate is to protect them from it.” He drew in a shaky breath, thumb still tracing slow circles against your skin, “I think… it’s the opposite. I think it’s so that, when I did fall in love with you, you’d know. You’d know it wasn’t because of your bloody appeal but because of you.” His voice cracked softly on the last word, and his eyes burned into yours, fierce and unflinching.

“Because I’m not in love with the qualities everyone else can see.” His other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you infinitesimally closer, “I see you. All of you. And I love you more because of it.”

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t speak. The room seemed to shrink to just the two of you—the scent of rain still clinging to his coat, the muted glow of the hallway lamp casting soft shadows across his face. His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your cheeks, as if afraid you might vanish the moment he let go.

Your chest heaved with a sob, and you collapsed against him, shuddering uncontrollably. Lorenzo wrapped you tightly in his arms, holding you as you cried and wailed, the sound raw and unrestrained. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, murmuring against your hair, wiping away each tear with painstaking care. Every droplet he caught felt like a confession, a promise that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

His face twisted into a sorrowful, yet tender, smile. He hated that he had ever been part of the reason for this pain, that his own doubts and fears had added to the weight on your shoulders. “I love you, (Y/N).” He whispered, voice breaking, almost reverent.

You sobbed harder, the words hitting you with a force that made your knees weak. The devotion in his voice, the first time you had ever received such genuine affection, filled you with such overwhelming joy, it felt heart-breaking.

You clung to him, to the warmth and the certainty of his embrace, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The sobs began to ebb, leaving a raw, quivering quiet in their wake. Your forehead rested against his chest, breathing mingling, hearts hammering in synchrony. Lorenzo’s hands tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair and along your back as if anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the certainty of his love.

Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, his lips brushed yours. A whisper of a kiss at first, testing the boundaries, letting you respond—or pull away. But you didn’t pull away. Instead, you tilted your head, pressing closer, letting the pent-up ache and longing of months spill into the contact.

The kiss deepened, desperate and unrestrained, a collision of relief, apology, and love. It was messy, imperfect, but painfully real, and it burned away the last of the fear and doubt that had clung to you for so long. Your hands found his shoulders, then his neck, holding him as tightly as he held you, as if letting go would undo everything.

When you finally broke apart for breath, your foreheads pressed together, eyes wet but shining, Lorenzo’s voice was a low, trembling murmur, "Do you...like the flowers?"

You managed a shaky laugh, resting your hands on his chest, "I love them, Enzo. Almost as much as I love you."

***

Bonus:

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning energy—floating candles casting golden light across the long tables, the scent of fresh pastries mingling with the crisp autumn air. You were perched on your usual bench, a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands, when a small, neatly wrapped package slid across the table in front of you.

You blinked in surprise. “From my mom,” You murmured, peeling back the ribbon. Inside was a delicate little jar, filled with dried petals that still smelled faintly of roses. “She made potpourri from the fallen petals of the rose bush you gave me,” You explained softly, eyes flicking to Lorenzo, who had just plopped down beside you.

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as he leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder and taking a deep inhale. Not of the rose petals, but of you.

"What's that?"

You smiled softly, glancing at the short note tucked into the jar, recognizing your mother’s handwriting and her messy French. “In a nutshell,” You say, “she says, ‘She has eyes in the back of her head.’ I think she’s surprised… she didn’t meet my dad until she was twenty-three.”

Surprised was an understatement. Your parents had gone for a brief grocery run when they had gotten caught in the rain and by the time they had returned you had been curled up on the couch with a boy you had claimed to be your soulmate.

Your father almost had a heart attack.

You turned over the note and laughed, recognizing your father's messy scrawl.

"If you ever bring that boy in my house again, I will bury him underneath that stupid rose bush in the backyard."

***

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Opening your front door to the man you’d spied knocking on it from the kitchen window, you almost shut it again.

The stranger towers above you, his frame taking up the entire doorway, but your focus is drawn down to where his hands - covered in dirt and blood, press above his left hip.

“Ma’am,” He greets in a gruff tone. “I hate to bother you, but I find myself in need of some assistance…” The man nods to his injury, as if it had gone unnoticed by you.

It takes a moment for you to respond and when you do it’s with a jerky bob of your head as you step out of the doorway.

One blood stained hand raises to tip his hat at you as he enters.

Your eyes follow him as he wanders into the kitchen to his left, a slight sway in his steps.

How long has he been bleeding out?

Shutting the front door, you finally find your voice. “What do you need?”

Grunting as he lowers himself into a chair at your small, rectangular table, he answers “Rag, needle, thread, and alcohol - whiskey preferably.”

Removing his hat, he places it on the tabletop.

Okay, he’s done this before.

Focusing on the task he’s provided, you move around the kitchen and sitting room across from it, gathering each item.

The stranger is in luck. Your father had loved whiskey and there’s still plenty of bottles stashed away in the cupboard.

When you come to stand in front of him with everything in hand, you find that he’s lifted his shirt, providing an unobstructed view of his injury.

There’s so much…

“Bullet just grazed me.” The man observes quietly to himself. “Still made one hell of a mess though.” He grumbles, finally lifting his head.

Blood. There’s so much blood and the skin has -

A deep, rough laugh pulls you from your spiralling, making you swallow thickly.

“It’s alright darlin’.” There’s a lighter edge to his tone. “Just put the stuff on the table, I’ve got it.”

You do as he directs but remain where you are.

The man opens the bottle of whiskey first and takes three healthy swigs before pouring the liquid over his wound, hissing.

Quickly averting your gaze with a wince, you focus on his face instead.

What skin you can see is dirty, like his clothes. It’s clearly been some time since he last bathed or even tidied his appearance. His hair is long and tangled. You think it’s naturally a dark brown but it’s hard to be certain. A thick, wild beard hides most of his mouth and half his face, while a sharp nose -

Oh god.

You’ve seen the wanted posters hanging around town. Heard the stories that accompanied them.

Bucky Barnes.

The famed outlaw, responsible for some of the decade’s most daring robberies and revered as the fastest gunslinger in the west, is sitting in your kitchen. Tending a gunshot wound.

For the briefest moment you wonder who it was that shot him and what their fate had been.

Then you realise that’s something you really don’t want to know.

“Ma always said I could never be a tailor.” The man - Bucky mutters, eyeing his truthfully pitiful stitching. “But it’ll do.”

Placing the blood soaked rag on the table, along with the needle and leftover thread, Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey.

You feel the shift in the air as he sets the bottle back down.

Somehow he knows.

“I’m not lookin’ for any trouble ma’am.”

“Says the man famous for trouble.” You can’t help but retort.

Did I seriously just smart mouth him?

To your shock Bucky merely grins, his teeth surprisingly white and clean. “That’s fair, but a pretty girl’s house isn’t exactly where I make my trouble.” Morphing his grin into a smirk, he amends “Unless I’m asked.”

Your skin heats at the insinuation.

“I won’t be asking.” You state firmly.

“Then you’ve got nothin’ to fear.” Bucky assures, his mouth returning to its serious line underneath his beard.

He regards you carefully and it’s only then that you notice his eyes are the most electrifying blue.

“I best be on my way.”

The sudden declaration should fill you with relief, but as you watch Bucky rise from the chair with an unsteady step, you hear yourself saying “You can stay.”

Something tells you the last time he bathed was also the last time he had a decent meal or rest. He wouldn’t be finding any of those things nearby, especially in his condition.

It’s a miracle he even found you.

The downward tilt of Bucky’s eyebrows is the only indication of his confusion as he looks up from the hat in his hands. “Are you -”

“Just for the night and no funny business.”

Bucky’s eyes study you again and you swear no one has ever looked at you with such intensity.

Then he blinks, focusing on the front door over your shoulder. “I left my guns with my horse. You can keep ‘em with you if it’ll make you feel better.” Meeting your gaze once more, his deep voice rumbles “But I promise you won’t need ‘em.”

How much was an outlaw’s promise worth?

Eyeing him in the same observing manner, you begin to understand what Bucky had been searching for.

Slowly shaking your head, you tell him “It’s alright.”

You had your father’s shotgun should it come to that and you were familiar with the weapon.

“I’ll show you the bathroom.” You declare, striding out of the kitchen. “If you’re gonna stay, you’re gonna be clean.”

Behind you, Bucky responds with a - dare you say, amused “Yes ma’am.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

Your eyes fall shut as you lean back against the front door, sucking in a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air.

There’s an outlaw in my bathroom.

Re-opening your eyes at that insane truth, you realise you’re not alone.

Bucky’s horse watches you curiously from where she stands in front of the porch steps, her gorgeous white coat shining under the setting sun.

Descending the steps cautiously, you extend a hand to the mare, letting her sniff you. When she makes a soft whinny and nudges at your hand, you move it to stroke her neck.

Her calm temperament surprises you, as she gladly allows you to lead her over to the barn not far from the house.

You settle her in a stall opposite your own horse, Chester. A gelding you aptly named after his chestnut complexion.

When you relieve her of Bucky’s saddle, you spot two guns amongst his belongings, just like he said you would. You leave them there in the barn.

Back in the kitchen, you clear everything except the quarter filled whiskey bottle from the table.

He might as well finish it off.

Wiping down the wooden tabletop to erase any trace of blood, you lift the bottle to clean under it and get a large whiff of the alcohol, making you pause.

It’s been years since you smelt the once common scent and it has memories flickering behind your eyes as you realise you’ve missed it.

Shaking your head, you put the bottle back down.

An hour passes, Bucky yet to emerge from the bathroom.

You stir dinner distractedly, staring out the window in front of you that overlooks the barn and the great nothingness beyond it as the sky slowly darkens.

“Smells good.”

Christ.

Heart thumping sturdily at the small fright, you let the wooden spoon rest against the side of the pot and turn to face Bucky.

Oh.

It’s no wonder he took so long. Bucky had found good use in a pair of scissors and your father’s razor.

His wild, untamed beard has been reduced to stubble, highlighting a handsome jawline. Bucky’s hair - which is a dark brown and currently damp, curls under his ears instead of brushing against his shoulders.

Definitely trouble.

However, dressed in your father’s old clothes, it’s hard to find him as intimidating. 

Your father had been a stout man, so you knew the clothes wouldn’t be a perfect fit.

The pants are a bit baggy and come up short, ending above the ankles of his bare feet, while the shirt tucked into them is an even looser fit. Bucky has rolled up the long sleeves to keep them out of his way, revealing just how thick and muscular his arms are.

“I can wash your clothes if you like.” You offer, realising you’ve been staring.

“No need darlin’,” Bucky responds smoothly “Washed them with me and hung ‘em over the porch.”

You hadn’t even heard the front door open or close.

“Kid, that wanderin’ mind a’yours is gonna get you in trouble one day.”

Nodding, you gesture to the table. “Well take a seat, dinner’s ready.”

Dishing out two bowls of stew, you place one in front of him, along with a basket of bread rolls.

“Can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal.” Bucky divulges, taking the spoon you offer him.

Sitting in the chair opposite him, you say “There’s plenty more if you want it.”

The two of you eat in silence, Bucky at a much faster pace. You’re only finishing your first serving when he begins his third.

Guess it has been a while since he last ate.

Or maybe this is just his usual appetite. 

“Is it just you here?” Bucky asks after polishing off another bread roll, ending the quiet stretch.

In any other circumstance you’d think twice before giving an honest answer, but it’s pointless to lie to him now.

“Yes, it used to be my father and I, but he died two years ago.”

The pain his loss caused wasn’t something you could describe.

Your mother passed away when you were only four, taken by illness. If it weren’t for the two photographs your father had of her, you wouldn’t even know what she looked like.

After she died it was just you and him.

When his health began failing him some years ago, you both knew it was only a matter of time. You had just hoped for more.

Adjusting to life without your father had been challenging, but you were fortunate. You’d been left with a home - having no one else to come claim it, and the money that came from loaning out the land to cattle ranchers. It kept you fed, warm, and content.

Bucky lifts his eyes to look at you. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You nod, your throat tight with emotion.

Pushing up from the table, you take your empty bowl to the sink as Bucky continues eating.

The subject of your father’s passing stopped affecting you heavily some time ago, but it seems the turmoil of today’s events has brought your pain back to the surface.

“I’ll get your bed ready.” You announce, leaving the kitchen.

He’ll stay in the spare room - your father’s old room. It’s bigger than yours, but you could never find the will to claim it as your own. You were happy in your childhood room.

Grabbing sheets from the bedroom’s wardrobe, you start making the bed.

The room is sparse, containing only the bed with a small table either side of it, the wardrobe, and a chair. On one bedside table sits the two photographs of your mother.

You’re slipping a cover over the pillow when Bucky’s figure appears in the doorway.

“Have enough to eat?”

You doubt there’s any leftovers.

“More than, your cookin’s somethin’ else.” He declares.

A smile escapes before you can stop it.

You’ve always loved cooking and it’s been years since you’ve had someone to feed or receive compliments from.

Dropping the pillow, you look over at Bucky and find his gaze fixated on the bed.

“I’ll leave you be.” You state, moving towards the door.

Still staring at the bed, Bucky steps further into the room and out of your way.

Glancing at him one last time, you utter out a soft “Goodnight Bucky.”

You’re startled by how quickly his dark blue eyes jump to you. Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve spoken his name.

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

A pause.

Softly, you tell him your name.

Bucky’s deep voice repeats it, adding “Thank you, for everything.”

His tone is lighter again, like it had been earlier after he laughed, allowing you to hear the emotion in it - sincerity, in this instance.

You’re not sure why it pleases you so much.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

When you wake you’re not as well rested as you’d like, eyelids heavy and unwilling to open.

You spent most of the night tossing and turning, all too aware of the outlaw just two doors down.

Forcing your eyes open, you sluggishly get out of bed, taking your time getting dressed and fixing your hair.

Emerging from your bedroom, you peer down the hall to your right. The bathroom resides next to your room, the spare room next to it. Both rooms have their doors wide open, unoccupied.

Taking a few steps down the hall until you reach the opening on your left that leads into the sitting room, you walk in and find Bucky to your right, in the kitchen... making breakfast?

“Mornin’,” Bucky greets as you approach. Cracking two eggs into a pan, he answers your unspoken question. “Figured I at least owed ya breakfast.”

You weren’t going to argue that.

Taking a seat at the table, you ask “How did you sleep?”

Peering at you over his shoulder, Bucky replies “Like a rock.”

“And your wound?”

“Healin’ just fine.”

Bucky’s still wearing the clothes you gave him, but judging by the heat you can already feel in the air, you know his will be dry before you even finish breakfast.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

You walk back to the house with Bucky on your right and his horse - Alpine, as he’d introduced, on his other side.

He doesn’t mount the mare until you’ve reached the steps that lead up to your front porch. When he does you’re stunned by the ease and swiftness his large body executes the movement with.

“Thanks again darlin’.” Bucky nods, touching the brim of his weathered black hat. “For your cookin’ especially.”

Back in his own clothes with a gun belt around his hips, Bucky looks every bit like the outlaw he is.

For the second time since you’ve met, your mouth takes on a mind of its own. “Well, if you ever find yourself this way again maybe I’ll cook you something else.”

The edges of his lips turn up in a smirk at your offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With a light press of his leg into Alpine’s side, the white beauty starts moving forward. You watch as she builds her momentum until she’s galloping, her and her rider becoming nothing more than a dot on the horizon.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 7 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Truthfully, you never expected to see Bucky Barnes again.

The memory of his visit had been stored away at the back of your mind and some days you wondered if it ever even happened - if it had simply been a daydream you’d gotten too lost in.

However, the knocking you hear on your front door one afternoon weeks later is very much real. As real as the man you see standing on your porch through the window above your kitchen sink.

Once you’ve opened the door, Bucky smiles in a way you can only describe as mischievous.

“Hi darlin’.”

You’re relieved to find not one speck of blood on him, just dirt.

Bucky’s maintained his shorter hairstyle but his beard has thickened, though not to the wild state it’d been in when you first met. 

You realise your memory had failed to capture the precise blue of his eyes, as well as the depth of his voice.

Quirking an eyebrow - but giving a small smile nonetheless, your only response is “Bathroom.”

Chuckling, Bucky tips his hat at you, stepping out of his muddy boots before entering the house. You assume the bag in his hand contains clothes since he doesn’t ask for any as he disappears into the hallway.

Walking out onto the porch, you meet Alpine at the bottom of the steps and stroke her neck in greeting, leading her over to the barn.

Bucky’s left his guns on his saddle once again and you place all his belongings on one of the workbenches before settling Alpine in the same stall she’d occupied last time.

After stopping by Chester’s stall to dote on the horse, you head back to the house and start making dinner.

It’s not too long after when you hear heavy footsteps cross through the sitting room, followed by the front door opening.

Glancing to your left, to the window above the sink that looks out onto the porch, you watch as Bucky hangs his wet clothes over the railing.

He disappears from view and you hear the front door shut before his voice fills the room “How ya been darlin’?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you answer with a simple “Good.”

You’re caught off guard when Bucky appears on your right, the smell of the soap he just used invading your senses.

Standing side by side, it’s impossible to ignore his imposing height.

The top of your head barely reaches his broad shoulders and you feel like you have to look up and up to see his face.

You lower your gaze as your heartbeat accelerates, unnerved by Bucky’s sudden closeness. However, it slows as you spy him inhaling the contents of the pot simmering on the stove in front of you.

“‘M starvin’.” He quietly groans.

Smiling, you roll your eyes and tell him “It’ll be done soon.” Pointing to a cupboard at the end of the kitchen you add “There’s whiskey in there if you want some.”

When Bucky doesn’t move or say anything in response you look up at him again, startled to find him staring at you intently.

“You a saint or somethin’ darlin’?”

He speaks gruffly, but you hear a trace of humour in his tone.

Scoffing, your gaze drops again as you take a step towards him, so you can stand in front of the counter. Bucky takes a step backwards to accommodate you.

“What’s saintlike about offering someone whiskey? And to an outlaw no less.”

As the last part slips from your mouth, you tense.

“You’re always talkin’ first and thinkin’ later, kid.”

Bucky merely hums in response, turning around to lean against the counter as his arms fold. The action pulls his shirt tight across his chest.

Not that you’re paying attention to that sort of thing.

“Isn’t that what saints do? Help lost souls?” He drawls.

“You’re lost?” You retort sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.

That earns a chuckle from him as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m always right where I wanna be.”

Bucky’s midnight blue gaze hasn’t left you once, while yours constantly shifts away, like it does now. “And that’s here instead of somewhere nice?”

“Nice costs money.”

Your eyes dart up to his for no less than a second before flitting away.

This time you’re smart enough to not say the first thing that comes to mind.

Concentrating instead on the corn in your hands, you jump when you feel the rough pad of Bucky’s index finger under your chin, nudging your head up until you meet his gaze.

“Don’t start holdin’ your tongue now darlin’.” Bucky states in a low tone, dropping his hand.

Your heart is racing again, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or... something else.

Swallowing thickly, you manage to voice “I thought you’d have plenty of money.”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Sometimes?”

Really can’t help myself, can I?

The left side of Bucky’s mouth twitches. “It’s not always about the money,” He answers vaguely.

You frown, “Then what’s it about?”

At last, Bucky smirks. “Curious thing, ain’t ya?”

The comment flusters you.

“Why do you wanna know?” Bucky deflects, leaning in until his face is only inches from yours. “Thinkin’ about joinin’ the life darlin’?”

“No thank you.” The bite of your words is lost in your breathless tone, the result of his close proximity.

Bucky just huffs out a laugh, his breath tickling your face. Then he’s gone, strolling across the kitchen for the whiskey you offered hours ago - or so it feels, and that’s the end of that.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Waking with a deep inhale, your eyes blink repeatedly against the bright sunlight your curtains do little to block.

You stretch with a satisfied hum, having found sleep much easier than the last time Bucky stayed the night.

It’s well into the morning so you dress quickly, curious to see if Bucky’s still here, maybe even making breakfast again, or if he’s already taken off.

When you venture down the hall into the sitting room, you find the answer to your question lounging in an armchair, one of your favourite books in his big hands.

“Not an early riser, are you darlin’?” Bucky drawls conversationally, not looking up from the page he’s reading.

You frown, crossing your arms. “It’s morning, isn’t it?”

He’s right though, you’re not one to rise with the sun - never have been. The few times you have are few and far between, the most recent being on his last visit.

Regardless, it’s not that observation that has you feeling defensive.

“Ten o’clock is hardly mornin’, you’ve missed half the day.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest it, but you know he’s teasing.

It goes straight over your head however, as you’re too focused on what’s in his hands.

“Enjoying the book?” You snark at him.

Bucky smirks.

Oh yeah, he’s definitely winding me up on purpose.

“Tell me, are all your books so -” Bucky breaks off in a chuckle as you pluck the worn book out of his hands and press it to your chest. “So... romantic?”

You grasp the book a little tighter, having half a mind to hit him over the head with it for the gleam in his eyes.

An urge you think he senses.

“I like their humour.” Is your only answer.

Bucky hums lazily, clearly finding your answer lacking as he raises out of the chair.

The visual reminder of his towering height briefly shortens your breath.

Gazing down at you, Bucky lightly brushes against your side as he heads towards the kitchen. “I’ll go warm up breakfast.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 5 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You’re not sure what shocks you more when you open the front door. The fact that Bucky is clean, or the fact that he’s holding flowers.

Flowers.

It’s definitely the flowers.

You recognise the handiwork too. Clara, an elderly woman who was as kind as they come, grew all sorts of flowers and sold them from a stall in town.

They’re a little wilted from the long ride here, but still vibrant and pretty.

Resting a shoulder against the doorframe, inadvertently bringing him closer, Bucky’s deep voice teases “What’s the matter darlin’? No man ever bring you flowers before?”

Dragging your gaze up from the bouquet and narrowing it, you jab “I’m just wondering if they’re stolen.”

Bucky only chuckles at your bite, like you expect him to.

You’re not sure what to make of that realisation - that you expect things from him.

Holding the flowers out to you, he states “They’re paid for darlin’, I promise.”

There he goes again, making another promise.

Kept his last one, didn’t he?

Your facade doesn’t last long either way, the corners of your mouth turning upwards as you accept the flowers, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand in the process.

Raising the flowers to your nose - and ignoring the tingle in your fingertips, you breathe in their scent, the stems of lavender standing out the most.

Before you can thank him, Bucky’s bending forward and ducking his head until his dark blue eyes are level with yours. “Was the money technically mine...”

Your mouth drops open as he trails off, his implication hanging clear in the air.

Bucky gives a genuine laugh at your reaction, the warm sound almost eliciting one from you as he pushes away from the door.

You watch him saunter down the porch steps to take Alpine to the barn, completely and utterly bewildered by this outlaw.

He looked dangerous with his imposing height, broad shoulders, and wide chest that peeked through the unbuttoned top of his long sleeve shirts. The same shirts that his muscled arms bulged beneath.

Not to mention his roguish features - the dark hair, thick beard, and piercing blue eyes.

He sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him.

He just didn’t act dangerous.

Outlaws weren’t giving, they didn’t tease, or smile, or laugh, and they certainly didn’t let some girl smart mouth them.

However, you weren’t a complete fool.

You knew there was another, more prominent side of him that you were yet to truly witness. You saw glimpses of it sometimes - of the outlaw.

A man who was used to being respected or feared, or both. A man who had the strength and skill to take whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, and without asking.

Then Bucky would blink or turn away, and that momentary glimpse you were afforded passed.

It shouldn’t drive you mad, it shouldn’t make you want to see that side of him, yet... it did.

If you thought about it too long - the image of him being rough and commanding like his lifestyle demands, well...

You jump when Bucky’s hand waves in front of your face.

Looking up from the spot on the porch you’d been staring at but not actually seeing as you lost yourself in your thoughts, you meet Bucky’s blue eyes below his furrowed brow.

“You really get lost in there, don’t ya darlin’?”

Thoughts still scattered, you absentmindedly respond “I don’t mean to.”

Bucky just hums.

Shaking your head to finally clear it, you walk back into the house, listening as Bucky shuts the front door behind him.

Grabbing the old, empty vase that sits on the small glass table in the sitting room, you bring it to the kitchen sink and fill it with water before arranging the flowers in it.

You can feel Bucky’s gaze following you as he takes his usual seat at the dining table, but it doesn’t unsettle you.

Returning the vase to its place in the sitting room, you admire the flowers once more with a soft smile before treading back to the kitchen.

When you pass Bucky you let out a small, confused sound as you come to a sudden stop.

Spinning to face him, you feel the skirt of your light green prairie dress tighten around your legs, and you discover the cause when you spot Bucky’s hand holding onto the bottom of your dress.

“What are you -” You start, flabbergasted until you actually focus on the section Bucky has grabbed.

“What happened?” He asks, not even having to look up from where he sits to meet your gaze.

The fabric is ripped, splitting the skirt upwards about four inches. There’s a scratch to match it along the back of your right leg, which you assume Bucky must have seen.

You can’t read any emotion on his face, but you sense that he’s not pleased.

Strange.

“I was trying to fix the curtain rod in your - the spare room, but the wooden crate I was using broke and I fell.”

Fell seems like an exaggeration.

There wasn’t much distance between you and the ground, but you had landed awkwardly, the wood catching on your dress and scratching your leg - thankfully not deep enough to draw blood.

Currently, you’re more concerned about how you almost referred to the spare room as Bucky’s.

When did it become his room?

Bucky frowns at you but doesn’t speak, making you frown back.

A moment passes before he finally releases your dress, standing up. Still silent, Bucky turns and strides towards the hallway.

By the time you catch up he’s already in the spare room, assessing the window.

You’d been replacing the curtains when the curtain rod bracket came off the wall on one side. It just needed to be screwed back in but the bracket was out of your reach.

The screwdriver sits on the windowsill, where you left it while you tossed the broken crate outside with some unfriendly words as your leg throbbed.

Grabbing the tool, Bucky reaches up to screw the bracket back in, the height not even a stretch for him.

Picking the curtain rod off the bed, you sit down in the same spot and bunch the curtains in your lap, keeping them off the floor as you watch Bucky quickly complete the task.

Turning around, he takes the curtain rod from you and hangs it up.

“What else?”

You stare at him for a second before pointing to the wardrobe behind you. “The right door’s a little loose.”

Diligently, he rounds the bed to the wardrobe and opens the right door, tightening the screws in the top hinge.

“I thought it was you the first time I saw it.” Bucky says abruptly, nodding to the bedside table closest to him where two photographs sit.

Both are of your mother.

In one she’s holding you as a child - you’re no more than two years old, on her lap with a smile. In the other she’s by herself and younger, about the age you are now.

“I once told my dad that I wished I could remember what she looked like, he told me to look in the mirror.”

He hadn’t been exaggerating, the resemblance between you and her was clear as day. Something that always made you wonder if it was hard for him at times - being constantly reminded of her when he looked at you.

You might not have been old enough to remember it, but the love your father had for your mother shone brightly, never once fading over the years that followed her death.

“He said that was the only thing we had in common,” Grinning, you drop your voice to a faux whisper as you repeat your father’s loving words “She was a horrid cook and complete trouble maker.”

Bucky grins at that, giving a slight shake of his head as he swings the mended wardrobe door shut. “I dunno darlin’, I think you’re plenty of trouble.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

After dinner is eaten and the dishes are cleaned, you always move into the sitting room for a bit while Bucky heads straight to bed.

Tonight however, he’s joined you.

Each sitting in an armchair across from one another, he nurses a glass of whiskey while you stitch the ripped fabric of your dress back together.

You use the light provided by the oil lamp and candles on the glass table between you and Bucky, placed around your vase.

As you glance at the flowers you realise you never actually thanked him for them.

Drawing your eyes higher, you’re not alarmed when you meet Bucky’s gaze.

He’s always watching you.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

Bucky was right of course, no man has ever given you flowers before.

“My pleasure darlin’.” His deep voice rumbles.

You’re not sure why you suddenly feel so warm.

“And for fixing those things for me.”

It’s not like you don’t do anything for him in return, but you still want him to know you appreciate the help.

“I’ll fix anythin’ you need,” Bucky states a little rougher “Just don’t go hurtin’ yourself again.”

I didn’t do it on purpose, you almost huff out.

Bucky must anticipate the retort or something similar to it, because he stands, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one mouthful.

He takes his glass to the kitchen sink before returning, clearly on his way to bed.

“See you in the morning.” You say as he passes you.

“You mean afternoon?” Bucky calls back, his tone lighter.

This time you do huff, letting out a quiet “Shut up.”

His chuckle echoing down the hall lets you know you were heard.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 4 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

The fourth time you open your front door to Bucky Barnes is... different from the others.

Nothing’s wrong per se, but it’s not right either.

Bucky’s the dirtiest you’ve ever seen him. In fact, you’re struggling to find a visible patch of skin on him.

His large hands rest on the top of the doorframe and his dark blue eyes bore into you the moment the door is open.

“Darlin’.” The word is spoken bluntly and you instantly know he’s not in the mood to talk.

You have a short-lived thought of turning him away.

Instead, you step to your left, silently inviting him inside.

For the first time since you’ve met, Bucky feels dangerous.

Especially when you eye the guns still on his hips.

If this had been the Bucky who knocked on your door while bleeding out, you’re certain you never would have let him stay the night - let alone return.

Bucky trudges off to the bathroom, your eyes trailing after him.

When you hear the bathroom door shut you release a short breath, looking outside to find another irregularity.

Your feet carry you out onto the porch and down the three steps without a thought, drawn to where Alpine patiently waits.

She greets you cheerfully, nuzzling into your hands and covering them with dirt. She’s filthy.

Every other visit her white coat has gleamed, leaving you no doubt that Bucky cared for her deeply. Yet, like her owner, it’s hard to find a clean spot on her.

Alpine makes a noise and seems to nod towards the barn, as if to tell you that she needs food, water, rest, a bath.

The irritation you felt at Bucky’s stiff demeanour is replaced with concern.

You were in town only yesterday and hadn’t heard of any new incidents involving Bucky.

Not that you were keeping an ear out.

“What happened, huh?” You ask Alpine, leading her to the barn.

She simply whinnies in response.

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You’ve just started drying Alpine when you hear heavy footsteps enter the barn.

Her white coat shines once more, the familiar sight easing you, unlike the man approaching.

Bucky’s body radiates warmth as he comes to stand behind you, the scent of soap filling the air.

Daring to glance at him over your shoulder, you find him clean but worn out, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by.

Wordlessly, you let him take over the task.

You prepare Alpine’s stall, stocking it with fresh food and water while Bucky dries her. He’s quietly murmuring to the horse, but you can’t hear his words over the sound of Alpine chewing hay.

When Bucky’s finished he leads Alpine into the stall, closing and locking the gate behind her.

It’s almost humorous. Alpine and Bucky are clean but now you’re not. Your dress is soaked and covered in mud.

The walk back to the house is taken in silence.

“I’ll start dinner after I clean up.” You tell Bucky once you’re inside.

He gives no response.

After your bath you change into a simple white dress, the fabric light and less likely to make you sweat until you switch into your nightgown later on.

Stepping into the kitchen, you find Bucky leaning back in his usual seat, a bottle of whiskey opened on the table in front of him and almost finished.

You decide to make one of your specialties for dinner, hoping it will... well, you’re not really sure what you’re hoping it will do.

As you move around the kitchen you feel Bucky’s eyes on you, tracking your every movement as you keep your back to him more often than not.

That is until you have nothing left to do but let dinner simmer on the stove.

Turning around, you rest your back against the kitchen counter and meet Bucky’s stare.

He doesn’t shift his gaze and neither do you.

“What happened?” You ask quietly.

You don’t expect an answer and Bucky’s continued silence tells you there won’t be one.

Probably for the best.

Instead, Bucky lifts the whiskey bottle and swallows another mouthful, emptying it.

Pushing off the counter, you tread over to him.

“You should have some water.” You state, reaching for the bottle.

Before your hand can wrap around it, it’s grabbed by one of Bucky’s, the quick manoeuvre drawing your gaze.

He doesn’t look at you as he turns your hand over in his, focusing instead on your palm as he runs his thumb over the lines of your smoother skin.

You watch in a dazed state, letting him do as he pleases.

Bucky slowly brings your hand towards him, closer and closer until he’s pressing his forehead into your open palm.

The action stuns you and for a moment you don’t know what to do.

So, you go with what feels right.

Pushing your fingers back and forth timidly, you weave them between the strands of his damp hair.

The droop of Bucky’s shoulders boosts your confidence and you take a step forward, raising your right hand to join your left.

Bucky’s head remains bowed, his face hidden from you.

Taking another step forward to stand more comfortably, you release a small noise of surprise when Bucky’s hands grab at your waist, tugging you even closer until his forehead presses into your stomach instead.

Your heart stutters in your throat and your hands falter, but with a shaky breath you start stroking Bucky’s hair again, just as his strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you tight against him.

Being held in such a way makes you feel...

No, don’t dare think it.

Growing bolder, your fingertips start drawing shapes on the back of his neck while you play with the ends of his hair. The longer you do this, the more relaxed Bucky becomes.

Eventually however, the sound of dinner bubbling concerningly cuts through the peace.

You look over worriedly, not wanting the meal to ruin.

Bucky seems to realise, his arms tightening around you before dropping completely. Without looking at him, you dart over to the stove and turn it off.

Dinner is eaten in silence.

“‘M going to bed.” Bucky states once he’s finished.

His first sentence since arriving.

“Okay,” You reply softly.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You don’t expect to find Bucky making breakfast.

Walking into the kitchen, you had been prepared to discover that Bucky had left long before you woke. You’re glad he hasn’t.

He doesn’t appear as worn down either, and the brief upwards tug of his mouth when he turns to see you is more than enough to have you smiling back.

While Bucky’s still clearly dealing with whatever, his mood has at least improved.

Predictably, it’s quiet throughout the meal.

You wait at the bottom of the porch steps while Bucky retrieves Alpine from the barn, admiring the flat plains that appear to stretch on forever all around you.

The sound of Alpine’s hooves reaches your ears and you watch as Bucky leads the white beauty to you, stopping her by your side.

“You gonna be okay?”

You’re not sure why you ask, but you do.

Bucky looks at you over his shoulder, his hands on the saddle he was about to mount.

He studies you, his eyes dark under his hat, before doing something that muddles your brain.

In a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, Bucky drops his hands and turns from Alpine, covering the distance between you in a short step before pressing his mouth to your forehead, his beard scratching at your skin.

“Just fine darlin’.” His deep voice rumbles as he pulls back.

Looking at you one more time, Bucky spins back to Alpine and mounts her in one fluid movement. Then they’re gone.

You can still feel the touch of his lips as you watch their figures fade.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Town was a good hour’s ride from your home, and it was for that reason you only ever made the journey once a week, every Thursday.

Your main stop was the general store where you bought food and other necessities. The store’s owner - Billy, would talk to you from his spot behind the counter, giving you a weekly rundown of town affairs.

Most of the time it was just mundane gossip you didn’t really care for, but not today.

According to Billy, there was a new gang causing havoc around the plains, trying to make a name for themselves.

“They’ve been robbin’ properties all over, startin’ fires and roughin’ up any fella in their way, they even -”

Billy never finished that sentence, but his averted gaze told you how it ended.

“Dunno why I’m worrin’ ya with this girl, God himself couldn’t find ya all the way out there.”

The declaration wasn’t that farfetched. Unless someone knew where you lived they needed to be lost to find it.

However, if someone was intentionally on the prowl...

You check over your father’s shotgun the minute you return home.

Some days it’s hard to forget that you’re a woman living on her own, with no help nearby. Tonight that fact looms over you like a dark cloud.

In fact, it keeps you wide awake, sitting at the dining table with the shotgun in reach until the sun rises again.

You’re sluggish the whole day, tired and on edge.

When afternoon rolls around you’ve cleaned the entire house in an attempt to distract yourself and for the most part, it’s worked.

That is until you hear the unmistakable sound of horse hooves in the distance.

Fear strikes your heart in a way you’ve never experienced and you instantly wish to never experience it again.

Racing to the window above the kitchen sink with the shotgun in hand, you almost cry in relief at what you see.

A white horse and her dark rider.

Sucking in deep breaths, you close your eyes and focus on the fast thump of your heartbeat until it returns to a calmer rhythm.

You’re putting the shotgun back in its place under your bed when you hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by three loud knocks.

There’s no denying the way you immediately feel... safe.

“Bucky,” You greet a little breathlessly as you open the front door.

“Hi darlin’.” He grins, eyes softening just slightly.

It’s hard to picture the sombre man you invited inside only two weeks ago.

“Back so soon?” You attempt to tease, though you feel it falls flat in your drained state.

You wonder if Bucky can tell.

Ducking his head and pinning you under his stare that’s regained its usual intensity, he responds “You don’t mind, do ya?”

No, never.

Smiling, you answer “Luckily for you, I’m in a gracious mood.”

The tease lands better this time.

Humming, Bucky agrees “Lucky me.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

After dinner it wasn’t Bucky who retired to bed first, but you.

The moment your head hit the pillow you were out cold.

Maybe it should concern you how easily you let your guard down just because Bucky was close by, but you don’t ruminate on it long enough to let it.

It’s late morning, maybe even afternoon when you eventually wake. The heat in your room makes that much obvious.

Bucky doesn’t say a word once you walk out into the sitting room where he waits, reading one of your books again. However, the smirk he occupies as he gets up and goes into the kitchen says it all.

While you eat the breakfast - lunch, Bucky has made, you feel fear start to leach back in.

You don’t want him to leave you.

Unable to voice your plea, you take your time eating, dragging out the inevitable until you’re standing and taking your plate to the sink.

When you don’t hear the familiar sounds of Bucky collecting his things, you peek over your shoulder and see he’s still seated at the dining table.

Your gaze meets his.

Bucky answers the question in your eyes. “I’m supposed to meet my - some friends east of here in a couple of days.” You don’t miss his slip of tongue. “If I wouldn’t be overstayin’ -”

“No.” You interject much too quickly. “No, you wouldn’t be.”

He nods and stands up from the table, gesturing to the front of the house. “Your porch needs fixin’.”

While you kept the inside of the house to a spotless standard, the exterior was starting to show its age. The porch in particular, the boards old and beginning to rot.

“I know, I’ve got new wood to replace it with.”

You had it delivered out a couple of weeks ago. You just hadn’t gotten around to actually starting the task yet.

The sun beams down on you both as you walk side by side to the barn, past the horse stalls where you give Chester’s outstretched neck a fond pat, to the back where the tools and wood are stored.

Bucky hauls a bundle of wooden planks over his shoulder while you carry a crate full of tools behind him.

That’s all he lets you do, refusing your help when you go to walk back with him to collect the rest of the planks.

Standing on the bottom porch step, you watch him go back and forth from the barn until he’s brought out the last plank, creating a large pile.

“I can help.” You insist, feeling guilty about having him do all the work, even though he was the one who offered.

Bucky just shakes his head with a huff.

“Darlin’, go inside and relax.” He instructs, bending down to pick up a hammer from the crate. “Or,” He adds, straightening and strolling over to you, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Sit out here and give me somethin’ pretty to look at.”

Your stomach drops as heat floods your face.

Managing a weak scoff, you avert your eyes and spin around, quickly retreating into the house.

Bucky’s hearty laugh follows you inside.

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Taking Bucky up on his first suggestion, you spend the rest of the day in the sitting room, reading.

When late afternoon creeps around and Bucky’s been outside for around three hours, you mark the page you’re on and get up to make him a snack.

Using the door at your end of the hallway that leads outside to where you do the laundry, you balance a sandwich and glass of lemonade on a tray as you walk down the side of the house.

The sight that greets you when you round the corner almost has the tray slipping out of your hands.

Bucky’s shirtless.

His tanned skin glistens with sweat, the muscles in his back and arms prominent as he saws a wooden plank in half.

The longer you stare the more scars you begin to see, most small, others not, marking his body in a pattern unique to him.

You want to ask for the story behind each and every one.

Blinking out of your stupor, you step closer to where Bucky stands in front of the porch steps, sawing through the few remaining planks.

Swallowing thickly, you call out his name.

Bucky’s head lifts, looking over his shoulder at you before the rest of his body turns.

For a second time, you fight to keep the tray steady in your hands.

You’ve only seen peeks of the hair that covers his chest, but now it’s on full display and you can’t help but sweep your gaze down, over his firm stomach, to another patch of hair that leads to -

“Made you something to eat.” You declare, lifting the tray.

It only shakes a little.

Striding over to you, Bucky grins “Thank you darlin’.”

His large, rough hands brush over yours as he takes the tray and warmth pools in your stomach.

“You’ve done a lot.” You observe, desperate to look at anything except him.

All of the old boards have been ripped up and Bucky’s already laid down new ones on the entire left side of the porch, as well as on the steps, where he now takes a seat.

“Should be done by sundown.”

It’s... nice, you realise. So utterly nice to have a man around to help you - to help look after you.

Though not just any man.

Bucky.

You’ll admit that. To yourself at least.

The sound of Bucky’s glass hitting the tray draws your attention. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s already finished.

“You keep eating that fast and your stomach will end you before anyone else gets the chance.” You comment with a raised eyebrow as you wander over to him.

Bucky smirks as he stands, handing you the tray. “Darlin’, if your cookin’ is what takes me out, I’ll die a happy man.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

As the sun begins to dip behind the horizon, the front door opens.

You look up from where you’re curled into one of the armchairs with a book in your hands.

Bucky’s dark blue eyes roam over you for a prolonged moment before he husks out “Come take a look darlin’.”

He disappears back outside as you stand and make your way over.

Opening the front door fully, you take in the restored porch with a wide smile, stepping out onto it.

“Wow,” You gush “It looks amazing Bucky, thank you.”

You glance over to where he stands in front of the porch steps and meet his gaze briefly before he breaks it, pointing to a pile of the old wooden planks a few yards away.

“That wood’s no good for your fireplace so I’ll burn it tonight, that way it’s not takin’ up any space.” Bucky explains, moving to pick up the tools he left on the ground, dropping them into the crate.

You watch him quietly, leaning against the railing just down from where his shirt and gun belt hang.

It hadn’t escaped your notice that Bucky was wearing it when he arrived yesterday, like he had on his last visit.

You hadn’t thought much about it at the time and you don’t now, too mesmerised by him.

There’s a sense of delight in watching him while his attention is focused elsewhere.

Suddenly you think you understand why he watches you.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that darlin’.”

Bucky’s abrupt words startle you as he turns and captures your gaze.

Like what?

You can’t find the courage to ask him.

Shifting your eyes, you act as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what kind of name is Bucky?”

His chuckle makes you brave enough to look at him once more.

“It’s a nickname.” Bucky answers.

Watching him as he slowly wanders towards you, you press “What’s your real name then?”

Bucky comes to a stop in front of you and for the first time you’re the one that has to look down - if only just.

He runs a hand through his sweat dampened hair, pushing it back from his face as he studies you.

“James Buchannan Barnes.”

The confession is gentle, meaningful.

“James,” You repeat softly, giving a small smile. “Now that’s a name.”

Vivid blue eyes - dark and electric, gaze upon you with something you can’t name as you unexpectedly feel Bucky’s knuckles brushing against your cheek.

“Say it again,” He murmurs.

Your breathing grows heavier as your heart begins a wild rhythm in your chest, his touch so... addictive on your skin.

When your mouth parts to speak, his thumb catches on your bottom lip and it’s a miracle you remain upright, clutching at the porch railing.

Before you can utter his name again, you hear it.

It’s faint, but it still manages to draw your attention.

There’s horses in the distance, kicking up a large dust cloud behind them as they race towards you, the sound of their hooves echoing across the flat landscape.

You can’t tell how many there are yet.

The rough sound of your name returns your focus to Bucky, who is already marching up the porch steps. He breezes past you, reaching for his shirt and gun belt.

“Get inside and stay there.” Bucky orders sharply.

Just like that, the side of himself he’d just been presenting to you disappears, replaced by -

“Now.” He grits out, his eyes shifting to you.

That finally sends you rushing inside, leaving him as he buttons up his shirt.

Darting into the kitchen, you draw the curtain across the window that overlooks the porch.

Bending over the sink, you pinch the bottom right corner of the curtain between your thumb and forefinger, lifting it until you can just peek out.

Redressed, Bucky takes a seat on one of the two porch chairs and places his black hat on his head, tilting it down until his features are obscured and leans back.

He looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

You pick up on a faint noise and realise that Bucky’s whistling, as if truly unbothered.

A man like him would be.

Somewhere between a minute and an eternity passes before the horses - four of them, come galloping up to the house with their male riders.

Bucky keeps whistling.

The horses come to a stop beside each other in front of the porch, forming a line. The man to the far right urges his horse forward a step.

He eyes Bucky before glancing back at his comrades, pulling out a shotgun from behind him and placing it across his lap.

“Oi!”

Bucky’s whistling fades out, the sudden silence unsettling as he straightens in the chair, hat still tilted.

“Can I help you?” Bucky drawls.

His reaction has clearly thrown the men into confusion as they all look to one another before three of them focus on the man who yelled - their leader you assume.

“You’re not too bright, are ya fella?”

The insult makes you wince.

Bucky laughs.

It’s a sound you should find familiar for all the times you’ve managed to raise one out of him, but there’s nothing familiar about it - it’s dark and without humour.

Maybe it should scare you.

It doesn’t.

The men dumbly laugh with him, the one on the far left announcing “We’re here to rob you fool!”

Laughter rings out louder from them, the gang appearing to relax in this odd situation they’ve found themselves in.

“Yeah,” Another one echoes “Everythin’ ya got.”

Not to be left out, the only one yet to speak adds “That means any ladies too.”

Bucky’s laughter abruptly ceases and the leader notices immediately, unlike his three cackling morons.

“Ya gonna give us trouble fella?” He asks warily, the others falling silent at the sound of his voice.

There’s a pause before Bucky answers “Depends.”

“On what?” A moron sneers, clearly unimpressed.

“On whether or not you leave.” Bucky states, voice low and menacing. “‘Cos you make one move towards this house and the last thing any of you will see is the bullet I put between your eyes.”

He draws their attention to the guns on either side of his hips.

The leader hovers his hand above the shotgun on his lap.

Another moron lets out a guffaw, “They’re not even out!”

God they’re dumb.

“No,” Bucky agrees, his tone clearly revealing his dwindling patience. “But I’ve been told I got pretty fast hands.”

Knocking his hat back from his face, Bucky’s hands drop to rest on the handles of his guns.

“Bucky Barnes.” A moron gapes, looking like he just wet himself.

The atmosphere completely shifts amongst the gang, their leader’s eyes widening as he moves his hand away from his shotgun, raising it in the air instead.

“Mister Barnes, we ain’t mean no disrespect sir.” He quickly appeases.

Heads bounce up and down as the others hurriedly agree, watching Bucky fearfully.

You can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips.

“Well boys, I’m not too bright,”

Oh, he’s good.

“So remind me what it was I just told y’all to do.”

Instead of actually doing it, one of the morons stutters out “Uh, well, you told us to leave sir.”

There’s a lull, Bucky’s frustration palpable, and a part of you believes he’s going to shoot them. In fact, you’re about to turn from the window to avoid the sight.

Before you can however, Bucky speaks again, his voice harsh. “So?”

Finally they gain an ounce of sense and urge their horses to move.

“Thank you sir.” The leader gasps gratefully, turning his horse around.

He’s smart enough to know he’s escaped a bullet, but not smart enough to see how his words irk Bucky further.

It doesn’t matter now. He and his morons are already racing away like the devil himself is behind them.

Maybe he is.

Bucky doesn’t move from the chair. Instead he watches as the gang disappears into the horizon.

When the sky grows dark, the sun all but gone, you pull back the curtain and move away from the window.

You’re lighting the candles and lamp on the sitting room table when the front door opens and Bucky steps inside.

Looking up at him, you straighten and say “That was...”

Trailing off, you frown as you realise you don’t really know how to describe what that was.

Watching Bucky handle the situation, making the four men appear stupid and harmless had been amazing, even though -

Even though they weren’t.

The realisation hits you then.

If you had been alone like you should’ve been, those men, those four men would have -

“Hey,” Bucky’s deep voice cuts through the terror settling in your chest - the terror he must see on your face. “You’re okay darlin’.”

But...

You’re vaguely aware of Bucky striding over to you.

“If you weren’t here -”

“I was.” Bucky cuts in, his voice leaving no room for argument. Grasping your chin, he tilts your head up until you meet his gaze. “I was here and that’s all that matters.”

The declaration is spoken gruffly, but the tender stroke of his thumb over your chin is comforting - the action belonging to your Bucky.

Your?

“Okay.” You reply quietly, after a few minutes have passed and his words have sunk in.

“You’re safe,” Bucky assures. “You’re safe with me.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

It’s late at night, the moon high in the sky when you find yourself standing on the porch.

You can’t sleep, your mind refusing to be quiet.

Too much happened today. Too many emotions were brought to the surface, bringing with them revelations you’d been trying hard to ignore.

Ignoring them now seemed impossible.

You’ve never had romantic feelings for anyone. You knew long ago that your future would be a lonely one, and you had made peace with it.

Then he came along.

Instead of finding your usual place of contentment in the loneliness each time he left, you found yourself counting the days between his visits, eagerly listening for his knock on your front door.

Then came the feelings.

At what point did your heart choose to swell and thunder in your chest at the mere sight of him? At what point did you find yourself missing his watchful gaze when it wasn’t on you? At what point did you decide to trust him with your life?

In your relatively short time together, Bucky had somehow managed to carve out a space for himself within you, and you didn’t know how to get him out.

You don’t know if you want to get him out.

“Everythin’ alright darlin’?”

For a second you think you’ve imagined Bucky’s voice during your ruminating, but his presence beside you is real.

“Yeah,” You answer softly. “Was just looking at the stars.”

It was one of the reasons you came out here.

Humming, Bucky leans against the railing to your right, peering up. “There’s no better sight to fall asleep to.”

You remember him once mentioning that most of his nights were spent on the ground in the great nothingness.

“I’m sure,” You reply. “But I think I’d miss my bed every once in a while.”

Bucky lets out a faint chuckle.

There’s a comfortable silence as you both admire the stars twinkling above, but soon a prickling at the back of your neck has your head turning to find Bucky openly watching you.

“You drive me crazy like this.” He murmurs, almost to himself. “You drive me crazy all the time,” He amends “But especially like this.”

Like what?

You don’t have to find the courage to ask this time.

“Standin’ in your nightgown, smellin’ like lavender,” Bucky admits freely, repeating “Drives me crazy.”

Your body comes to life at his confession.

Goosebumps erupt over your skin and your heart pounds faster as a warmth settles low in your stomach.

“James...” You respond softly, not sure what to say.

“I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since we met. Every day, you’re my first and last thought. Always wonderin’ if you’re havin’ a good day, if you’re safe, if you’re thinkin’ ‘bout me.” He shifts closer to you, ducking his head until you’re eye level. “Wonderin’ what your mouth tastes like, how your skin would feel under my hands, what kind of sounds you’d make for me.”

Your breathing grows short and heavy as he leans in so his mouth is only an inch away.

“Gonna let me find out darlin’?” Bucky whispers against your lips.

“Yes.” Breathless and desperate, you add “Please.”

Desperate to be touched - loved, by him.

A thought you’ll come back to another day.

Bucky’s mouth claims yours gently, his lips softer than you imagined as they press against yours, his beard grazing your skin.

You’re tentative in your inexperience, but soon you’re pressing back with an eagerness Bucky happily returns. His tongue glides along your bottom lip, encouraging your mouth to open and when it does he consumes you.

Your arms anchor around his neck to steady yourself as his hands run down your sides to find purchase on your hips.

When you pull back for a desperate gulp of air, Bucky’s hands slip behind your body to grasp your bottom, making you gasp as he lifts you against him.

Securing your legs around Bucky’s waist, you cling to him as he carries you back into the house.

You use the time it takes to get to your room to feel him.

His beard scratches against the palms of your hands before you slip them into his smooth hair, all while you press light, shy kisses to the bare skin of his neck. The soft sigh Bucky releases enchants you.

Then you’re feeling the floor of your bedroom under your feet as he gently sets you down.

Bucky lowers to his knees in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hands close around the hem of your white nightgown, his knuckles brushing against your calves.

The only lighting is the candle you left burning on your bedside table and the moon beaming through your thin curtains, but it’s enough to see the desire in his eyes - which is surely reflected in your own, as you nod to his unspoken question.

In one swift motion Bucky stands, slipping the nightgown up and off of you.

Your legs press together instinctively and your hands twitch with the urge to cover yourself once more as you’re hit with the vulnerability of being completely bared to Bucky.

“No darlin’,” He husks out roughly, grasping your wrists and holding your arms still as his heated gaze peruses your body. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

The fervour Bucky speaks with has you weak.

Pulling you to him, Bucky’s clothes rub against your skin and for some reason make you burn even hotter as his mouth swallows yours in a passionate kiss.

Walking you backwards until your legs hit the bed, Bucky breaks the kiss to lay you down, crawling over you still clothed. His lips seek out your neck this time, sucking and nibbling at the skin.

The sensations of his mouth are soon drowned out by the sudden feel of his rough hands on your lower stomach and you gasp as he slides them up your body to cup your pebbled breasts.

For the first time, you moan.

Bucky’s head jerks up from your neck to look down at you, his expression ravenous as he massages your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your nipples as you feel the wetness pooling between your legs.

He lowers to kiss your mouth, this time slow and intimate as his hands continue their sinful touch, his right hand straying away from your chest to trail down and down and...

Gasping against his lips, your body shudders as you feel Bucky’s fingers push through the curls covering your sex, just millimetres from -

You reach for his wrist.

Bucky stops instantly, his hand stilling as he pulls back from your lips to meet your gaze.

There’s no way he doesn’t already know, yet you still find yourself needing to say “I... I’ve never...”

“I know darlin’,” Bucky soothes. “I’m gonna go nice and slow. Make you feel so good, I promise.”

You release his wrist.

Bucky’s left hand cups and rubs one of your breasts while his right continues its way down to where no man has ever touched you.

The whole time, you watch one another.

You gasp sharply when his fingers graze along your folds, feeling the wetness and warmth flowing from your centre.

It pulls a deep grunt from Bucky who dips down for a hot kiss.

“Gonna treat you s’good, sweet girl.” He whispers as he breaks away, moving down your body.

He’s never called you that before.

Say it again.

You’re torn from your thoughts when his mouth wraps around your left nipple while his right hand keeps caressing your sex.

Bucky switches his attention between each breast until you’re a wriggling, panting mess. With a smirk he moves even further down, planting kisses over your stomach as he goes.

Kneeling between your spread legs, Bucky wraps his large hands around your ankles before skimming them up your legs to grasp your thighs. He rests them on his broad shoulders, his warm breath fanning over your core.

Confused, you’re frowning down at him when he does the unexpected. Staring at you, Bucky lowers his head and licks along your slit.

Your hips buck up but don’t go far in his hold, your stomach tightening at the strange sensation as you let out a strangled noise.

Bucky makes a sound of satisfaction as he glides his tongue over your sex, his hands clutching your inner thighs tightly to keep you open for him.

This...

You’ve talked about sex in hushed whispers with some women in town but they never, ever mentioned anything like this.

When Bucky closes his mouth around your sensitive bud your legs jerk while your hands seek him out, gripping his hair firmly as you moan so vulgarly you don’t recognise your own voice.

“That’s it,” Bucky praises, licking your clit. “Keep makin’ those noises for me sweet girl.”

Your brain is nothing but a puddle of mush as one of his fingers pushes into you experimentally.

How long Bucky spends working you over, you have no idea, but eventually he’s pushing three of his fingers in and out of you.

You’re loud, making noises foreign to you as he licks, pushes, and sucks. It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s...

“I’ve got you darlin’, come on, come for me.”

With one final suck on your clit, your body tenses and then snaps.

You shout out in your pleasure, tugging on the strands of Bucky’s hair as he keeps licking, watching you explode.

It’s not until your sounds turn into something small and pitiful at the overstimulation that he stands from the bed, his beard shining with you in the moonlight as he finally undresses.

You eye him hungrily in your dazed state, watching as his shirt flutters to the floor, followed by his trousers. Your stuttered breath fills the otherwise quiet room.

He’s...

Subconsciously, you press your legs together again.

Bucky tsk’s, his hands sliding under your knees and pulling them apart. “Sweet girl, what did I tell you?”

Settling between your legs once more, he hovers above you.

You can only hold his dark gaze for a moment before your eyes drift downwards.

His cock is hard, and leaking, and big. You don’t think they’re supposed to be that big. Your hand wouldn’t even be able to fit around it, so how was it supposed to fit in you?

“Like whatcha see darlin’?” You hear the smirk in his rough tone before you look up and see it.

Flustered, you mumble out a breathless “It’s big.”

Bucky groans deeply, like he’s in pain, and swoops down to kiss you, dominating your mouth.

“Don’t worry sweet girl,” He whispers against your lips. “It’ll fit in your little pussy.”

Shivering at his wicked tongue, your eyes dart down to look at it again.

“Can I touch it?”

Bucky grunts, watching you from underneath his lashes. “S’all yours darlin’.”

Timidly, you reach down between your bodies until you can wrap your hand around the base of his cock.

You were right, your hand doesn’t fit around it.

It’s hot and heavy in your palm as you give it a soft stroke before returning to the base. You repeat the action but this time you trail your thumb along the vein you had felt on the underside of his cock.

Bucky’s forehead drops onto yours, his breathing heavy.

A flick of your eyes upwards shows you that Bucky’s are closed, his jaw clenched tight.

The sight sends tingles through you and with a burst of confidence you tighten your grip around his cock and stroke him again, thumbing at his leaking head when you reach the top.

Hissing, one of Bucky’s hands shoots down to grab your wrist.

You look up and meet his open eyes.

Pulling your hand off his cock, Bucky husks “Won’t last if you keep doin’ that sweet girl.”

The statement thrills you.

Bucky’s hands wrap around your thighs, placing them over the top of his and spreading you beneath him.

Grasping himself in one hand, Bucky keeps his eyes on you as he slowly pushes into you. The stretch burns, making you bite down on your lip as you try to take all of him.

Stopping, Bucky lowers to capture your mouth while his other hand sneaks down to gently circle your bud, relaxing and distracting you as he continues to push in bit by bit until he finally bottoms out.

“You tell me when darlin’.” Bucky pants above you, unmoving.

A few minutes pass and when you feel like you’ve adjusted as much as you can, you say “Okay, just...”

“I’ll go slow sweet girl.” Bucky promises again, reading your mind.

True to his word, Bucky gradually pulls his length out of you before pushing it back in at the same pace. Your teeth snag your bottom lip again as he moves in and out of you, the feeling just shy of painful.

Bucky never looks away from your face, catching every emotion that flashes across it. You’re warm and tight - so tight, around his cock and it has him on the brink of madness. However, your pleasure is what he cares about most and when your face remains pinched on his fourth push into you, his eyebrows draw in concern.

As he pushes himself in on his fifth stroke, Bucky says “Darlin’, do you -”

You moan loud and short, the sound a mixture of bliss and surprise as the pain suddenly gives way to pleasure.

Bucky grunts above you, the look on your face seeming to make him even harder as he puts a little more power behind his next thrust, watching as it makes you moan again.

“There you go sweet girl,” He husks. “That feel good darlin’?”

“Yes.” Your hands wind in his hair, bringing his face down to yours for a desperate kiss as Bucky continues his slow thrusts.

Something’s clawing at your stomach, wanton. You need more.

Your right hand untangles from Bucky’s hair to slide down his muscled back, brushing over the bumps of scars as you hold onto him.

Breaking apart, you pant against his lips “Faster.” You don’t know how you know that’s what you need, but you do. “Harder, please.” You plead in a lustful tone.

You haven’t been oblivious to the wild look in his dark blue eyes, to the barely restrained control he exhibits.

However, your words, your tone, they undo Bucky’s control for a moment and in an almost uncontrollable action his hips slam up into yours as he grunts “Fuck darlin’.”

The powerful thrust claws a breathy whine of shock out of you.

“Gonna kill me, aren’t ya sweet girl?” Bucky murmurs thickly, reining his control back slightly as he does what you asked and pushes into you at a faster pace, his thrusts harder.

Your head pushes back into the bed beneath you as you moan out, the nails of your right hand digging into their hold on Bucky’s back while your left grips his hair tighter.

“Look at me.” Bucky commands in a tone so low you feel the rumble of it against you.

You tilt your head down to meet his heady gaze.

“James,” You whimper, the sensations building within you.

“Fuck.” He thrusts a bit deeper, pushes a bit harder, making you mewl. “I know, I know darlin’, gonna come for me again, aren’t ya?”

He gives another deep thrust, the force pushing you slightly up the bed.

It feels so good. You’re so close, you’re right there...

“Say my name sweet girl,” Bucky groans, rubbing at your clit. “Say my name when I make you come.”

A pleasure so intense it has your eyes rolling back erupts in you, making your whole body tighten and relax repeatedly as you moan, whine, and pant for James as you swim in ecstasy.

The sight of you coming so undone for him - because of him, sends Bucky hurtling.

Pulling out of your pulsing heat, his right hand wraps around his painfully hard cock and squeezes as he tugs it roughly, consumed by lust. On the third harsh stroke he spills over your stomach with a wrecked moan of your name.

Bucky’s forehead drops to yours, your heaving breaths mingling together as you both come back to yourselves.

Pressing forward, Bucky claims your mouth in a brief, sweet kiss.

“You okay darlin’?” He whispers.

A drowsy, satisfied nod is all you can manage.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You’re surrounded by warmth when you blink awake and it takes you a moment to realise the source isn’t the sunlight streaming into your room, but Bucky’s body underneath yours.

If heaven was a feeling this had to be close.

“Mornin’ darlin’.” Bucky’s voice is raspier, a clear sign he’s not long woken.

Tilting your head up from where it rests on his bare chest, you meet Bucky’s gentle gaze and give a small smile, quietly returning “Morning.”

In a movement too fast for your sleepy mind to comprehend, Bucky grabs your hips and effortlessly rolls you onto your back so he can hover above you.

Nudging your nose with his own, he captures your mouth in a tender kiss.

“How do you feel?” He asks after pulling back.

Images of last night rush back to you, flooding your body with heat as you answer honestly. “A little sore, but good.”

Humming, Bucky runs his left hand up and down your side. “Just good?”

You duck away from his burning gaze, making him laugh.

“Still shy after last night darlin’?” He questions, though it comes across more like a statement.

Regardless, Bucky doesn’t wait for a response, instead he leans down and kisses you again.

This one is deeper, his lips pressing against yours harder as you willingly open your mouth to him.

You feel the air in the room thicken as Bucky’s left hand continues to roam and grasp while both of yours stroke through his hair.

Despite the soreness between your legs, that desire from last night begins pooling in your stomach.

Breaking apart, you both breathe heavily as Bucky utters “Already need you again sweet girl.”

Pressing soft kisses all over your face before moving down to your neck where he scratches his beard against you, Bucky speaks against your ear. “But I gotta let you recover first before I ruin you all over again, don’t I darlin’?”

You shudder at his words as he places a final kiss below your ear before moving away and getting up.

He pulls on his trousers, his blue eyes swimming with desire as he peruses your naked body while doing them up.

Licking his lips, Bucky husks “I’ll get breakfast started.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

“When do you have to meet your friends?” You ask Bucky as he takes your plate and sets it with his own in the sink.

“Whatcha mean darlin’?”

“You said you were waiting to meet them.” You remind him, recalling the conversation you had yesterday.

Yesterday?

It felt like a lifetime ago now.

Bucky’s back is still to you and his silence makes you frown. “You’re... not meeting them?” You guess hesitantly.

Why would he lie?

If he wanted to stay longer, he just had to ask.

Turning around to lean against the kitchen counter, Bucky’s arms bulge as they cross over his still bare chest.

Despite the current circumstance, the sight makes your stomach flip.

Bucky observes you for a moment before admitting “I heard there was a new gang causin’ problems ‘round these parts.”

That’s all he says, leaving you to fill in the blanks.

Your heartbeat quickens at the possible implication of his words.

“So...” You prompt softly, daring to hope.

Pushing from the counter, Bucky steps over to you, his gaze holding yours as he rests a hand on the table beside you before ducking until your eyes are level.

“So I needed to make sure my sweet girl was safe,” He whispers, raising his other hand “And that she stayed that way.” Brushing a gentle finger over your cheek, Bucky finishes “I’ve got nowhere else to be darlin’.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 6 DAYS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

For six days you’re in a world of your own, where only you and Bucky exist.

You knew it was only a matter of time, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment you feel when life finally crashes in.

Waking up to an empty bed for the first time since you surrendered yourself to Bucky, you don’t think too much about it as you slip on your nightgown.

Venturing out into the hallway, you freeze when you hear voices.

Fear begins to take hold until you push it back.

Bucky would never put you in danger. Of that, you’re certain.

“You sure? The law’s been gettin’ closer than I like.” An unfamiliar male voice states.

“We’ve been plannin’ this for too damn long to back out now.” Is Bucky’s reply.

Sucking in a breath, you know you really shouldn’t be listening to this.

Continuing towards the sitting room, you step louder than you normally would, alerting them of your presence.

Two men sit in your kitchen, their hulking figures making the small table between them appear child-sized. Their heads turn and two sets of blue eyes - one light, the other dark - land on you as you loiter awkwardly in the sitting room.

Glancing as long as you dare at the stranger, you note his dark blond hair which brushes against his dirty collar and wild beard that reminds you of Bucky’s the first time he knocked on your door.

You know you’ve seen his wanted posters, but his name eludes you.

“Darlin’,” Bucky crooks a finger at you, urging you over to him. “This is Steve, we’ve been friends since we were kids.”

Steve.

You could recall the name at the bottom of the posters now - Steve Rogers.

“Hello,” You greet shyly, offering your name as Bucky’s hands settle on your hips and pull you onto his lap.

Not meaning to interrupt them, you look up at Bucky in question. He squeezes your hips, telling you it’s okay.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Steve declares with a secretive smile. “I’m sorry for barging in.”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you?” Bucky grumbles at the same time, making Steve chuckle.

This one laughs too.

“I’ll give you two a moment.” Steve appeases, standing up and settling a worn brown hat on his head.

You realise he’s only wearing socks and find it oddly thoughtful that he took his boots off before coming in.

“We’ll have to get acquainted some other time.” Steve remarks, and by the way Bucky’s grip tightens you gather he’s only saying it to be a menace, especially when he adds “Maybe you can cook me somethin’ too.”

“Fuck off.” Bucky growls, but Steve’s already slipping out the front door with a grin.

Grumbling, Bucky lifts you off his lap and onto the table, fusing his mouth to yours.

Once he’s thoroughly reduced your mind to empty space, Bucky pulls back and orders “Don’t you dare cook him or any other man anything, ever.”

“James.” You sigh, smiling.

“You won’t like what happens if you do darlin’.” He promises in a darker tone.

The thrill that shoots up your spine suggests that maybe you would.

Regardless, you playfully huff “If you insist.”

“I do.” Bucky grunts before kissing you again.

When you break apart, the mood turns solemn.

“You have to go?” You ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah darlin’, I gotta go.”

Forcing a smile, you whisper “Okay,” as if you have any say in the matter.

Rubbing his nose against yours, Bucky soothes “I’ll be back darlin’, like always.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 3 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Sighing, you dry the plate in your hands and eye the dishes you still have left. You probably would’ve finished the mundane task by now if you didn’t move so slow while daydreaming.

You spent most of today in the barn, completing chores. It wasn’t until the sun had almost set that you wandered back into the house and began making dinner.

Once these dishes were away you planned on taking a long bath.

Stacking the last plate, you pick up one of the candles on the dining table and blow out the rest, blanketing the house in darkness.

Using the light source in your hand, you check over the windows and lock the front door before trudging down to your bedroom.

Stepping into the dark room you can’t help but miss the moon and the light it provides as you place the candle on your bedside table.

Clutching the bottom of your pale yellow dress you lift it up and off, leaving you in nothing but a thin slip when you hear the unmistakable sound of a match striking.

Gasping, you whirl around as your heart hammers in your chest.

“Don’t stop on my account darlin’.” Bucky drawls, seated in the chair at the opposite corner of your room.

Waving out the match he just used to light the candle on the dressing table beside him, his dark eyes watch you like a hawk. “Go on.”

A shiver races down your spine.

This isn’t your sweet Bucky.

In an almost nervous manner you reach for the straps of your slip, hesitating for just a second before pushing them off your shoulders.

You hear Bucky’s deep inhale as the fabric pools at your feet.

“Come here.”

Your feet are quick to obey the order.

The candlelight flickers over his face, allowing you to take in his appearance.

He looks much the same as he left, beard full but tamed and brown hair reaching his shoulders. He’s a little dirty, but you can’t complain since you are too.

Bucky grabs your waist as soon as you’re within reach and pulls you down onto his lap, your legs either side of his as your naked breasts press into his shirt.

His hands move to grip your bottom roughly, drawing another gasp from you.

Grazing your lips with his own, Bucky whispers “I’ve missed you.”

You’re not given a chance to return the sentiment as his mouth captures yours.

The kiss is ravenous as Bucky takes everything he wants - everything he needs, from you. All you can do is hold onto him, your hands wrapped around his thick biceps as you let him take.

Both of you are panting for air when he eventually pulls away, his right hand gliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck and urge your head backwards, exposing your throat to him.

Running his nose under your jaw, all the way down to your collarbone, Bucky groans in satisfaction against your skin. “Smell s’good.”

It was merely coincidence that you had been using your lavender oil more often since his comment on the porch.

You feel him bite the place where your neck and shoulder meet - as if in claim, before licking over the spot, making you moan.

Bucky nips and sucks along your collarbone, dipping lower until he tugs one of your nipples between his teeth.

You don’t even realise you’ve started rocking against his hard length under you until both his hands seize your hips, halting your movements.

Raising his head, Bucky taunts “Desperate for me darlin’? Where’d my sweet, shy girl go?”

Why those words make you whine at him you have no idea, but Bucky loves it.

Smirking, he slowly rocks you up and down on his length and hums “Maybe my girl’s not so good, huh?”

You moan as he moves you faster, pressing you down to rub harder against his erect cock straining beneath his trousers. Your hands tighten around his biceps as your head drops to his shoulder.

“That’s alright darlin’, ‘cos I plan on doin’ bad, bad things to you.” Bucky murmurs in your ear, beard scratching as your sensitive skin.

His words added with the light press of his thumb on your clit undoes you, making you cry out his name.

If it didn’t feel so good, you’d be embarrassed at your quick climax.

Growling, Bucky stands while you’re still reeling in pleasure and carries you to the bed, manoeuvring your compliant body until you’re on your knees, face down.

He’s never had you like this before.

The sound of Bucky removing his belt has your hands gripping the sheets.

“Can’t wait any longer darlin’.” He grunts, shoving his trousers to the floor before grabbing your hips. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this little pussy every day, dyin’ to feel it wrapped ‘round me again.”

That’s all the warning you get before Bucky pushes in, the intrusion tearing a shout from you, followed by a drawn out moan.

You feel so full. You didn’t realise how much you missed this.

How badly you’ve been craving it.

“That’s it.” He purrs, your walls clenching around him. “Fuck.”

Pulling out until just the tip remains, Bucky surges back in.

You whine again, clawing at the sheets beneath you.

“Oh, you are a good girl, aren’t ya darlin’?” Bucky thrusts into you, pitching your whole body forward as he bends down and husks in your ear, “‘Cos you’re gonna take everythin’ I give ya.”

The way he’s talking is hurtling you towards the edge again.

You don’t respond - you can’t, but Bucky’s not looking for a response.

Straightening, he begins pounding into you relentlessly. You swear the bed is going to give out with how it creaks as the frame bangs into the wall, competing with the sounds coming from you.

When Bucky’s large, rough hand trails under your body to cup your sex, his fingers sliding up until they reach your bud, you almost scream.

Chuckling out a groan, he states “You’re squeezin’ the life outta me sweet girl.”

Bucky’s fingers are as unforgiving as his cock as they rub tight circles on your clit, bringing you to that point.

“Come.” He growls, leaning over you to wrap his large body around yours as his fingers bully your bud. “Now.”

You’re helpless to his demand.

“James!” You squeal, falling limp as your release slams into you.

Moaning deeply, Bucky pulls out of your spasming centre and flips you onto your back. Tugging his cock, he spills onto your stomach, cursing your name.

Collapsing forward, Bucky catches himself on his left elbow, hovering above you.

You’re breathless, eyes fluttering as he lowers to kiss your lips.

It starts out tender but soon turns into something lustful as you feel Bucky growing hard against your stomach. Your resulting whimper breaks the kiss.

“Keep those eyes open sweet girl,” He whispers. “I’m not done with you yet.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You wake wrapped in Bucky’s arms and a smile instantly spreads across your face. Lifting your head from where it rests on his shoulder, your smile widens when you realise his eyes are still closed.

Bucky always woke before you, yet here he is, fast asleep.

He looks different. Peaceful.

For a while you just watch him, listening to his steady breathing as you feel his chest rise and fall under your right palm.

Eventually you can’t resist the urge to brush his hair back from his face, which leads your fingertips to dance over his beard, down his nose, and over his mouth.

Your forefinger traces across his bottom lip before it’s suddenly snagged between his teeth, making you gasp then laugh.

Bucky’s eyes blink open and lock onto yours as he releases your finger.

“Morning,” You smile softly.

“Mornin’ darlin’.” His raspy voice after waking up is a sound you’ll never tire of. “What you doin’ up so early?”

Huffing at his teasing words, you sit up and move until you’re straddling his firm stomach, both your hands pressed against his chest.

“It’s not that early,” You glare playfully.

Cupping your hips, Bucky smirks “I just know how much my girl likes her sleep.”

My girl.

Lowering until your nose bumps his, you respond “I like spending time with you more.”

Bucky gives a quiet groan, his hands gliding up to cup your face and pull you down further until your mouths connect. It’s a slow kiss, every stroke of his tongue deliberate as he savours the taste of you.

He doesn’t let you go far when you break away for air, his nose prodding yours as he whispers “I have to go.”

“You just got back.” You can’t help but protest, eyebrows furrowing.

Bucky sighs, “I know darlin’.”

Rolling the two of you over so he can hover above you instead, Bucky’s forearms settle on either side of your head as he rests his forehead against yours.

“I got a... job to do,” Bucky explains vaguely. “But, when I come back it’ll be for a good while.”

You mull his words over for a moment before whispering “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He angles his face lower to place light kisses over your cheeks and down your neck where he then rubs his beard, well aware of how much it tickles your sensitive skin.

Once you have tears in your eyes and are stuttering for him to stop between giggles he finally relents, raising his head to meet your gaze.

The grin on his lips is much too boyish to belong to the man who spoke such sordid things to you last night.

“How ‘bout I get breakfast started?” Bucky suggests.

It’s at that moment, in the warmth and safety of your bed - of Bucky, in the little world you’ve started to create together that you realise you love him.

That you have for quite some time.

It’s in that moment, with his dark blue eyes shining down at you, his rough hands tenderly caressing your skin, and the lingering ache in your body from last night that you almost tell him.

Fortunately, common sense rears its head, snatching the words from you before they can tumble out and ruin everything.

You know he cares for you - maybe even adores you, but you don’t think men like Bucky Barnes can do love.

So instead you say “That sounds great.”

You’ll take everything you can from him before he leaves, knowing his absence will be even more palpable this time around with your realisation, and you’ll wait patiently until he comes back and gives you more.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Securing Chester’s reins around a post outside the general store, you give his chest a loving rub as he drinks from the water trough.

Moving around him to retrieve some money from the satchel on your saddle, the sound of running feet grabs your attention.

You turn in time to see a group of young boys race past, rushing towards the town centre.

“Hurry up or we’ll miss it!” One of the boys shouts back to his slower friends.

Frowning, you look around and notice that quite a few people are heading in the same direction.

Closing your satchel with the money still inside, you walk up the two steps leading to the general store’s small porch, intent on asking Billy what all the fuss is about.

A piece of paper stuck to the front door informs you he’s not inside. The messily written ‘be back soon’ only fuels your curiosity.

Striding back down the steps, you join the people making their way to the town centre.

It’s an underwhelming reveal.

Your eyes roll when you round the final corner and see that the gallows have been erected.

A hanging, of course.

What else drew such a crowd?

Certainly not one to enjoy such a gruesome sight, you turn around and head back the way you came. You’ll simply wait with Chester until Billy gets back.

You take four steps before stopping.

The whole town seems to be gathering - if not more. Only someone with a name important enough to know would be worth so much attention.

Don’t be stupid.

Fear turns your blood cold.

It can’t be him.

You’re thinking foolishly, you know that.

In what world did law enforcement ever actually catch a man like Bucky Barnes?

The notion was comical.

However, your need for reassurance has you spinning back around and trekking closer. You weave your way through the growing crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the criminal yet to be led up to the high platform of the gallows.

After a few minutes you’ve only managed to make it halfway through the throng of spectators, the rough shoves of uncaring men hindering your progress.

Standing on the tips of your toes, you peer around the figures in front of you, looking to the left corner of the gallows where you know the stairs that lead up to the platform start.

You’re not sure if it’s just a trick of your overactive imagination, but for a split second you swear you catch sight of familiar brown hair and your breath lodges in your throat.

No. It can’t be. It can’t.

The next few moments seem to occur in slow motion.

A brief gap in the crowd gives you a perfect, straight line of vision to the brown haired man. The reveal of his face almost brings you to your knees.

No. No, no, no -

You’re frozen in denial at who you see.

James.

His hands are tied behind his back and two deputies flank him, ready to escort him up the stairs.

Your direct line of sight is broken by the crowd, causing everything to speed up as you finally kick into motion.

Like a desperate woman - because you are, you push through the crowd, ignoring the protests and elbows you receive. You don’t stop until you’ve reached the front.

Ducking around the unsuspecting deputy stationed to keep the mob at bay, you bolt to Bucky, sliding to a standstill in front of him, your shoes touching his boots.

“Darlin’,” Bucky speaks like the wind’s just been knocked out of him, his blue eyes wide.

“James what are you - they’re -”

You can’t speak. You can’t breathe.

This was Bucky Barnes, the famous outlaw. He didn’t get caught and he certainly didn’t die.

“You promised.” You gasp out, eyes itching with tears “You -”

“I’m so sorry baby.” Bucky’s voice strains in his effort to speak softly and you hate it.

As much as you hate that you can’t give a second thought to his sweetest term of endearment for you yet.

“Don’t -”

Regaining their wits, the deputies around you spring into action, one of them grabbing your arms from behind and pulling you backwards.

“Hey!”

“Don’t touch her!” Bucky spits vehemently, rearing forward only to be tugged back by the deputies either side of him.

Throwing your right heel back, you catch the deputy in his shin, forcing him to let go. You lunge at Bucky, clinging to the front of his shirt like it’s your only lifeline.

“Please James,” You plead, as if he has any say in this. “I love you, please.”

You should’ve told him. You should’ve told him that morning.

“Listen to me baby,” Bucky implores, his deep voice gentle like you know it can be with you - not soft. “I want you to know how much I love you, that you’ve given a meanin’ to my life that I had no right to expect, that no one can ever take from me.”

“James.” You choke out, throat tight with the tears that stream down your face.

He loves me. He loves me.

The beautiful declaration should fill you with happiness, not anguish.

“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me.” Bucky declares, lips curling as his blue eyes admire you.

When the deputy grabs hold of you this time there’s no chance of you breaking out of his tight hold even if you had the strength to try - which you don’t.

Your body is limp, weak, and shattered as you’re dragged away from the only man you’ve ever loved. The only man you’ll ever love.

“It’s alright darlin’,” Bucky insists over his shoulder as he’s pushed up the stairs, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

You’re shoved into the crowd - which parts from you in disgust, while you watch Bucky ascend to the top of the platform, feeling anything but okay.

They stand him beside the noose and your legs tremble as you subconsciously start walking backwards through the horde of onlookers - as if you can escape what’s about to happen next.

“Bucky Barnes...” A big, well dressed man addresses him before reading out his sentence.

They’re going to kill him.

Your hand shoots up to cover your mouth as the reality sinks in.

He’s going to die.

Only watching you - always watching you, Bucky’s mouth opens.

You can’t hear what he says, but you make out the words.

“Don’t watch.”

“Please.”

The pain suddenly burns you and your shoulders shake from the force of your tears.

Gasping in a deep, shuddering breath, you look at him one last time before closing your eyes, forcing yourself to honour his final request.

Why? Why does death have to take him from me too?

You’re barely aware of anything other than the affliction raging inside you, so you don’t know how you even hear it over the jeering crowd, but you do - a low whistle.

It shouldn’t mean anything to you, but something urges you to open your eyes.

Blinking through your tears, you turn your head to the right - where the sound had been loudest, and zero in on a man who towers over most of the spectators.

A black bandana covers the lower half of his face, but he’s looking at you, his bright blue eyes visible as he winks.

Steve.

Shifting his gaze from you to Bucky, he whistles again, this time a two tone note that’s loud and piercing.