Roseanne. Old enough to be your mother. She/Her. Appreciation of my favorite actors. While I don’t write I reblog a ton of things and to be safe 18 + only.
Summary: After passing out at work, Bucky makes sure you get taken care of, even if you all you want is some privacy.
Chapter WC: 2k Warnings: language, passing out, doctor visit(no details), down bad bucky taking the most care of grumpy reader
Pairing: Cook! Bucky x waitress! reader (eventually)
A/N: I can't get over how much I have fallen in love with this Bucky. All he wants is his Sunshine to be ok and happy. Please be patient with her, she's gonna come around eventually, commiserate with @the-wayward-robot if you must, she's been ready to fight her for ages lol.
Masterlist Chapter 1
Growing up, Halloween had been your favorite holiday. Everyone else in your family had loved Christmas, but you and your grandma had spent hours decorating the yard for trick or treaters. Each year the two of you had a goal of outdoing the previous year, and so by the time you were a teenager your house was the most visited one in the neighborhood.
It was not only a bonding time for you and her, but it was an escape. A whole day presented as an opportunity. A chance to be someone different, to melt into another identity, explore the possibilities if you weren’t, well you. It had been a life long acquaintance, your inner discomfort, the feeling of never really fitting in anywhere, or with anyone. It had settled in by adulthood, as familiar as an achy knee or bad elbow.
“Hand me the ice, sweetie, trick or treaters are gonna be coming around soon, we need to chill the punch.” She was dressed like the devil, and it seemed wrong, because your grandma, in all her love for Halloween, never wore a costume. It never made sense really, a yard full of horror, her intense love of Halloween, yet she never let herself be someone else. It was as if the version of herself she shared was mask enough.
“Sorry ma, nice costume.”
“What do you mean?” She asks, confused. It’s gone as you turn from the cooler, replaced by her typical skirt and blouse.
“The ice?”
Her voice is distant and your body is unable to move. She’s still standing in front of you, but she’s flickering now, between devil and regular, blank expression on her face.
“What?” You query, confusion clouding your mind.
“ I NEED ICE!” Her voice is wrong now, and then she’s gone and it's dark. It’s cold too. It's a burning cold, and it feels like a frozen hell, but since when does hell smell like onions?
Onions and sweat, something unnameable yet familiar, calling to you. Your mind follows the smell, navigating the cold to lead you out of the darkness. Voices grow closer, warbled in the fog of your mind.
“911?” One whispers.
“No, no- she’s coming back to us, are her eyes open yet?”
“Not yet, did she hit her head?”
“No, thank god I caught her, fucked my hip on the counter though, can I claim workers’ compensation?”
“Sure if the worker's comp consists of the thirteen ones in the tip jar.”
A familiar laugh leads you back through the door, and you’re awake, sort of. Wet rivulets run down your face from where the cold originates, and you blindly reach to wipe them. A hand comes from behind you and pulls your hand away before it can reach its destination.
“Thank god. Leave it, it’s just water from the ice, I’ll get it in a minute.”
You’re sitting on the floor, facing a few equally concerned and disinterested customers sitting at the tables. The few that stare at you remind of the situation you’re in and you attempt to piece together what exactly happened. On either side of your legs there are additional legs, black pants covered in grease and crumbs, a large rip on the leg to your right. Your fingers trace the frays, still turning over the clues in your mind in order to solve the puzzle at hand.
“Do you mind?” The chuckle that comes from behind shakes you, and you attempt to turn, but the world goes with you. “Oh shit!” He steadies you with his free arm, still holding the ice to your forehead with the other. “You need to just rest for a minute, you scared us.”
Oh no, surely not.
“Bucky?” Your hands reach behind you to confirm your fear, fingers tangling in his beard
“Yep, last time I checked.” He shifts, biting your finger, his laughter shaking you as you snatch your hand away. “Still fresh, barely any rigor mortis.”
“Fuck off.” you manage before your attempt to stand fails and you have to accept turning your body to face him as success for now.
“So spicy.” He moves to wipe the water from your forehead, pushing a stray bit of hair back into place. “Now, all better.”
“What happened?” Your head pounds as you speak.
You scoot back to regain some space but he just follows you, scooting until your knees touch. “Why were you holding me on the floor like a weirdo, Bucky? I haven't even known you that long, what are you some kinda pervert?”
He feigns shock, hand to his chest in mock offense. “I beg your pardon, I’ve had the pleasure of your sunny disposition for 21 days, which rounds up to a month thank you kindly. Lucky for you, because anything under three weeks and I would have left you for dead on the floor when you passed out.”
“You’re counting the days? You are a pervert!” You manage to pull yourself up, the metal counter cool against your skin as you struggle.
Two hands find themselves on your hips along with his rebuttal. “ ‘m not a pervert and I’m not counting days! I just have a good memory is all!”
“Where’s the key to the deep freeze then?” Lois chimes in, watching the two of you with an equal mix of concern and enjoyment.
“Not helping, Lois.” He moves to take your hand but you shoo him away. He accepts with a frown, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Come on, I’m taking you to the clinic.”
“I’m fine, Bucky. I’m not your responsibility, I can take care of myself.”
You move towards the door to the kitchen, but he grabs your wrist. Angrily you turn, ready to tell him once again to fuck off, but the look on his face is new, smirk gone, replaced by a look of concern that honestly catches you off guard. “Please, just to get checked out?”
“Fuck, fine! Who’s gonna help Lois?”
“Your medical emergency seemed to be surprisingly well timed, it’s five til 2, we’re closed until dinner. Come on, if you behave and don’t make Murray cry then I’ll buy you a treat. Lois, you owe me ten, I told you I could convince her.”
“Damn blue steel.” Lois mumbles, pulling ten ones from the tip jar.
You manage the short walk to the clinic pretty independently, yet he’s always at your side. Everything has come back to you now, and this is not a visit you necessarily want to share with a coworker you barely know. He’s oblivious to your woes, telling you bits and bobbits about the history of this building, the hauntings of that one, your personal tour guide to the end of a life you already thought was over.
“You think it’s true? I don’t think I could handle being stuck at work for eternity.”
His ability to be carefree regardless of the situation was nauseating, and no, you tell yourself- you weren’t jealous of the ability at all. “Yeah, no, that would mean seeing you for all time.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad, about enough time to get you to smile.” He seems to be weighing the pros and cons as he holds the door open for you.
The clinic is tiny, with pale blue walls, worn white linoleum, and a few chairs covered in sagging brown fabric that may or may not have been another color at one time. It was otherwise clean, the smell of antiseptic filling your nose and making your stomach flip.
When was the last time you had eaten? You couldn’t worry about that right now; if you died within the next ten minutes it would spare you from the future.
“Nora, she needs to get checked out, she passed out at Lois’ and if something happens to her, I’ll have hell to pay.”
You’re handed a clipboard with what feels like an endless amount of paperwork to fill out and he moves to follow you, the chair next to you protesting as he plops down. He leans across you to grab an outdated magazine from the table, completely unbothered by the situation at hand.
“You can go now.” You say, busying yourself with the paperwork. “I’m good from here.”
“Nowhere else I need to be; so until 6 I’m all yours.” He doesn’t even look up from the magazine, stopping only to sniff a perfume sample that likely evaporated in the 90’s. “Yuck, smells like divorce and regret.”
“Bucky, I don’t need you to babysit me, I can go to the doctor by myself, alone, without you.”
“Good to know, I had doubts, glad to know they were unfounded. Oh, a coupon… damn, it’s expired.”
“ For fuck’s sake, whatever.” Defeated, you go back to completing the paperwork, ready to get this over with.
Your wait was thankfully short, and soon you were both sitting in the exam room, windowless and fully encompassed by Bucky’s personality.
“It could have been your blood sugar, you have problems with your blood sugar?”
“It’s not my blood sugar, Bucky.”
“Could have been stress, stress is the silent killer, you know.”
“And yet I’m still here, regrettably.”
“Don’t worry, Murray is the best in the county, he’ll figure it out. I guarantee it.”
“I’m sure he will, Bucky. Can we maybe wait quietly? I feel like shit.”
“Shit, yeah, sorry, I’m just nervous.” His hands are in his hair and he almost looks embarrassed.
What on Earth is going on with him.
You cut your eyes at him, annoyed. “Why are you nervous?”
The door opens before he can answer and you swear you hear him give a sigh of relief.
“Ok you two-” Murray starts.
“No, we are not two, it’s just me.” You cut him off, frustration mounting.
He eyes Bucky but it only earns him a silent shrug, at least he’s being quiet for a change.
“Ok… well, passing out is very common with pregnancy, especially early on.”
There it was, the final thread coming apart.
Murray said more, how much more you’re not sure, but eventually he’s talking to Bucky and then he’s leaving, closing the door behind him.
“You ok?” Bucky asks softly when you finally stand up, gathering your purse and coat. He moves to help you put it on, and you let him, too tired to fight any external battles.
“No Bucky, I’m very much not ok.” The words hit you like a wave, finally admitting them out loud to yourself and to him. It feels entirely too intimate and you wish there was a window to climb out of. The two of you move in silence down the hall and out into the afternoon that in a fitting turn had become surprisingly bitter.
“Did you know?” He asks finally, a softness in his voice that was almost reverent.
“Not until about five seconds before I passed out.”
“Everything will be ok, I promise.” He’s not looking at you, and it seems like he’s talking to himself more than to you. It prompts you to stop, needing his full attention to the matter.
“Bucky, you can’t make a promise like that. You can’t tell me that a mentally unstable single mom working at a diner with a blown up car, no money, and no help is gonna thrive.”
He’s unwavering, him and his fucking toxic positivity. “Watch me, Sunshine. You are gonna be just fine. Now let’s go get baby boy some ice cream.”
He’s already a few steps ahead of you as you throw your hands up, defeated.
“ Fuckin’ Miss Cleo for a coworker, can tell the future and shit. Wait up!”
He slows, allowing you to catch up to him.
“You do know I’m barely pregnant, right? There is no way to know if it’s a girl or a boy.”
“I know. But he is, and he wants cookie dough.”
“How do you know that I’ve been craving cookie dough? You watching me through my windows? YOU ARE A PERVERT!”
“Pervert or not, do you want ice cream or is that a no?”
And that damn smirk is back, but at least he’s serving a purpose, for now.
Halloween is my favorite holiday as well. I never cared much for Christmas, even when I was younger, my mother loved it. Tree had to be up the day after Thanksgiving and all. To me it was just a big build up for a huge letdown.
I definitely like this Bucky, he’s very protective. She’ll have to come around, who could resist him?
I love both now. Since I no longer speak with my grandparents, I don't celebrate Halloween at such a large scale, it kinda put a damper on it for me. My hubby LOVES Christmas, so we do it big. But I get what you're saying about the let down. We always go to advent service, which is one of my favorite parts aside from spending time with family.
This Bucky has my heart<3 and yes, Sunshine will come around, she's just well... you'll see lol Thank you for being one of my fav mutuals💕
I’m so happy you have holidays back. I also am unable to have children and I think you know that my mother, father and only sibling are all gone now as well as my husband. His sister and her family have totally adopted me so I spend holidays with them and they do them big! Mostly they are just another day to me now but I love my sis-in-law so I go and try to be happy. Not gonna lie, it’s very hard but we do what we can for the people we love.
Summary: After passing out at work, Bucky makes sure you get taken care of, even if you all you want is some privacy.
Chapter WC: 2k Warnings: language, passing out, doctor visit(no details), down bad bucky taking the most care of grumpy reader
Pairing: Cook! Bucky x waitress! reader (eventually)
A/N: I can't get over how much I have fallen in love with this Bucky. All he wants is his Sunshine to be ok and happy. Please be patient with her, she's gonna come around eventually, commiserate with @the-wayward-robot if you must, she's been ready to fight her for ages lol.
Masterlist Chapter 1
Growing up, Halloween had been your favorite holiday. Everyone else in your family had loved Christmas, but you and your grandma had spent hours decorating the yard for trick or treaters. Each year the two of you had a goal of outdoing the previous year, and so by the time you were a teenager your house was the most visited one in the neighborhood.
It was not only a bonding time for you and her, but it was an escape. A whole day presented as an opportunity. A chance to be someone different, to melt into another identity, explore the possibilities if you weren’t, well you. It had been a life long acquaintance, your inner discomfort, the feeling of never really fitting in anywhere, or with anyone. It had settled in by adulthood, as familiar as an achy knee or bad elbow.
“Hand me the ice, sweetie, trick or treaters are gonna be coming around soon, we need to chill the punch.” She was dressed like the devil, and it seemed wrong, because your grandma, in all her love for Halloween, never wore a costume. It never made sense really, a yard full of horror, her intense love of Halloween, yet she never let herself be someone else. It was as if the version of herself she shared was mask enough.
“Sorry ma, nice costume.”
“What do you mean?” She asks, confused. It’s gone as you turn from the cooler, replaced by her typical skirt and blouse.
“The ice?”
Her voice is distant and your body is unable to move. She’s still standing in front of you, but she’s flickering now, between devil and regular, blank expression on her face.
“What?” You query, confusion clouding your mind.
“ I NEED ICE!” Her voice is wrong now, and then she’s gone and it's dark. It’s cold too. It's a burning cold, and it feels like a frozen hell, but since when does hell smell like onions?
Onions and sweat, something unnameable yet familiar, calling to you. Your mind follows the smell, navigating the cold to lead you out of the darkness. Voices grow closer, warbled in the fog of your mind.
“911?” One whispers.
“No, no- she’s coming back to us, are her eyes open yet?”
“Not yet, did she hit her head?”
“No, thank god I caught her, fucked my hip on the counter though, can I claim workers’ compensation?”
“Sure if the worker's comp consists of the thirteen ones in the tip jar.”
A familiar laugh leads you back through the door, and you’re awake, sort of. Wet rivulets run down your face from where the cold originates, and you blindly reach to wipe them. A hand comes from behind you and pulls your hand away before it can reach its destination.
“Thank god. Leave it, it’s just water from the ice, I’ll get it in a minute.”
You’re sitting on the floor, facing a few equally concerned and disinterested customers sitting at the tables. The few that stare at you remind of the situation you’re in and you attempt to piece together what exactly happened. On either side of your legs there are additional legs, black pants covered in grease and crumbs, a large rip on the leg to your right. Your fingers trace the frays, still turning over the clues in your mind in order to solve the puzzle at hand.
“Do you mind?” The chuckle that comes from behind shakes you, and you attempt to turn, but the world goes with you. “Oh shit!” He steadies you with his free arm, still holding the ice to your forehead with the other. “You need to just rest for a minute, you scared us.”
Oh no, surely not.
“Bucky?” Your hands reach behind you to confirm your fear, fingers tangling in his beard
“Yep, last time I checked.” He shifts, biting your finger, his laughter shaking you as you snatch your hand away. “Still fresh, barely any rigor mortis.”
“Fuck off.” you manage before your attempt to stand fails and you have to accept turning your body to face him as success for now.
“So spicy.” He moves to wipe the water from your forehead, pushing a stray bit of hair back into place. “Now, all better.”
“What happened?” Your head pounds as you speak.
You scoot back to regain some space but he just follows you, scooting until your knees touch. “Why were you holding me on the floor like a weirdo, Bucky? I haven't even known you that long, what are you some kinda pervert?”
He feigns shock, hand to his chest in mock offense. “I beg your pardon, I’ve had the pleasure of your sunny disposition for 21 days, which rounds up to a month thank you kindly. Lucky for you, because anything under three weeks and I would have left you for dead on the floor when you passed out.”
“You’re counting the days? You are a pervert!” You manage to pull yourself up, the metal counter cool against your skin as you struggle.
Two hands find themselves on your hips along with his rebuttal. “ ‘m not a pervert and I’m not counting days! I just have a good memory is all!”
“Where’s the key to the deep freeze then?” Lois chimes in, watching the two of you with an equal mix of concern and enjoyment.
“Not helping, Lois.” He moves to take your hand but you shoo him away. He accepts with a frown, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Come on, I’m taking you to the clinic.”
“I’m fine, Bucky. I’m not your responsibility, I can take care of myself.”
You move towards the door to the kitchen, but he grabs your wrist. Angrily you turn, ready to tell him once again to fuck off, but the look on his face is new, smirk gone, replaced by a look of concern that honestly catches you off guard. “Please, just to get checked out?”
“Fuck, fine! Who’s gonna help Lois?”
“Your medical emergency seemed to be surprisingly well timed, it’s five til 2, we’re closed until dinner. Come on, if you behave and don’t make Murray cry then I’ll buy you a treat. Lois, you owe me ten, I told you I could convince her.”
“Damn blue steel.” Lois mumbles, pulling ten ones from the tip jar.
You manage the short walk to the clinic pretty independently, yet he’s always at your side. Everything has come back to you now, and this is not a visit you necessarily want to share with a coworker you barely know. He’s oblivious to your woes, telling you bits and bobbits about the history of this building, the hauntings of that one, your personal tour guide to the end of a life you already thought was over.
“You think it’s true? I don’t think I could handle being stuck at work for eternity.”
His ability to be carefree regardless of the situation was nauseating, and no, you tell yourself- you weren’t jealous of the ability at all. “Yeah, no, that would mean seeing you for all time.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad, about enough time to get you to smile.” He seems to be weighing the pros and cons as he holds the door open for you.
The clinic is tiny, with pale blue walls, worn white linoleum, and a few chairs covered in sagging brown fabric that may or may not have been another color at one time. It was otherwise clean, the smell of antiseptic filling your nose and making your stomach flip.
When was the last time you had eaten? You couldn’t worry about that right now; if you died within the next ten minutes it would spare you from the future.
“Nora, she needs to get checked out, she passed out at Lois’ and if something happens to her, I’ll have hell to pay.”
You’re handed a clipboard with what feels like an endless amount of paperwork to fill out and he moves to follow you, the chair next to you protesting as he plops down. He leans across you to grab an outdated magazine from the table, completely unbothered by the situation at hand.
“You can go now.” You say, busying yourself with the paperwork. “I’m good from here.”
“Nowhere else I need to be; so until 6 I’m all yours.” He doesn’t even look up from the magazine, stopping only to sniff a perfume sample that likely evaporated in the 90’s. “Yuck, smells like divorce and regret.”
“Bucky, I don’t need you to babysit me, I can go to the doctor by myself, alone, without you.”
“Good to know, I had doubts, glad to know they were unfounded. Oh, a coupon… damn, it’s expired.”
“ For fuck’s sake, whatever.” Defeated, you go back to completing the paperwork, ready to get this over with.
Your wait was thankfully short, and soon you were both sitting in the exam room, windowless and fully encompassed by Bucky’s personality.
“It could have been your blood sugar, you have problems with your blood sugar?”
“It’s not my blood sugar, Bucky.”
“Could have been stress, stress is the silent killer, you know.”
“And yet I’m still here, regrettably.”
“Don’t worry, Murray is the best in the county, he’ll figure it out. I guarantee it.”
“I’m sure he will, Bucky. Can we maybe wait quietly? I feel like shit.”
“Shit, yeah, sorry, I’m just nervous.” His hands are in his hair and he almost looks embarrassed.
What on Earth is going on with him.
You cut your eyes at him, annoyed. “Why are you nervous?”
The door opens before he can answer and you swear you hear him give a sigh of relief.
“Ok you two-” Murray starts.
“No, we are not two, it’s just me.” You cut him off, frustration mounting.
He eyes Bucky but it only earns him a silent shrug, at least he’s being quiet for a change.
“Ok… well, passing out is very common with pregnancy, especially early on.”
There it was, the final thread coming apart.
Murray said more, how much more you’re not sure, but eventually he’s talking to Bucky and then he’s leaving, closing the door behind him.
“You ok?” Bucky asks softly when you finally stand up, gathering your purse and coat. He moves to help you put it on, and you let him, too tired to fight any external battles.
“No Bucky, I’m very much not ok.” The words hit you like a wave, finally admitting them out loud to yourself and to him. It feels entirely too intimate and you wish there was a window to climb out of. The two of you move in silence down the hall and out into the afternoon that in a fitting turn had become surprisingly bitter.
“Did you know?” He asks finally, a softness in his voice that was almost reverent.
“Not until about five seconds before I passed out.”
“Everything will be ok, I promise.” He’s not looking at you, and it seems like he’s talking to himself more than to you. It prompts you to stop, needing his full attention to the matter.
“Bucky, you can’t make a promise like that. You can’t tell me that a mentally unstable single mom working at a diner with a blown up car, no money, and no help is gonna thrive.”
He’s unwavering, him and his fucking toxic positivity. “Watch me, Sunshine. You are gonna be just fine. Now let’s go get baby boy some ice cream.”
He’s already a few steps ahead of you as you throw your hands up, defeated.
“ Fuckin’ Miss Cleo for a coworker, can tell the future and shit. Wait up!”
He slows, allowing you to catch up to him.
“You do know I’m barely pregnant, right? There is no way to know if it’s a girl or a boy.”
“I know. But he is, and he wants cookie dough.”
“How do you know that I’ve been craving cookie dough? You watching me through my windows? YOU ARE A PERVERT!”
“Pervert or not, do you want ice cream or is that a no?”
And that damn smirk is back, but at least he’s serving a purpose, for now.
Halloween is my favorite holiday as well. I never cared much for Christmas, even when I was younger, my mother loved it. Tree had to be up the day after Thanksgiving and all. To me it was just a big build up for a huge letdown.
I definitely like this Bucky, he’s very protective. She’ll have to come around, who could resist him?
Summary: Januarys are meant to bring new possibilities, but this one brings more than you bargained for. February follows along not any kinder and Bucky doesn't exactly help with his constant positivity and inability to leave you alone.
Chapter WC: 1.6k Warnings: Break up, family drama, pregnancy, language, stress, no use of Y/N, down bad Bucky, exhausted reader (she's doing her best, we love her)
Pairing: Cook! Bucky x waitress! reader (eventually)
Summary: I'M SO EXCITED! I love this series so so much! I've been working hard on this all of July and @the-wayward-robot and I feel like we've been on a rollercoaster with these two! I hope you love it as much as we do and don't worry it ends in fluff... in 18 chapters. 😂💕
Masterlist If you would like a tag, just ask let me know!
January was meant to be a fresh start.
It’s whole purpose was new possibilities, waiting at your door step to guide you towards something promising, something new…
Something better.
Yet, here you are not even two weeks in and your world is unraveling. Pulling apart at the very seams of reality. These aren’t endings you're meant to anticipate, dissolutions of families, futures, dreams.
They aren’t meant to happen, but especially not on Saturdays, nestled in the false safety of a winter afternoon. How can your whole world upheave with fresh snow on the ground and the smell of chili in the air?
First it had been your grandparents, who had raised you, cutting you off. No explanation, no reason shared. Just an unanswered call to your grandma, which itself was out of the ordinary, followed by a curt text.
You need to be out of the house in a week. We’re putting it up for sale.
Your repeated calls and texts were ignored before becoming blocked within the hour. 11 am was too early for something so heavy. Your grandpa had been in the hospital and they had been fighting on and off with your mom so you chalked it up to their stress.
“Hey babe.”
The sound of your boyfriend opening the back door pulls you from your tumultuous thoughts, and you rise to give him a kiss.
He steps back, putting space between you before you can connect.
“ We need to talk, I brought in the mail.” He drops a stack of envelopes on the counter before taking a seat at the table. “I’ve been thinking, I know you were saying you wanted to get married-”
“Jay, you took me ring shopping last week, what are you talking about?”
A sinking realization washes over you that this Saturday is about to get a lot worse.
“ I know, well, I did, but I just don’t know, I don’t know if I’m ready, if I want, well I do want to someday, I just don’t know if I want to w-” his words catch as he realizes what he’s almost said. He looks at his shoes sheepishly, avoiding the reality of his words washing over you.
“And it took you four whole years to realize this, did it?” The few intact pieces of your heart shattering as the words tumble from your lips. “You realized this after damn near planning a wedding, a future- a family. You promised me you wouldn’t hurt me… you promised.”
“Listen, babe, I honestly don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t do it, I can’t do this,” It’s said with a vague gesture around the kitchen “anymore, I just wanna be done. I don’t want to play house anymore.”
His confession stings nearly as much as the tears in your eyes, but you have never been one to allow others the privilege of experiencing your hurt, so you harden as you meet his eyes.
“Fine, I’m leaving anyway. I’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“Gone, where are you going? I didn’t mean for you to leave.” He reaches for your hand, flinching slightly at your recoil.
“Don’t worry about it, you can leave. We’re done and you won’t ever have to concern yourself with me again. I wouldn’t want to burden you with the weight of my wellbeing.”
“ Babe, Im-”
“Just go, please. Today has been too much and I just want to lay down.”
He stands, awkwardly avoiding your eyes as he attempts to free the house key from the ring. It clinks with finality on the table as he turns, braving one last look. He reaches for your hand but thinks better of it, turning instead with a sigh before letting himself out and closing the door behind him.
“What the fuck even is today?”
The quiet house that used to be home has no response. There’s not really a playbook that explains how to handle the entirety of your life caving in within a single day, so you busy yourself by tidying your already clean kitchen, sorting through the mail Jay had brought in. It was mostly junk, except for one very official looking letter.
An eviction notice.
So much for happiness and snow covered safety, apparently the only promise this month held for you was that if you were to make it through to the next you had a very small window to escape. Leave all you had known behind and go. Put as much distance between the dead version of your life and scrape out a new existence for yourself somewhere far from the scars left here.
And so, that’s what you did.
You packed a single suitcase, left the rest, fueled up your car and you drove. No plan, sleeping when you had to, eating even less. You drove across hundreds of miles of flat open road, leaving you feeling raw and exposed, the snowy fields seemingly as neverending as your sadness.
Finally, unsure of the day and exactly where you were, you stopped. A mix of exhaustion and car trouble forcing your hand. It wasn’t the worst place to land, mountains rising around you, the Earth itself seeming to offer you a consoling hug. The town seemed as tired as you felt, a bit broken around the edges, simultaneously defeated yet determined to survive, if only for spite.
“You know, it helps if you actually take the food to the customers instead of just staring at it, that little ding when I ring the bell means it’s ready, it’s a kind of a universally understood meaning.”
When you break from your memories he’s leaned into the serving window, head resting on his folded arms, wearing that stupid little smile he loves. It’s ever present, alongside his neverending snark. He wears your aggravation like a badge of honor.
“Get fucked, Bucky.” You snap, grabbing the burger and fries from the window, reality crashing over you in a greasy wave.
“I’m tryin’ Sunshine, but Lois is still playing hard to get, breakin’ my heart, the long game she’s playin’.’”
Lois looks up from her seat at the register and shakes her head with a grin. “Son, I told you before; I may be 82 but you couldn’t handle me, bad knees or not.” She goes back to her book before giving him a chance to respond.
“Just take the L Bucky and leave Lois alone. The last thing a woman wants is a man just trying to use her.” His smile drops into a frown as you turn, and you’re pleased by the momentary silence as you move to deliver the food to your table.
“Speak for yourself, honey, I don’t mind being used sometimes.” Lois breaks the silence without even looking up.
His laughter follows you to the table, filling the small diner and grating your raw nerves. “Tell her Lois, I know what women want.”
“Don’t push it, son, this job ain’t got hazard pay, and you’re playing with fire with her, you know that.”
“Don’t worry about me, Lois, I know how to handle my women. I know what I’m doing.”
“ If you say so.” She shakes her head and pulls out her headphones from under the counter. “He really never learns, bless his heart.” With a concerned look back she slips them on and leaves Bucky to his fate.
“Excuse me! First of all I have a name, so use it, and second of all I am noone’s property, and lastly I have no interest in letting you handle anything, so why don’t you just fuck off and actually get an order right for once?”
That stupid smirk is back, and he’s mumbling something under his breath you can’t catch, but he’s clearly pleased with himself.
“I don’t know why you’re always leaning somewhere, wearing that stupid smirk, annoying the fuck out of me, with your stupid voice and your stupid jokes and your stupid hair in your face like you belong in a fucking 90’s sitcom. Just leave me the fuck alone and let me do my stupid job in peace.”
When you stop to catch your breath he’s still smiling, but it’s something different now, softer, and it pisses you off even more.
“Stop looking at me with your stupid face!”
He’s laughing now, truly laughing as he holds his face in his hands, and before you know it you reach through the window and pull his hair.
“ Ow what the fuck! What are you six?” He’s more surprised than angry, hint of a smile still lingering as he continues “ That’s mean even for you. What? Are you on your period today?”
“No! Not that it’s any of your business but I’m not.” You cross your arms in offense, but your mind is doing the math. You in fact were not on your period, nor had you been since December. “What is today?”
“Saturday.” The grin is gone, replaced by confusion.
“No, no, I mean the date, what is the date?”
“The 12th, why?”
“Oh god, are you sure?”
“ I mean I spent most of the morning being depressed about spending Monday night alone, since it’s Valentine’s Day and everything, so yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
Summary: When an injured Dean Winchester shows up at your door, caring for him reignites the feelings you’ve hidden for years. But one forbidden kiss leaves you both torn between guilt, fear and wanting more.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Age gap, Morally questionable relationship, Language, Angst
Word Count: 8931
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You’d gotten used to Bobby’s place being full of noise. But tonight, it was just you. Bobby was somewhere up north with Jodie, knee-deep in some wendigo mess, and he’d trusted you to hold down the fort while they were gone. Not that you minded. You’d grown up surrounded by hunters and danger didn’t scare you the way it once had. But something about tonight felt…off.
Maybe it was the wind scratching at the windows like claws. Or the way your chest ached out of nowhere. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else.
After midnight, a knock came. Or rather a few. One knock, two, then a pause. Then three more, faster.
You grabbed the shotgun from beside the door without thinking. Bobby had trained you better than to open up blind. You didn’t need to check the peephole though. You knew that rhythm. Knew it by heart.
You hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not really. Not face to face. He’d been a ghost slipping in and out of your orbit, always there when you weren’t, always gone when you came home. Like the two of you were on opposite sides of a revolving door.
Your heart stuttered. You hated that it still did that little jolt at the sound of his name in your head.
You opened the door and your breath caught. He looked like hell. Literally. Blood smeared across his jaw. Torn-up flannel clinging to his frame like it was the only thing holding him together. Cuts, deep and ugly ones on his neck and shoulder. One eye was bruised nearly shut. His knuckles were raw. And something in his eyes…
You knew he’d been to Hell months ago. You’d heard the whispers from Bobby, scraps of worry he tried to keep from you. But nothing prepared you for the emptiness you saw staring back at you.
“Hey, kid”, Dean said, like it was any other night. Like he wasn’t bleeding out. You hated when he called you that now.
“You’re hurt”, you said quietly.
Dean blinked. Looked down like he was just now noticing the blood. “S’not bad”.
You raised an eyebrow, lips tugging downward as you glanced over the fresh blood dripping down his arm. “Not bad?”, you repeated, voice flat. “You’re leaving a crime scene on the porch, Dean”.
He huffed something close to a laugh, but it was hollow and breathy. Like it hurt to even pull that much emotion up. His shoulders slouched further. “Bobby around?”, he mumbled, eyes shifting past you into the house, as if he could summon him out of thin air.
“No”, you said, stepping aside so he could come in. “He’s helping Jodie. Wendigo hunt”.
Dean hesitated. Just for a second. The porch light cast a tired shadow across his face, catching the mess on his skin, the haunted tension carved into his expression. Then he sighed and limped past you into the house without another word. You shut the door behind him.
The air felt different the moment he was inside. Thicker somehow. You weren’t sure if it was the smell of blood or the quiet knowledge that you were suddenly alone in a house with Dean Winchester.
He dropped himself down onto the old couch with a grunt, his hand clutching his side. You watched from the hallway, heartbeat in your ears. Dean always carried weight when he walked into a room, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just the blood or the silence or the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. It was the way he looked at you… or didn’t. Like he didn’t quite recognize what he was seeing. Like you weren’t a kid anymore and he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
You moved without a word, grabbing the first aid kit from the hallway closet. You brought it into the living room, kneeling on the rug in front of Dean as you popped the case open. “Shirt off”, you said calm.
Dean arched a brow, but it wasn’t flirtatious, it was tired. Defensive. “You patching me up now?”, he muttered, and for a second his voice dipped into that gruff edge, that instinctive habit he had of teasing to avoid getting looked at too closely.
“Unless you’d rather wait a couple days for Bobby to get back and die of infection on his couch”, you shot back.
He smirked faintly but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then he started unbuttoning what was left of his flannel slowly, his fingers stiff and trembling slightly. You tried not to watch the way the fabric peeled back from his skin, revealing the bruises blooming across his ribs, the slices and scrapes that hadn’t yet scabbed over. But it was hard not to look. Not because of the injuries, but because it was him.
There had always been something about Dean that made your chest ache, even when you were a teenager stealing glances from behind Bobby’s bookshelves. But now… Now it was worse.
He caught your eye for a second as you soaked a cloth in antiseptic. Just a second. But then the cloth touched his skin and he hissed under his breath, eyes flickering shut. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered.
“You’ve had worse”, you said softly.
His lips twitched. “Doesn’t mean it tickles”.
You worked in silence for a few minutes, wiping blood away and cleaning the cuts. His breathing stayed shallow, jaw clenched every time you got too close to a deep one. You were careful but not gentle. Something about treating him like he’d break felt wrong. Dean Winchester didn’t break.
But god, he looked like he already had.
“You look like you got hit by a semi”, you said, breaking the quiet.
“Kinda did”, he replied, staring up at the ceiling. “Demon was wearing a meat suit twice my size. Fast, too”.
“And you went in solo”, you guessed, voice low.
Dean didn’t answer right away.
“I’m fine”, he said instead, which meant he wasn’t. Not even close.
You leaned back on your heels for a second, staring at him. “You know”, you said, “Bobby would kill you for pulling a stunt like that. Sam, too”.
Dean’s eyes flicked toward you again. There was something in them that wasn’t there before. A flicker of guilt.
“Didn’t mean to show up on your watch”, he said after a long pause.
You looked down at the needle in your hand, thread already looped and waiting, and muttered, barely loud enough for the room to hear: “Yeah. You usually don’t anymore”.
The words slipped out quieter than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. They hung there for a beat. And Dean heard them. You felt it in the shift of his posture and the way his jaw tensed. He sighed. It was soft, ragged around the edges.
You thought maybe he was going to say something. Maybe even apologize. But… no.
“Hold still”, you murmured, scooting in closer as you positioned yourself to start stitching the deep gash across his lower abdomen. It had split open badly, needed to be done right.
You leaned in, forearms resting lightly across his thighs to steady your angle as you worked.
Dean went still. Ridiculously still.
Your hands moved automatically, focused on closing the wound, but you heard his breath hitched for just a second. Your brow furrowed without looking up.
“You okay?”, you asked, almost absentmindedly, not catching what you’d just done to him.
Dean cleared his throat.
“Peachy”, he said, voice tighter now. Rougher.
He was trying to sound normal. Like nothing was going on. Like your arms weren’t pressed across the very place he was trying not to react to.
You didn’t notice. You were too focused on the wound, the needle, the way your hands moved like Bobby had taught you. You didn’t feel the shift in his body under you, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. You didn’t catch the flicker in his expression, like he was trying to think about literally anything else except where you were touching him.
Dean Winchester had taken on hellhounds without flinching. But this? This was different.
Because it was you. The little girl who used to trail behind him and Sam with dirt on your cheeks and questions on your tongue.
Except… you weren’t a little girl anymore.
And maybe that had been easier to forget when you were always gone, when you weren’t sitting between his legs, pressing your body against his while threading a needle through his skin like it was nothing.
He grunted when the stitch tugged a little too hard. You looked up quickly.
“Sorry”, you said softly, eyes meeting his.
His lips parted like he was going to say something again, but no sound came out. There was a moment.
Then Dean leaned back and turned his head slightly, jaw ticking.
“So”, he said, voice gruff again. “How long’s Bobby gone for?”.
You blinked at the sudden topic shift but rolled with it.
“Couple more days, maybe three”, you replied, tying off the final stitch. “Depends how messy it gets”.
Dean nodded, still not looking at you.
You leaned back, finally finished. The wound was clean, sealed neatly.
“There”, you said quietly. “Try not to rip it open again. Though I guess that’d be one way to get Bobby back faster”.
Dean chuckled dry. Still not meeting your eyes.
“Guess I’ve got a habit of crashing the party”.
You stood, collecting the bloodied gauze and used needle.
“Yeah”, you said under your breath, “you do”.
-
You finished cleaning up in the kitchen while Dean stayed on the couch, half-dozing, half-hovering between exhaustion and whatever darkness still clawed at the edges of his mind.
You’d made him a sandwich and left it on the coffee table in front of him. He hadn’t said thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes when you set it down, soft and too guarded to be grateful out loud, was more than enough.
“You should sleep”, you said, pulling a clean blanket from the hallway closet. “You look like hell”.
Dean quirked a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.
You tossed the blanket over him anyway, tucking it loosely around his middle like Bobby used to do when you were kids and maybe your fingers lingered a little longer than they should’ve against his chest.
He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even blink. Just watched you, unreadable.
“Night, Dean”, you murmured, turning to go.
“Night, kid”.
That word again. Kid. But his voice cracked on it this time, just a little.
-
It was sometime after 3 a.m. when his voice woke you.
“No, no—don’t—don’t—”.
You sat bolt upright, heart thudding before you slipped from bed without thinking. The hallway was dark, but you didn’t need light. You knew this house blind.
The sounds got louder as you neared the living room. Thrashing fabric, harsh gasps, a guttural noise that made your skin crawl.
He was dreaming. No, not dreaming. Trapped.
You stood in the doorway for half a second, watching the way his body writhed beneath the blanket. Sweat soaked his hairline. His lips moved fast, too fast, whispering something you couldn’t make out.
“Stop—please—no more—”.
You crossed the room in a blink, crouching beside the couch.
“Dean”, you whispered, hand brushing his shoulder. “Dean, wake up. You’re dreaming—”.
He jolted upright with a strangled gasp, eyes wild and chest heaving.
For a second he didn’t see you. His gaze was distant, feral. Somewhere else. Somewhere far worse than here.
You froze, your fingers still resting on his bare skin where the blanket had slipped low. Then, slowly, his eyes found you. Focused.
“Y/N”, he rasped, voice hoarse. His breath hitched again.
“I’m here”, you whispered, gently pushing some damp hair from his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me”.
Dean looked like he might collapse in on himself.
You sat down beside him without asking. Just close enough that your knee brushed his. The room was cold, but his skin burned like a fever.
“I didn’t mean to—”, he started, then stopped. His voice broke. “Didn’t mean to wake you”.
“You didn’t”, you lied quietly. “It’s fine”.
He went silent again.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The tremble in his fingers. The way he looked like he’d rather die than let you see him like this. But you saw him anyway. And you didn’t flinch.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”, you asked, softer than before.
He shook his head.
You nodded. You expected that.
You swallowed before speaking again, voice barely more than a breath.
“Want me to stay?”.
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor. But it didn’t mean what it usually meant.
Dean had a way of saying no without saying go away. A way of pushing people out while screaming silently for someone — anyone — to just stay put. You’d grown up around him long enough to know the difference. He wasn’t turning you away. He just didn’t know how to ask.
So you didn’t move. Didn’t press. You just leaned back against the couch beside him, pulling your legs up under you, the edge of the blanket brushing your bare thighs. You crossed your arms loosely over your chest. Your presence wasn’t loud. It didn’t try to fix anything. It just was. That’s all he needed.
Eventually, Dean let out a breath. His shoulders slumped like something heavy had loosened inside him, just slightly.
“You don’t gotta—”, he began, then trailed off. “Stay, I mean. I’m not… good company”.
You glanced over at him, watching his profile. The flicker in his jaw. The tension in his hands.
You could’ve said a thousand things. You’re wrong. I want to. You don’t have to do this alone. But none of those would’ve worked on Dean. He didn’t respond to comfort. He responded to truth. So you just said: “I know”.
His head dipped slightly, almost like a nod. Or maybe he just couldn’t hold it up anymore.
Another minute passed. The house was still again. Silent.
Then he shifted and leaned back against the couch, closer to you than before. His thigh brushed yours. His shoulder hovered just near enough that you could feel the heat of his skin radiating between you like a pulse.
“I was back there”, he murmured after a long moment. “In the dream”.
Your chest tightened.
He hadn’t talked about Hell. Bobby had warned you never to ask. Said it wasn’t something Dean could put into words, not really. But here he was. Cracked open. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let him say what he needed.
Dean swallowed hard, eyes locked ahead, unfocused.
“It doesn’t ever go quiet in there. You think it will. That maybe the screaming gets dull after a while, or you go numb. But you don’t. You never do”.
He shook his head, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to fall apart again.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Dean beat you to it.
“Never mind”, he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget it”.
He sat a little straighter again, like whatever had just slipped out was already regretted. Like letting you see it, see him, had been a mistake. Classic Dean.
You knew the pattern. Offer just enough to taste vulnerability, then rip it away before anyone could really see him bleed.
But you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t let him.
“Too late”, you said softly.
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so bitter.
Then he looked over at you and for a moment, his eyes were unreadable. Like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to apologize or crawl out of his own skin.
“Didn’t mean to… unload”, he said.
You smiled faintly, tilting your head just enough to catch his eye.
“You always say that when you actually need to”, you replied gently.
He scoffed, eyes flicking away again. “That obvious, huh?”.
“Only to someone who’s been studying your grumpy ass since I was seven”.
That earned you the smallest twitch of his mouth. You leaned back against the couch cushion, still close, still steady, nudging his thigh lightly with your knee.
“And don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t stay up because you’re special”, you teased, eyes narrowing just a little, mock-serious. “I just didn’t trust you not to bleed all over our couch in your sleep”.
Dean chuckled.
There it was. That tiny crack in the armor.
“You always had a mouth on you”, he muttered.
“And you always needed someone to keep yours in check”, you fired back with a small shrug. “Balance”.
He looked at you again. This time longer. Something flickered in his expression. A memory, maybe. Or a thousand. You and him, always side by side in the back of Bobby’s yard. Shooting cans off fences. Researching hunts. Falling asleep on each other during movie nights no one remembered the ending to.
You’d always had his back. Even when you were too small to be useful. Even when you had no business standing between him and danger. Especially then.
“You haven’t changed”, Dean said suddenly, voice low.
You raised a brow. “Thanks? Or…?”.
He smiled, but there was something sad in it.
“Still trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed”.
You paused at that, the tease in your chest faltering for a moment.
“I’m not trying to fix you, Dean”.
He looked skeptical.
“I’m not”, you repeated, softer this time. “I just… I don’t like watching you carry this alone. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids”.
Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. You weren’t sure if he couldn’t, or just didn’t know how. So you pressed on, gently.
“Remember that black dog hunt? In Ohio? You and Sam were all banged up, and I brought you gas station burritos and patched up your hand with duct tape?”.
Dean huffed again, this time with more amusement. “Yeah. And then you passed out on the motel floor with a machete under your pillow”.
You shrugged. “Well, someone had to keep you in line”.
He shook his head slowly, but the weight in his shoulders had eased. He looked at you again, and the way his eyes lingered made your stomach flutter, just once, before you crushed it down.
It was the kind of look that felt too long for a friend. Too familiar for a stranger. Too old to be new.
But not quite enough to be spoken out loud.
“Try to get some sleep,” you murmured, glancing down at the quiet tangle of your fingers still resting beside his on the couch. “I’ll be right here”.
-
The next morning, when you padded into the kitchen, it was like none of last night had happened.
Dean stood at the stove, one hand curled around a mug, the other flipping a slice of bacon in the pan. The radio was playing low in the background. And Dean? He was humming.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spilled pieces of Hell across your lap at 3 a.m.
Like he hadn’t fallen asleep with your hand in his, breathing like it was the first real breath he’d taken in months.
You blinked, disoriented.
“Morning”, he said when he saw you. Easy. Light. The corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to look familiar. “Hope you’re hungry. Bacon’s not bad for expired meat”.
You leaned on the doorway, arms crossed.
“Dean”, you said slowly, voice still thick with sleep, “you hate cooking”.
“Desperate times”, he replied, flashing you a grin. “Figured I owe you one for playing nurse last night”.
Your stomach twisted at the way he said them. So casual. Dismissive. Like that was all it had been. A scratch on the surface. A favor. Not the moment it really was.
You watched him for a second longer, then moved to the counter, grabbing a mug from the rack.
“You okay?”, you asked carefully.
Dean took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Peachy”.
Peachy. The same word he’d used the night before when he was bleeding and shaking and couldn’t meet your eyes.
You let out a quiet breath and poured your coffee. The silence between you felt different now. Not the soft, safe kind from last night. This one had edges. Walls.
“You slept okay?”, you asked, still trying.
“Like a rock”, he said, leaning back against the counter, sipping his coffee like it was any other morning. “Couch wasn’t as bad as I remembered”.
Liar.
You knew he’d woken up at least twice after you’d gone back to your room. You’d heard him pacing. Heard the floorboards creak beneath him.
Dean Winchester, master of the emotional vanishing act.
You sat down at the table, watching him move like it was all fine, like he wasn’t wearing a fresh layer of armor.
“Cool”, you said, trying to match his tone. “Good to know Hell-flashbacks come with breakfast now”.
Dean stilled, just a fraction. His hand tightened around the mug before he turned back to the bacon.
“Told you not to worry about that”, he muttered.
“You didn’t tell me anything, Dean”, you replied, your voice calm, but firm. “You just shook your head and looked away”.
He didn’t respond.
You let the silence stretch this time, let it thrum with everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he’d dumped into your hands and was now pretending didn’t exist.
Dean moved stiffly, plating the bacon and toast like it was a mission. He set it on the table in front of you with a half-smirk.
“Eat up. Wouldn’t want Bobby to think I let you starve”.
You stared at the plate. Then up at him. And something in you tightened, frustration, maybe. Or that familiar ache that always came when Dean pretended too hard. When he built a wall and painted it to look like a smile.
You wanted to dig. Just gently. Just enough to find the thread again, the one he’d let you hold last night. But before you could open your mouth—
“I don’t wanna talk about it”, Dean cut in, tone low but pointed.
You blinked. “Didn’t realize I started talking about it”, you said, voice dry as you reached for your fork. “God forbid I speak in your general direction”.
Dean shot you a look over his mug. “Don’t start, Y/N”.
“Not starting”, you said sweetly. “Just sitting here, enjoying my ‘thank-you-for-saving-my-life’ breakfast in total silence like you clearly prefer”.
He exhaled through his nose, biting back a comment, while your eyes dropped to the front of his shirt. Your stomach flipped.
“Dean”.
“What?”.
“You’re bleeding”.
He glanced down, frowning like he hadn’t even noticed. Maybe he hadn’t. A stain was blooming beneath the fresh stitches on his stomach.
“Son of a bitch”, he muttered under his breath, pulling the hem of his shirt up to check the damage.
“Yeah, you think?”, you snapped, pushing back from the table.
“Don´t make a thing out of it.”
“Oh, right. God forbid anyone makes a thing out of you bleeding out”, you snapped again, already heading to grab the first aid kit. “Next time just say, ‘Hey Y/N, don’t mind the pool of blood I’m casually leaking all over your floor, I’m just emotionally repressed and physically incapable of asking for help.’ That cool?”.
“I said don’t start”, Dean growled, voice hardening.
“And I said shut the hell up and sit down before you rip open the rest of your gut”, you snapped right back, rounding the corner with the kit in hand.
Dean paused. Then sat. Muttering something under his breath that sounded like “Bossy little brat”.
You heard it.
“You’re lucky I’m nice”, you said, dropping to your knees in front of him once more, yanking the kit open. “Otherwise I’d accidentally stitch your stupid mouth shut too”.
Dean huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifted his shirt without comment.
And just like that, despite the sarcasm, the snark, the deflection, there it was again. That closeness. That pulse between you.
The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched. Barely. More reflex than anything. But you felt it.
“You should’ve said something”, you murmured, voice softer now.
Dean didn’t answer. Just watched you as you peeled the gauze back gently, inspecting the damage.
“You can let me take care of you, you know”, you added, quieter. “It doesn’t make you weak”.
He didn´t answer. He just leaned back against the kitchen chair, shirt rucked up and bunched just below his chest, exposing the damage of a few reopened stitches and darkening bruises.
You tried to focus as you cleaned the area. But up close like this, it was hard to focus on anything but him.
His stomach was solid, soft in some places, firm in others. All strength built from years of fighting, layered with old scars and fresh damage.
You swallowed, trying not to look at the way the ridges of his lower abs dipped just under the waistband of his jeans, or the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath them. You focused on the wound. The thread. The way your fingers moved, careful and clean, steady even as your heartbeat kicked up like a war drum.
His skin was warm under your touch. Damp from the fever, but not hot enough to worry you. The bruise across his ribs had darkened overnight, blooming sickly purple and green. You traced the edge of it with feather-light fingers before wiping the area clean again.
Dean hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry”, you murmured.
“’s alright”, he muttered. “You’ve got soft hands. Doesn’t even hurt that bad”.
You tried to roll your eyes, but your stomach flipped instead.
You dipped your head, hiding your face as you reached for the needle. But that just made you realize, thst the hem of your sleep shirt had crept up, brushing high across your hips. You hadn’t changed out of your nightwear. Your shorts were too small, your legs bare and now you were kneeling between Dean Winchester’s legs, with your face not even a foot from his very exposed stomach.
You froze, needle paused mid-air, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of the smell of his skin, the heat rolling off his body, the sound of his breath as it hitched slightly.
Your face flushed hot. Pink bloomed across your cheeks like wildfire and you cursed yourself silently, trying to will it away. Don’t let him notice. Don’t let him see you turning into a puddle because he exists.
Your fingers worked the thread carefully, closing the split stitch along the lower edge of the wound. You could feel his breath catch just once when your knuckles grazed lower, almost too low.
You didn’t mean to look up. But you did. And he was already watching you.
The air between you tightened.
You blinked first, focusing hard on the last stitch, breathing slow, trying not to think about how his skin felt under your palm, or the way your thighs were starting to tremble.
“Alright”, you said quietly, finishing the last knot. “That should hold. But you have to stop acting like you’re invincible”.
Dean didn’t move. Didn’t answer for a second.
Then, softer than before:
“You used to patch up my hand with duct tape and a juice box straw. When the hell’d you get this good?”.
You smiled, small, but real, still not meeting his eyes.
“I grew up, Dean".
Silence.
You could feel him looking at you again. Really looking. Like he hadn’t noticed before. Like he did now. But he said nothing. And neither did you.
-
Dean spent most of the day out in the yard with the Impala.
You watched from the window for a while the November’s chill seeping through the old walls of Bobby’s house. You could barely feel your toes. And Dean?
Out there in nothing but a flannel jacket and his stubborn pride.
Rain had started around noon. The Impala’s hood had been open since morning, tools spread out like surgical instruments on the workbench. That engine didn’t need another tune-up. Dean had already fixed it three times over. But he didn’t know what else to do.
Sam hadn’t been around for weeks. Dean had told him to give him space. And Bobby? He was still a full day and a half away, out on some supply run or small-town salt-and-burn, promising to check in when he could.
So that left just you.
And the car.
And the quiet.
Dean didn’t come in for lunch. Or the coffee you left by the back door. You didn’t push. If he needed space, he’d take it. He always had.
It was nearly seven when you finally heard the back door creak open.
You were on the couch, a book in your lap that you’d reread the same paragraph of at least eight times. The rain tapped on the windows. The room smelled like old paper, gun oil, and the cinnamon tea you’d made an hour ago and forgotten.
Dean stepped inside, dripping rainwater, boots heavy on the floorboards. His jacket was soaked, hair damp, but he didn’t look cold. Just tired. Like the day had taken something out of him he hadn’t known he was holding.
He didn’t say anything at first. You looked up from your book, watching him with the same quiet curiosity you always had. Waiting to see if he'd open the door, or keep it locked.
Then, casually, like it didn’t matter, he cleared his throat.
“You hungry?”.
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Why?”.
Dean shrugged one shoulder, too nonchalant. “Thinking about a drive. Town over’s got that crappy little burger joint. Fries so salty they’ll kill your arteries before the demon ever gets the chance”.
You blinked, a beat passing before you caught on.
“You’re inviting me?”.
Dean glanced away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“You don’t eat enough. And I’m bored”, he muttered.
You bit back your smile, letting it tug at the corner of your mouth instead.
“You sure this isn’t just a cry for help disguised as a cheeseburger run?”.
He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.
“Don’t make me regret it, kid”.
You stood, tugging on your hoodie and stepping into your boots by the door.
“Fine”, you said, grabbing the car keys from the bowl by the shelf before tossing them lightly in his direction. “But I get to pick the music”.
Dean caught the keys one-handed, flashing a tired smirk.
“In your dreams”.
-
The Impala roared to life beneath you. Rain streaked across the windshield and the heater kicked on just enough to start fogging the windows.
Dean adjusted the dial on the radio, flipping through a few static-heavy stations before settling on Zeppelin. His fingers tapped absently against the wheel, but his eyes stayed on the road.
You leaned your head against the cool glass, eyes watching the blur of trees and dark wet highway, then glanced sideways at him. The streetlights cast gold across his face in flashes — jawline sharp, hair still damp, lips set in that half-smirk he wore even when he wasn’t trying.
It was easy to remember younger Dean in moments like this. Softer around the edges. Less broken. Still that same fierce protector, though, always between you and the world like a damn wall.
“You remember that trip to Tulsa?”, you said suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Dean shot you a glance. “The one where you snuck six candy bars into the back seat and threw up on my boots?”.
You grinned. “That’s the one”.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You were, like, what? Eleven?”.
“Ten”, you corrected. “And you didn’t have to wear those boots”.
“I had one pair!”, he groaned. “And I spent the next two hours trying to scrub out chocolate puke with windshield washer fluid because Bobby didn’t pack wet wipes”.
You laughed, full-bodied and warm, and for a second, the cold November air felt like summer again.
Dean glanced over at you, smile softer now. Real.
“You were always around”, he said after a beat, quieter. “Little shadow. Every time I turned around, there you were”.
You shrugged, pretending to be casual. “You were cool. Later you had the car. The music. Knew how to shoot salt rounds and drive before you could legally drink. I wanted to be you”.
Dean snorted. “Bad role model, kid”.
“Best one I ever had”.
That earned you a glance. Something flickered in his eyes, something closer to gratitude, or maybe guilt. Like he didn’t believe he deserved the words, but he held onto them anyway.
You turned your head back toward the window.
“Still remember the first time you treated me like a grown-up”, you said lightly, but your smile grew.
Dean raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”.
“Yeah. I got my first period, and you were the only one home”.
He groaned immediately. “Oh hell. Don’t”.
You laughed. “I was twelve! It was summer. Bobby was on a hunt, Sam was gone, and I swear you thought I was dying”.
“I did think you were dying!”, Dean exclaimed, trying not to smile. “You came outta the bathroom pale as a ghost, holding a bloody towel, and I thought something ripped you open”.
You clutched your stomach, laughing harder now. “You panicked! You made me lie down, brought me a bottle of Jack for the pain, and then locked yourself in the kitchen, trying to find out how to stop internal bleeding”.
Dean was red now. “In my defense, nobody told me you were old enough for that crap!”.
“I had boobs by then, Dean!”.
He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.
“I’m telling you, I was not qualified. I didn’t even know where Bobby kept the damn diapers. I ended up giving you gauze and saying ‘just… tape it, I guess?’”.
You were crying from laughter now, doubled over in the passenger seat, tears streaking down your cheeks.
Dean was laughing now too, full and breathless, hands tight on the wheel just to stay steady.
“I was nineteen, Y/N!”, he wheezed. “I’d killed werewolves by then but nothing, nothing, prepared me for that bathroom horror show”.
The two of you dissolved into a mix of laughter and wheezing silence, the Impala rolling through the wet night as your shared history played like a slideshow between headlights.
And then, just as the laughter quieted, a silence settled between you. A gentle one.
You turned your head again, watching his profile in the dark.
“You did good, Dean”, you said softly. “You always did”.
-
Dean wouldn’t let you eat in the Impala. Of course he wouldn’t. You could bleed on the upholstery, pass out half-dead in the backseat, or stash a cursed dagger under the floorboards, but get one drop of ketchup on the leather? Armageddon.
So he parked under the old bridge outside town, rain hammering heavy as the two of you unwrapped greasy bags of food, steam rising into the cold air.
You sat side by side on the hood, wrapped in your too-thin hoodie, sharing fries from a crumpled paper boat balanced between you. The bridge above gave you just enough shelter to stay dry, but the mist still clung to everything.
Dean, naturally, didn’t seem to feel the cold.
He took a bite of his burger, leaned back on one elbow, and let the silence stretch.
You glanced over, watching the curve of his jaw flex as he chewed. He looked tired again. But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.
You nudged his boot with yours.
“You’re quiet”.
Dean shrugged, eyes still fixed out on the dark stretch of road beyond the bridge.
“Just thinking”.
You took a sip of your soda. “Dangerous”.
That earned you the barest curve of his mouth.
Another beat passed. You expected him to make a crack, something about the food or the weather or your taste in music. But instead, without looking at you, he said: “So, uh… you thinking about college?”.
You blinked, thrown.
“What?”.
He finally looked at you, burger paused halfway to his mouth. “College. You know. Books. Parties. Whatever else kids your age are supposed to be doing”.
“I’m not a kid”.
“No, you’re not”, he said quietly.
You looked down at your lap, where your fingers were slowly unwrapping the edge of a napkin without realizing it.
“Why are you asking?”, you said, trying to keep it light.
Dean shrugged again, a little too casual, a little too careless.
“Just… figured you might want out, someday. You know. Normal life. Dating. Classes. Getting drunk on cheap beer and regretting it like everyone else your age”.
You stared at him for a second. It wasn’t just a question. Not from Dean. It never was.
“You mean getting out”, you said softly. “Out of this life”.
He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
You leaned back beside him.
“I used to think about it”, you said. “Back when I was younger. The normal life. Parties. Boys who didn’t carry switchblades in their pockets”.
Dean huffed a laugh. “Bet that didn’t last long”.
“Nope”, you smirked. “Got over it fast. Turns out I like this life better”.
You were quiet for a while.
But eventually you mumbled: “I missed you”.
You didn’t mean for it to come out that soft, almost like a secret. But it was the truth. Raw and real and sitting in the middle of your ribs for the last year.
Dean didn’t move at first.
“I mean…”, you added quickly, trying to smooth over the sudden weight of it. “You were always gone. And when you weren’t, I was. Felt like the door was always swinging, just never at the same time”.
He nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon, jaw clenched. You couldn’t tell if he was mad, or trying not to feel something else.
“Yeah”, he said. Almost too low to hear. “I noticed”.
He shifted a little, turning his head toward you. The rain had slowed to a mist, fog curling under the bridge like breath. You could barely make out his expression in the dark, but you didn’t have to see his eyes to feel them on you.
“I didn’t do it on purpose”, Dean said finally. “Staying gone”.
You nodded. “I know”.
“After I got back… it just… everything felt off. Like I didn’t know where I was supposed to be anymore”.
You looked at him, heart thudding.
“You were supposed to be here”, you said quietly. “You always were”.
He looked at you for a long time. You didn’t look away.
And then, slowly, he reached for the paper boat between you and plucked a fry, flicking it at your shoulder.
You gasped. “Did you just throw food at me?”.
Dean smirked, that cocky little half-smile finally creeping in. “Gotta break the tension somehow”.
You scoffed, grabbing a fry and launching it right back at him.
He caught it midair. Show-off.
And for a second, things felt like they used to. Simple. Safe.
Before the nightmares.
Before Hell.
Before you both grew up too fast.
And yet… underneath the playfulness, something unspoken still curled between your ribs.
You missed him. You still did. Even when he was sitting right beside you.
-
Dean had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The drive-thru bags were empty now, crumpled and tossed into the backseat, forgotten.
Your legs were pulled up on the seat, socked feet resting on the dash, much to Dean’s unspoken annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. He let you.
The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore. Not like before. It was the kind of silence that knew you. You watched the road for a while. Then him.
The soft set of his jaw. The way his fingers tapped idly on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. His profile lit now and then by street lamps, flickering gold across his cheekbone, the scar near his chin catching the light.
“You always looked like a grown-up to me”, you said quietly, surprising even yourself.
Dean glanced at you, one brow raised.
You shrugged, looking back out the window.
“When I was a kid. You were nineteen, twenty. But you felt older. Like you knew what you were doing”.
He laughed softly. “Yeah, well. Joke’s on you. I didn’t have a damn clue”.
You smiled at that. “Still seemed like it”.
“You were just small”, he said, glancing over again. “Everything probably looked bigger”.
You shook your head, resting your chin on your knee now. “No… it wasn’t just that”.
Dean was quiet again, eyes on the road.
“It wasn’t fair, though”, you added, after a pause. “You didn’t get to be a kid. Not really”.
His jaw tightened at that, just slightly. You hadn’t meant it to be heavy, but it was.
“I didn’t mind. Someone had to look out for Sammy. For you”.
“You still do”.
He nodded once, eyes still forward.
“That’s the problem”.
You turned your head at that, watching him in profile.
“Why is that a problem?”.
He didn’t look at you. Just kept driving.
“Because sometimes I don’t know who I am outside of that”.
“You’re still you, Dean”, you said softly. “Even when you’re not protecting someone”.
He didn’t answer. But he blinked slowly, like maybe your words hit a part of him he hadn’t been willing to admit needed hearing.
You sat in that quiet a little longer, letting the mist fog the edges of the windshield.
Then, gently: “I used to pretend I was part of your team”, you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Back when I was a kid. Like I was this little secret Winchester nobody knew about”.
Dean’s eyes flicked toward you, warm. “You were part of the team. Hell, half the time you were the only one with enough brain cells to save our asses”.
You laughed. “You just needed someone to fix your spelling”.
“And keep you from running off to fight things twice your size”, he added, grinning now. “You had a knife that was bigger than your arm. I still have no idea where you got it”.
“I borrowed it from the kitchen”.
Dean shook his head, smiling into the darkness. “Yeah, that tracks”.
You watched him for a second longer, your heart tightening in your chest. Not from pain, but from everything else. From knowing him. From being known by him. From growing up in the shadow of his strength and realizing somewhere along the way, you’d started matching it with your own.
“I missed this”, you whispered.
Dean looked over, gaze soft.
“Me too”.
-
Dean didn’t say anything as you got out of the car, just locked it behind you and walked up the steps with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. You followed silently, your hoodie pulled tight around your body, the scent of wet leaves and grease clinging to your skin.
Inside, the house was quiet. Still warm from earlier, but barely.
“I’m gonna hit the shower”, Dean mumbled, heading for the bathroom without waiting for a response.
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers tracing the rim of your mug from this morning. It was strange, how easily everything had slid back into place, the way you both moved around each other without needing to ask where anything was. Like no time had passed at all.
But it had. So much had.
By the time Dean came back out, your heart was already beating a little faster. Not from nerves. Not entirely. Just from knowing he’d been thinking about you. Asking questions he didn’t want to ask.
And you? You’d never been good at pretending, not with him.
You didn’t say anything, just brushed past him with a small, quiet smile, heading toward the bathroom for your turn under the hot water.
The shower helped. A little. Steam wrapped around your body like fog, easing the ache in your shoulders, washing away the chill of the night. But it didn’t clear your head. It didn’t erase the feel of him beside you on the hood of the Impala. Or the sound of his voice, deeper now.
You found Dean sitting on the couch, feet up, a beer in his hand and another set on the table beside him. The light was dim and his flannel sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, arms resting lazily over the back of the couch.
He held out the second beer without a word. You took it and sat down beside him.
The silence stretched again. You sipped slowly, the bottle cold against your fingertips, and watched the way his thumb rubbed across the edge of the label on his own. It was quiet. Peaceful even.
And then his hand brushed your knee. Accidental, maybe. But he didn’t move it. Neither did you.
You didn’t look at him, couldn’t, but your breath caught all the same. You felt him shift, just slightly, like he was trying to decide something. Like maybe he’d reached the end of pretending.
And then his fingers curled lightly around your knee. So damn warm. Your heart skipped.
You looked over, finally, and he was already watching you. Not in a brotherly way. Not anymore. There was something unspoken in his eyes, but it wasn’t confusion. It was recognition. Like he’d been trying not to see you for a long time. And now he couldn’t stop.
“You cold?”, he asked softly.
His voice was lower now.
You nodded, maybe a little too fast.
Dean shifted again, closer this time, and pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you without a word. His arm stayed behind you now. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand still rested on your knee.
The TV played something muted in the background, neither of you paying attention.
Dean’s palm slid a little, brushing higher over your thigh before he caught himself and stopped, pulling his hand back like the contact burned. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the beer bottle, the TV, anywhere but your face.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye, heart pounding. It was so quiet you could hear the clink of his ring against the glass as his hand tightened around the neck of the bottle. His jaw flexed. He looked guilty, almost, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or something worse.
“Sorry”, he muttered. “Didn’t mean—”.
He didn’t finish, because you both knew he did mean it. Even if he didn’t want to.
You swallowed. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word. Just let your fingers, trembling a little, slide beneath the edge of the blanket so they brushed lightly against his wrist.
Dean let out a shaky breath, not looking at you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
He tried to focus on the TV, on the bottle in his hand, on anything that would ground him back in the world where you were Bobby’s kid, younger than him, someone he was supposed to protect — not crave. But the need to feel something had been burning through him for months, lighting him up from the inside out. Usually he chased it with violence, or whiskey, or sex with strangers in town.
But this wasn’t any of those things.
It was you. And that made it worse.
“Maybe we should…”, Dean started, voice thin, forced casual. “Maybe you should get some sleep”.
You didn’t let go of his wrist.
“Maybe I’m fine right here”, you whispered.
Dean’s gaze dropped. His hand flexed under yours. He looked like he might get up, run, or maybe pull you into his lap and finally let go.
But he didn’t do either.
Instead, he tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.
“You know your dad would kill me if he saw us like this”, he said, still not quite meeting your eyes.
You smiled, soft and sad. “He’s not here”.
Dean’s knuckles brushed your thigh again, this time slower, more deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the feeling, just in case he made himself stop.
For a second, the only sound was the rain outside, tapping against the window, and the quiet, ragged pace of his breathing.
He pressed his forehead to yours, close enough you could smell the beer and the warmth of his skin. “You’re off limits”, he whispered, the words trembling. “You always were”.
Your fingers traced the inside of his wrist, gentle but certain.
“Does it feel that way?”.
Dean shook his head, eyes closing, pain and want written all over his face.
“No”, he said, voice breaking just a little. “Not right now”.
You leaned in, your lips almost brushing his. You waited for him to pull back, to run, to do the right thing.
One moment you were hovering, breaths mixing, your hand cradling Dean’s wrist, the next, his mouth was on yours. Warm, soft and desperate in a way that made the room spin.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. Not really. It was slow, yes, but hungry, all the need and longing and months (years) of not-touching crashing together. Dean tasted like beer and salt, his lips plush but unsteady, a shiver running through him every time you pressed closer.
His hand slid up your thigh, thumb tracing a line so reverent it made your knees weak. You moved instinctively, straddling his lap, legs bracketing his hips, arms curling around his neck. The blanket slipped away, forgotten, pooling at your backs as you melted into him.
Dean moaned softly into your mouth, the sound rough and deep and so damn needy, a sound you’d never heard from him before, a sound that made your skin flush hot. You felt his hands on your back, your waist, your legs. You felt everything. Especially the hard line of him pressing up between your thighs, through jeans and cotton and nothing but want.
You rocked your hips, barely thinking, just chasing the heat of his body and the low, broken sigh he let out against your lips. Dean’s hand slid beneath your sweatshirt, his palm splaying wide over your lower back, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his.
He broke the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking. “Damn it, Sweetheart…”, he whispered, voice ragged, hands trembling as they slid over your bare skin.
You shivered, pressing your nose to his jaw, breathing in the scent of him, the heat. You mouthed at the stubble on his neck, biting gently, desperate to leave a mark, to prove, even if just for a moment, that this was real.
Dean groaned, deep and desperate, rocking up against you, his erection hard beneath you. You whimpered, hips rolling, chasing friction. It was everything, all at once, years of waiting, years of not looking, years of knowing you were off limits but not caring, not now, not when it finally felt like the world could stop.
And then the doorbell rang. The sound was shrill, jarring. You both froze, breathless, lips still almost touching, your body pressed tight to his.
Dean’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen and parted.
Summary: A girls' trip has an all-too-common ending, but Bucky has no time for drama that hurts this girl.
WC: 1.1K Pairing: Bucky x f!reader Warnings: Language, mean girls, feelings of loneliness
A/n: This is definitely just a work of fiction and totally not a real life experience🥹. Don't be a mean girl, it looks bad on everyone.
Friendship has always felt a little tricky to you. It’s not that you were ever really alone, it’s just that you also never really felt like you fit in. As time went by and your teenage years clawed their way into adulthood, a sense of loneliness became your one true and constant companion. It seemed as though a pattern was emerging in adulthood, one where people who called themselves friends only were interested in the title when you served a purpose.
Bucky knows the feeling all too well, and it’s part of what drew you to each other. You both found a shared sense of peace knowing that the other was their ride or die. Comforted by the fact that there was not even an ounce of superficial bullshit in your relationship. He helped you through the bad days just as you helped him. It was the most healing either of you had done in a while.
That being said, it also means that he could read you like a well loved book, able to anticipate all your tattered edges. That little tidbit, while endearing, is not always convenient.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is gruff as he answers your call, already on edge like he knows what’s going on in the cute little beach villa hundreds of miles away from him.
“Hi to you too, handsome.” You giggle, but even you can tell it’s forced.
A silent moment passes, and you know he’s weighing his countermeasures. “Are you safe?”
“Yes, yes I’m safe.” A small, betraying sigh escapes you…maybe he’ll miss it.
Of course he’s trained in nuances, especially yours, and clocks it immediately.
“Spill it, now.” It's the tone he knows you won’t resist, and the fact he’s pulling it out for this lets you know he’s genuinely concerned.
“It’s nothing…” It’s all you manage before your voice hitches, revealing your hand completely.
“I’ll fly you home right now, say the words.”
“No, Bucky. I’m an adult, I can handle a little girl drama. It’s just I’m tired…they said I wasn’t being a good friend. I really clicked with the new girl and they got jealous. They gave me the third degree and I had a panic attack.”
“Excuse me? Who is responsible for that?” His tone is sharp, dangerous.
“It’s fine. I overestimated my worth in this group, so at the very least this was a learning experience. I won’t be going on a girl’s trip again any time soon.”
The silence from the other end makes you nervous because Bucky wasn’t exactly patient in general, but when it came to you all bets were off.
“They also ate my bacon.” You say with a tired laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
“Are you with them?” He asks, as if gathering information for a mission. “Or are you alone?”
“I’m here at the villa by myself. They all went out to get lunch, but I didn’t really feel like it. My feelings were really hurt and I was tired from the panic attack. They said I may be depressed but I could still go out and do things.”
“I love you.” He says it as if it’s a threat to anyone who wrongs you. It gets cut off by the familiar rumble of his motorcycle and you can’t help but feel thankful he’s on his way.
The others come back a little later, moving about inside as if nothing had gone awry, laughing pointedly at inside jokes that had apparently been carefully cultivated over lunch. The solitude of the back patio suits you fine, enjoying the sound of the waves more than the company anyways. Half lost in a thought you jump when a firm and distinct knock sounds at the door.
A bunch of squeals sound off from inside, the one who thinks of herself as the leader moving to check the peephole.
“Oh my god… is that?” She cries, voice openly filled with desire.
“Move, lemme see!” Another whispers, poorly.
“I can hear you all, so I suggest opening the door if you would like your deposit back.” His voice is strained, and you know he’s trying to be civilized, if only for your account.
“Why is he here?” They twitter, proving they haven’t paid attention to anything you’ve ever said.
Finally they open the door, revealing a Bucky who looks more pissed than you had ever seen, even more so than the time that teenager had backed into your car at the mall.
“Where is she?” He seethes, moving inside the doorway with an air that makes them shrink back. It’s a sight to behold from your chair that you’ve turned to watch through the window.
“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong villa we’re-”
“You three are the only ones who made a mistake today. You earned yourself an enemy and I don’t mean her. I’m so much worse.”
“No, surely you don’t mean…”
Four pairs of eyes turn towards you, but there’s only one set you care about. Once he finds you his face softens, a smile pulling at his lips.
“You ready?” He asks, moving past gawking faces.
“Yeah.” You mumble against him as he pulls you into a squeezing hug. “I already packed my bag, I just need to grab it.”
“I’ll get it, just head outside.” You lift a brow, but he motions towards the door with a look that leaves no room for discussion.
“Ok.” You shrug, stealing a kiss before moving through the still gawking group with a pleased smile.
A few moments later he strides out, your bag thrown over his shoulder. He’s shaking his head as he approaches, mumbling to himself as he places it in a sidebag.
“ You know,” He says as he straddles the bike “I thought talking to Sam was taxing, but those women are far worse.”
“Yeah, that’s my bad,” You say, putting on the helmet he hands you. “sometimes the little girl in me gets too excited when someone calls me their friend and my judgement kinda goes screwy.”
“Nothing about this situation is your fault.” He rebuts, tone serious.
“Let’s go home, Bucky.”
“Oh no, we’re not going home… I booked us an even nicer Villa and we’re gonna have the getaway you deserve. I plan on showing you just how happy I am to have you in my life.”
“You’re such a softie.” You sigh, head against his back as the bike rumbles to life beneath you.
“Just for you.” He says, words drowning in the wind.
Summary: When life falls apart you run as far away as you can. When your car breaks down in a tiny mountain town you find that some things, like Bucky Barnes, are inescapable.
Pairing: Bucky x f!reader (eventual) WC: 31k series total Au: Diner worker Bucky
Warnings: Detailed warnings in each chapter. Broad warnings include life like family hurt, pregnancy, slow burn to a happy ending, down real bad Bucky and oblivious reader (I love them both so much even though @the-wayward-robot and I wanted to fight them the entire way😂)
A/n: This thing was therapeutic ya'll! I explored a small bit of my own family hurt (no I still don't understand my family's choices), the way I feel about my inability to have kids (hence fictional pregnancy for my make-believe enjoyment) and more. I love this thing so much, I hope you will as well! It will be an emotional journey, but I will say it ends in fluff to those on the fence about the ride lol.
The series is already fully written so all parts will be posted on Monday and Wednesday evenings starting August 10th!
Summary: Dean wakes up feeling not quite himself... more like you actually, exactly like you.
WC: 2k Pairing: Dean x f!reader (no other details used)
Warnings: Language, spn type monsters mentioned, illusions to really confusing yet intriguing adult activities, no use of y/n...I think that's it!
A/n: This was so fun! It was what everyone voted for on the poll I sent out last week, and I hope everyone enjoys it!
“Man, I told you to stop flirting with every waitress that speaks to you!”
Sam’s voice is a strained whisper as he pulls Dean towards the motel door. They both freeze as it squeaks open, turning with baited breath to see if it causes you to stir. A soft snore greets them, and a relieved sigh escapes them both.
“This ain’t the time for morality lessons, Sammy. We got a serious problem on our hands here. We gotta fix this ‘fore she wakes up! She scares me… like, I love her but I’m not tryin’ deal with the consequences of whatever this is.”
Sam sighs, rubbing his hands over his face as if he can physically remove the exhaustion from within him. He does his best to keep a straight face when his hands lower, knowing from experience egging Dean on in this state benefits no one. Yet the scene unraveling catches him off guard with its absurdity and pulls a laugh so uninhibited from him that it makes Dean jump.
“This funny to you? My whole life turned upside down, and magically Sullen Sam has the giggles of a schoolgirl.” Dean snaps, still watching his reflection in the room window as he explores his face with his hands, shadows falling strangely from the yellowed fluorescent lights above him.
“At least I don’t look like a school girl.” Sam quips, still trying to swallow his laughter. Dean turns with a huff, punching Sam on the arm. “Still hit the same… so does that mean you always hit like a girl…or?”
“Be serious! I’ve gone full Lindsay Lohan early career over here and you just wanna stand around and laugh about it. You remember Reno, Sam… she’s gonna be even more pissed than she was then if she wakes up a man. You know her stance on the patriarchy. Doesn’t matter if it’s one she likes or not, I ain’t hanging around to deal with the backlash of her attitude on testosterone.”
“Really Dean, Freaky Friday?”
But then Sam thinks it over, instinctively rubbing the scar on his left temple. Sure it may have been Dean’s fault, but yet again he would be found guilty by proxy. He shudders, earning a knowing nod of understanding from his brother.
“Fine. Leave her a note and we’ll head back to town to figure out what went wrong. Who did you piss off last night?”
“She doesn’t mind harmless flirting, as long as nothing comes of it. She flirts as much as I do, it’s part of the business, Sammy.”
“I’m not worried about her…yet. I’m worried about the witch or some other kinda monster that you scorned last night with your puppy dog eyes and childhood trauma humor.”
“Man, I’m innocent! I can’t help it if I’m naturally charming. Jealousy is a terrible color on you.”
“Just hurry up, or I’m leaving you here and letting you figure it out yourself.”
“You wouldn’t betray your own brother!”
“You seem more like a sister now anyways.”
It sets Sam to laughing again as Dean sneaks in to leave a note and steal a kiss.
“I don’t know, it’s just weird to kiss yourself good morning, it goes against god.”
“Yeah, and we know first hand how weird he likes his stories.” Sam adds, parking the car outside the twenty four hour diner the three of you had visited last night.
“That’s what I’m saying here, I don’t know what kinda twisted freak finds joy in this.” Dean huffs as he climbs out of the car.
“Your skirt’s stuck in your underwear, dude.” Sam sighs, turning away from the sight.
“Man, don’t be a perv, this shit is already uncomfortable… I see now why she goes on and on about the inherent evilness of bras.”
“Did you have to wear a skirt though?” Sam asks, back still turned.
“My clothes didn’t fit…”
“I didn’t even know she owned a skirt, she’s got a jean collection to rival yours.”
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. I happen to like this skirt on her…uh, me…us? Come on, quit procrastinating, she’s gonna be up soon.”
Sam waits until Dean passes him, heels clacking on the pavement. “She owns heels?”
“Jealousy Sam, jealousy.”
They find a seat at the bar, the small space already packed with what appears to be every member of the community’s male senior citizen population despite the fact sunrise was still an hour away. Sam orders a vegetable omelet and Dean orders The Hog Heaven Deluxe, much to each other’s chagrin.
“Sure can put away a lot of meat for such a pretty thing.” Dean’s neighbor quips. It garners his I will kill you look, but it just makes the old man laugh, sweat jiggling down his forehead.
“Look man, I’m already having a shit day, why don’t you fuck off?” He tries, just wanting to be left alone with his bacon.
“And such language for such delicate lips.” Wrinkled hands reach out to touch his own.
“Ok, you’re asking for it. I’m gonna beat your ass.” Dean seethes as he hops off his stool, heels clicking on the linoleum. Instinctively he reaches for his gun, the soft swish of skirt bringing him back to his current reality.
“Pretty and feisty.” His tormentor says, looking through Dean to Sam. “She with you? Might want to get her some midol, seems like she’s on her period.”
“Ok, time for you to leave.” Sam says, standing up from his stool where he had been watching with a grin.
The stranger assesses Sam and nods, leaving a stack of ones before slinking out the front door.
“Shut it.” Dean warns as Sam turns with a smug grin.
“Ok, everyone that was here when we rolled through a bit ago is still here… all exhausted, but nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. I’m at a loss for this one. I’m afraid we may need the backup she can provide.”
“No way, Sam. We gotta fix it before she wakes up.”
“Ok, let’s go over it again. What happened before you woke me up?”
“I told you, nothing. Woke up to go pee… pissed all over myself and the floor. Looked down to see what the problem was and found…boobies” A small grin spreads across his face despite himself. “And well, then I saw myself in bed and woke you up.”
“And last night?”
“We stopped at this diner a little after midnight, you were there, you bitched about our triple bacon burgers. I don’t even remember seeing a waitress because my eyes were burning so bad from the drive. Then I crashed in bed and woke up a beautiful bouncy baby girl.”
“And the case was a vamp, so that shouldn’t be related…” Sam muses, perplexed.
“It’s what I’m saying, it don’t make sense.”
“You know what we have to do, Dean.”
“I don’t wanna.” He whines, and it makes Sam chuckle, because it looks the same as when you do it.
“Ok, come on Polly Pocket, let’s go wake up a nightmare.” Sam sighs, leaving a tip before he stands.
“Fine, but you wake her up.”
“Why me?” Sam cries in shock.
“I’m literally just a girl, Sammy.”
“Get in the car or I swear to god.” Sam sighs, climbing into the passenger seat.
It’s a silent ride back to the motel, neither one wanting to discuss the fate that lies ahead of them. They arrive with no more information than they left with, no plan on how to handle the situation. Dean leaves Baby idling for a few confidence building minutes, before accepting his fate.
“Ok, here we go.” Dean sighs, checking his reflection in the mirror.
“Really, Dean? Now is the time to be concerned about appearances?”
“When you turn into a pretty girl we’ll discuss priorities, for now zip it.”
They sneak in, Sam first, Dean clicking behind him. They were hoping to get at least another few minutes to construct a plan before you awake. Their plan did not work out in their favor.
“Boys.” You say, seated in the shadows for dramatic affect. It works, because they both jump, and Dean slides between Sam and the wall.
“Listen, we… we tried to fix it, honest…but we couldn’t figure out what caused it.” Sam starts, spilling his words out one atop the other.
Their nervousness makes you smile, you love the fact that the winchesters fear you more than anything else.
“Come here, pretty girl.” You call, ignoring Sam. Dean whines, peeking from behind Sam with your own eyes, big and nervous. “Now.”
He obeys, confused a bit by the dynamic. Usually he has the control, but then you are him now, so why not. His mind is a confusion of emotions and it bleeds onto his face, well your face, and you get to watch him work out his next move in real time.
Sam picks up on the cards Dean is willing to play to stay in your good graces and makes an attempt to shift himself towards the door. However you catch it immediately, cutting off his movement with a glare and slow shake of your head.
“I don’t know what happened.” Dean whines, lowering himself down onto his knees. “I’m sorry.”
“How sorry?” You ask, grabbing him by his chin to lift his eyes to meet yours.
“I mean…” His mind processes what you usually do to him in order to get out of situations like this. But you are him now, at least his body, and he can’t help but frown at the thought of doing that to himself… intriguing, but wasn’t today was weird enough, but then again...
The look he wears cracks your reserve and sends you into a fit of laughter.
“Ok, ok, get up off your knees. Sam peel yourself off the wall. We have work to do… seems like I may have fucked up the Latin last night when I was doing what I thought was some easy work.”
“I told you it wasn’t my fault, Sammy!” Dean yells, relieved, while attempting to jump up from the floor as he normally does. Instead his heels stick in the carpet and his ankles twists, leaving him in a pile on the floor.
“At least you’re pretty.” You say, stepping over him to hand a spell book to Sam.
“Can we maybe fix it tomorrow? Being a chick is kinda growing on me.” Dean asks from the floor. “ Sam, why don’t you go grab us lunch?”
“It’s literally six am, Dean.”
“ Have it your way. Leave or stay, I’m not paying for your therapy for what happens next.” Dean says, standing to grab you and pull you towards the bed.
“I’ll be back at noon.” Sam sighs, heading out the door with haste.
“Bring burgers.” Your voices call after him.
“Come on, pretty girl, let’s see what those lips do.” You manage to say with a mostly straight face.
He shivers. “Don’t say that…it’s just I thought this man at the diner was gonna eat me this morning.”
“I’d kill him.” It’s weird for Dean to hear his words with your ears, but he doesn’t mind it.
“Hey handsome.” He asks, climbing on the mattress and sinking down onto knees and ankles that don’t hurt. His voice seems even more timid since it’s yours. “You know that thing I… fuck, I mean you do…the one you.. I mean I really love?” Soft eyes peer up at you, small grin playing on his lips.
“Oh, that’s rich…that’s what you think I look and sound like when I’m asking for it?” You laugh, but you close the space between you two. It’s not everyday you’re presented with an opportunity like this so why waste it.
A tiny pout, true to him regardless of the body he’s in, appears and you lean in to kiss it away.
“Anything for you sweetheart.” You murmur against your own lips.
Summary: Assigned to manage Soldier Boy, you become the only person who can keep him under control. But as tension turns into dangerous attraction, keeping things professional becomes impossible.
-requested-
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 4154
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The letter sat on your coffee table. Your name and the words “hereby tender my resignation” staring up at you. Your signature at the bottom looked shaky, like your hand had tried to change its mind halfway through.
You were curled on the couch in your cat pajamas, little cartoon kittens all over them, utterly ridiculous for someone who’d spent the afternoon coming apart in a supe’s penthouse. Your hair was damp, your skin clean, but you still felt… wrong. Like you’d left parts of yourself behind in his hands, in that room and in the way his voice had sounded when he said this isn’t over.
You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, staring at the letter. Marmalade hopped up onto the cushion beside you, circled once, and flopped down with her back pressed to your thigh, purring like everything was fine.
“I can’t go back”, you whispered. “I can’t— I can’t be around him and pretend this is just… scheduling or stupid talking points”.
Your heart stuttered, remembering the way his hips had moved.
If you quit now, maybe you could still be… normal. Take another PR job. Write bland press releases about soup or tech companies. Go back to being invisible. Forget that, for a few awful, perfect minutes, a man like him had looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.
Your chest hurt. You pressed your forehead to your knees while your eyes were burning, and tried not to have a full-blown panic attack on your secondhand couch.
Tomorrow, you’d go to HR and put the letter down. Caldwell would be pissed, but he’d deal. Vought would assign someone else. Ben would… lose his shit. You knew that. But you wouldn’t have to see it. You could be gone.
You were in the middle of imagining exactly how badly he’d react when a knock came. A loud one.
You jolted so hard Marmalade shot off the couch with her tail puffed and started sprinting under the coffee table. Your heart launched itself into your throat, because nobody knocked like that. Not your neighbors, not delivery guys. The door rattled in its frame, dust shivering down from the cheap molding. You stared at it frozen.
Another round, even harder.
“Open up”, his voice snapped through it. “Before I fucking kick it in”.
You went cold. Then hot. Then both.
Your first instinct was to pretend you weren’t home. Lights off, TV off, dead silent. Maybe he’d think he got the wrong apartment. Maybe he’d—
“Doll, I can hear you fucking panicking” he said very impatient. “And your cat too. Door. Now”.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Oh my god”, you whispered to yourself.
He sounded like he was about two seconds from putting a you-shaped hole in the door. “Doll”, he barked and his knuckles hit the wood one more time. “Either you open this, or I’m remodeling your fucking hallway”.
You swallowed hard while walking to the door. Your fingers were fumbling with the chain before you finally got it free and eased the door open just enough to peek out.
He took up the entire frame. He was still in the suit. The real suit. Soot streaked across his jaw. There was a smear of something darker drying on his collar and one forearm.
“Hi”, you managed, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes swept over you in one quick pass. His mouth twitched, something almost like fondness flickering there before the other emotions shoved it aside.
“You gonna let me in”, he said, “or you gonna make your neighbors hear this conversation?”.
That did it. The idea of Mrs. Flores from 3b hearing any of this through the stairwell made your skin crawl. You opened the door wider and stepped back. He brushed past you, bringing the smell of metal and sweat with him.
Up close, the damage looked worse. A thin tear in the fabric at his side, scorched edging. A spatter of dried red was on one thigh that definitely wasn’t his, because he was moving too easily for that.
“You’re hurt”, you blurted.
He looked down, then snorted. “This? Please. I’ve had hangnails worse than that”. He looked up again, eyes already scanning past you, into the room. “Where is it?”.
Your pulse jumped. “Where is what?”.
He gave you a look. “Your fucking love letter. Few too many big words. Smells like ink and shitty decisions”. You froze.
His gaze cut to the coffee table. To the single sheet of paper lying there. He didn’t go for it. Didn’t even move his feet, only his jaw tightened. “Thought so”, he said.
You suddenly wanted very badly to be back inside your own skin instead of standing there in cat pajamas in front of a bloody superhero looking at your resignation letter like it had personally insulted him.
“I… haven’t turned it in yet,” you said, defensive even to your own ears.
“Yeah, no shit”, he said. “Kinda hard to quit when you’re still busy shaking in your living room”.
You flinched. “How did you even—”.
“I know you".
You swallowed and wrapped your arms around yourself. “You shouldn’t be here”, you whispered. “You should be… resting. Or debriefing. Or whatever it is you do after…”. You gestured vaguely at the soot and cracked armor and blood.
He watched the movement, then shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll live”. His eyes pinned you in place. “You, on the other hand, were five minutes away from nuking my sanity, so. Priorities”.
Your throat closed. “Don’t say things like that”.
“Like what?”, he demanded. “Like I just ran through hell and the only thing spinning my head is the idea of you handing that in and disappearing? ‘Cause that’s the truth, sweetheart. Doesn’t get less true ‘cause it scares you”.
You swallowed, looking down at your feet. Your toes curled on the cold floor. “I can’t do… earlier”, you said quietly. “Not again. I can’t handle…”. You flushed hard, the memory of his hands, your own body, crashing over you. “…all of it. You. The job. The way it makes me feel”.
“The way what makes you feel”, he asked, stepping closer, “me touching you, or me not?”.
You went pink to your ears. “Ben”.
He stopped himself then, exhaling hard as if wrestling something back down.
“Okay”, he said, rubbing a hand over his face, smearing soot a little more. “I’m not here to drag your cute little ass back and pick up where we left off”.
Your brain shorted. “You’re… not?”, you said suspicious.
He gave a short, half-wild laugh. “Trust me, I want to. But every time I get near you lately you look like you’re torn between kissing me and jumping out a fucking window”. His gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m not gonna push you ’til you break”.
“You keep saying that”, you whispered. “That you won’t hurt me. But you’re… you. You hurt people just by being in the room. You scare them. You scare me”.
He went very still at that. Not in the brittle explosive way you’d seen in other people before they yelled. This was colder and sadder. His jaw flexed like he’d just taken a hit. He looked away, to the peeling paint by your kitchen light switch, then to the IKEA bookshelf you’d put together crooked, anywhere but your face.
“Yeah. I know”.
You shifted your weight. “That’s… kind of the problem”, you said softer. “I’m… not like you. I’m not built for… high-stakes anything. I do emails. PowerPoints. I talk to my cat”.
“You also walk into my suite when I’m coked out and pissed off and tell me no daytime talk shows”, he said. “Everyone else gets sent in with a team and exits pre-planned. You just… show up. Tiny and shaking and still standing”. His mouth pulled into a crooked not-smile. “Don’t sell yourself short”.
Your chest squeezed and you dropped your eyes, blinking hard. “It doesn’t feel like standing”, you whispered. “It feels like I’m going to fall apart all the time and you just… happen to be there when I do”.
“Yeah”, he said quietly. “And I kinda like being there, if that’s not obvious”.
That didn’t help.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. “Which is exactly why I wrote that”, you said, nodding at the letter. “Because I can’t think straight around you anymore. I can’t tell where my job ends and… whatever this is begins. And if I screw up? People get hurt. You get hurt. I can’t have that on me”.
He studied you.
“So your solution”, he said slowly, “is to run. Pretend the last weeks didn’t happen. Pretend I’ll just… go back to being the asshole in the suit who doesn’t listen to anyone”.
You fidgeted while your guilt started pricking. “You’d be safer that way”.
His laugh was short and grim. “Sweetheart, I have been unsafe since 1935". He shook his head. “Not lettin’ you blame yourself for shit I was already doing before you were born”.
“Then what do you want?”, you asked helpless. “Because I can’t be your… I don’t even know. I can’t be the only thing standing between you and a crater. That’s too much”.
He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Then he visibly forced himself to swallow it.
“What I want”, he said finally, voice low, “is you not to disappear without giving this a fucking shot. A real one. Not this halfway professional-only bullshit where we pretend I’m just your calendar with muscles”.
Your heartbeat stuttered. “Ben—”.
“I know you’re scared”, he went on. “Hell, I’m fucking-… You think I like the idea that one little PR girl can get under my skin more than a goddamn rocket launcher?”. He huffed a humorless laugh. “It’s fuckin' pathetic”.
He blew out a breath and finally closed the distance between you. When he was right in front of you, he stopped.
“Alright”, he said. “You want the truth? Here it is. I don’t want a fucking Handler. I’ve had those. They were leashes. I want…”. He grimaced, like the word tasted strange. “I want you. And that messes with my head. So congratulations. You freak me out just as much as I freak you out. Happy?”.
You let out a small, helpless laugh. “No?”.
He snorted. “Yeah. Me neither”.
Silence stretched.
You shifted your weight again, then forced yourself to look up at him. “What if I screw it up?", you asked. “What if I run, or… just can’t do it?”.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Then we slow down. Or we yell at each other and fuck. I dunno, doll, we figure it out. You don’t gotta have a five-year plan for this”.
You stared at him. “Since when do you believe in ‘figuring it out’?”.
He made a face. “Since someone started crying in my elevator and I realized I’d rather eat glass than make her do it again”. His eyes dropped, flicking briefly over your pajama pants. “Even when she’s dressed like a kindergarten field-trip chaperone”.
You glanced down at the cats with heated cheeks. “They’re comfortable”.
“Yeah”, he muttered, something warm in his tone, “I bet”.
You swallowed. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t pure panic now. It was… something else. Something that felt like standing on the edge of a pool, deciding whether or not to jump.
“You’re really not here to…”, you gestured vaguely, face heating, “…do anything?”.
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say that”. At your alarmed look, he held up both hands. “I’m not here to push anything. Big difference. You want me to stay on the other side of the room, I will. You want a fucking hug, you get a hug. You wan´t me to pop that cherry? My fucking pleasure”.
Your gaze snagged on his hands, big and empty and strangely controlled. Your cheeks went even more pink.
“…a hug sounds kind of nice”, you admitted quietly.
He went very still, like you’d said something much bigger. Then, carefully, he stepped in, wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, snug but not crushing, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades. You fit there obscenely well.
Up close like this, the smell of him was… a lot. Smoke and metal and sweat, that harsh tang of burnt concrete and something coppery underneath. It soaked into your clean skin, into your freshly showered hair, like he was overwriting the day whether you wanted him to or not.
“You know”, he rumbled eventually, voice vibrating through your ribs, “I did just get back from turning assholes into pavement art”.
You swallowed. “…I noticed”.
His hand slid a little lower between your shoulder blades. “Kinda unfair you’re all warm and clean and smellin’ like vanilla and I’m over here wearin’ whatever’s left of some guy’s spleen”.
You made a horrified noise into his shirt. “Ben”.
“What?”. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You wanted honesty”.
“You are getting me dirty”, you mumbled, pulling back half an inch and looking down at where his suit was pressed against your front. There were definitely new smudges on your cats now.
“Yeah”, he said utterly unbothered. “Best you’ve ever looked”.
Your face heated. “That is not a compliment”.
“Sure it is”. He tipped your chin up with a knuckle, meeting your eyes. Up close, you could see the streaks on his jaw, the tiny cut at his hairline, the tiredness thinking about settling in around his eyes but not quite there yet. “Means you’re mine”.
You opened your mouth, then shut it, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “You’re disgusting”, you whispered.
He smirked. “And you let me in anyway. What’s that say about you, sprinkler?”.
“That I make poor choices”, you said under your breath.
He huffed a laugh and then you saw that flicker again, that quick little glance down at your pajama top, then back up like he was reminding himself not to push.
“C’mere”, he said, loosening his hold just enough to look you over. “Before I’ll ruin your whole kitten parade”.
You glanced down at yourself. “Damage is done”.
“Nah”, he said. “This is just level one. You keep me in this suit much longer, you’re gonna need to burn the whole outfit”.
You grimaced and he chuckled, finally stepping back a little. His gaze flicked toward your bathroom, then back to you. “You got towels?”.
You blinked. “Yeah?”.
“Good”. He hooked a thumb under one cracked shoulder pad, testing it. “’Cause if I sit on your couch in this, it’s never recovering. So you might wanna let me de-gore first”.
The word made you wince. “Can you… please not phrase it like that”.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go… freshen up”. He said it in a horrible fake-posh accent.
Your brain short-circuited for a second at the implication of him in your bathroom, in your tiny apartment, taking off that suit— You shoved the image away before your cheeks could catch up.
“Clean towels are on the shelf. Please don’t break the shower”, you said while backing up a little to give him space.
“No promises”, he muttered, already angling toward the doorway. He paused as he passed you, eyes catching on the new smudges on your pajamas. “You look good messy, by the way”.
“Go wash off your… organs”, you whispereds shyly.
Eventually, while Ben was in the shower, you crossed to the coffee table on autopilot. The paper felt heavier than it should when you picked it up. All those words that had felt so certain this afternoon looked flimsy now. Premature.
You thought about him in the elevator, saying 'I’m not gonna hurt you' like he meant it more than he’d meant anything in years. About tonight and the fact that he came straight from hell to your crappy apartment, because he couldn’t stand the idea of you leaving without a fight. You thought about how it had felt, just now, with his arms around you and the way your body had gone quiet for the first time all day.
Your fingers crumpled the top corner of the letter.
“Okay”, you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “Okay”.
You tore it and carried the pieces to the trash, dropped them in, and shut the lid.
“Fine”, you muttered at the air. “We… figure it out”.
-
A few weeks later, your world had gotten… different.
Ben was everywhere.
Not just in the literal, he-takes-up-the-entire-room way, though he did. But everywhere in the ways you’d never let yourself imagine before. You woke up tangled with him, legs over his, his hand on your hip, Marmalade’s tail flicking against your bare calf because she was jealous of the space he took in your bed.
He’d spent exactly one day pretending to take things slow after your first time. One. After that, it was like a switch flipped in him, like once he’d tasted softness he realized he’d starved for it all his life.
He was greedy for you, and he didn’t care who saw. Not Vought, not your neighbors, not the city through your living room window.
But it wasn’t just you he was greedy for. He was greedy for every part of you. The way you blushed when he teased you, the way you’d hide your face in his shoulder after a compliment, the way your hands trembled when you touched yourself in front of him for the first time, shivering and wide-eyed and trying to be brave for him.
And when he figured out just how deep your self-consciousness went, how quickly you’d hide from yourself if he let you, he decided that was one thing he wasn’t going to let stand.
Which is how you ended up here.
In his bed, knees tucked under you, blanket bunched at your hips. Ben behind you, hands bracing your thighs apart, his body pressed flush to your back. The big standing mirror across from the foot of the bed caught every inch of you both.
You’d protested, but he hadn’t listened.
“Look”, he murmured with his lips rough on your ear and one hand splayed low on your belly. “You spend all this time thinkin’ you’re not enough, or not pretty. Look at you now. Look how fuckin’ gorgeous you are”.
You tried to duck your head, but his other hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror. His eyes met yours in the glass, bright and hot and so unguarded it made you ache.
“Ben”, you whispered, mortified at the sight of yourself.
He only grinned, hungry and soft all at once. “That’s it. See? That’s mine".
His hand slid from your jaw down the line of your throat until his palm rested between your shoulder blades.
“Down, sweetheart”, he murmured. “Hands and knees for me”.
Your breath hitched. You hesitated half a heartbeat, but the way he said it, like it was a privilege he was asking, made your arms fold almost on their own.
You sank forward and the blanket slipped away while your palms pressed into the cool sheets. The mirror caught how your back arched, your breasts swaying slightly with the movement and your thighs trembling as you settled on your knees.
Ben moved with you, never breaking contact. One big hand stayed splayed across your lower back, while the other guided your hips until you were exactly where he wanted: ass up, face angled toward the glass, eyes wide and glassy with nerves and want.
“There we go”, he praised while settling behind you.
The heat of him blanketed your back, his chest brushing your spine as he leaned over you, surrounding you completely. You could feel him against the curve of your ass, but he didn’t push in yet. He just let you feel him, let the anticipation coil tighter.
“Look at you”, he said again, softer this time, almost awed. His hands smoothed up your sides, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips. “Look how pretty you are like this. All soft and open for me”.
You whimpered, tried to drop your head, but his fingers were already threading through your hair, gentle but firm, tipping your face back toward the mirror.
“Uh-uh. Eyes up, baby. You don’t get to hide from this”. His voice dropped. “Watch what I do to you. Watch how fucking perfect you look taking me”.
He shifted behind you, one hand sliding down to grip himself, dragging the thick length of him through your slick folds, coating himself in you. Every pass over your clit made your hips jerk, a broken little sound spilling from your throat.
“Ben—”. It came out a plea, while you weren’t even sure what for.
“I know”, he soothed, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades, then another, open-mouthed and hot. “I’ve got you”.
He lined up, the thick head nudging at your entrance, and paused. Just long enough for you to feel the stretch before he even moved.
“Eyes on the mirror”, he ordered, voice strained now, like holding still was costing him. “Want you to see the exact second I make you mine again”.
Then he pushed in. Slow, watching your face in the glass as he sank deep. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, back arching sharper as he filled you inch by inch. The mirror showed everything: the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers clawed at the sheets and the way your body took him like it was made for it.
He groaned, bottoming out with a final roll of his hips that made you sob his name.
“That’s it”, he rasped, both hands gripping your hips now, holding you steady. “Look at you. So fucking sweet, and you’re taking all of me”.
He drew back, almost all the way out, then slid home again, slow and deep, forcing you to watch every second. To watch the sight of him disappearing into you, the flushed, desperate girl in the mirror who didn’t look shy anymore, just undone and beautiful and his.
“Keep watching”, he growled, starting a steady rhythm while one hand slipped around to circle your clit in time with his thrusts. “Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see what I see every fucking time I’m inside you”.
And you did. You couldn’t have looked away if you tried.
-
Three months later, the gala dress lived in the back of your closet in a garment bag that smelled faintly of his cologne. The diamonds came out only for cameras. The cardigans stayed. You wore both, your softness and your shine, depending on the day and what the world demanded.
Vought tried, of course. There were meetings with too many bullet points, memos about “optics”, a brief-but-memorable moment where Legal asked if you could “refrain from being seen breathing in photos with Soldier Boy”. You smiled, sent back edits, and stood at Ben’s shoulder anyway.
He learned, too. Not the PR stuff (God help anyone who tried), but you. How to say please without choking on it. How to pull back when your shoulders crept up to your ears. How to ask, quietly, “good?” when the color drained from your face, and how you’d nod (yes, slow down) until the room felt breathable again. He never stopped being himself. He was still brash, dangerous and so damn loud. But with you, there was a lane carved through all that noise that no one else got to use.
At home, the world got smaller in the best way. Marmalade made peace with the intruder and began sleeping on his sternum.
Work found a new equilibrium. You drafted statements with fewer apologies and more truth. He stopped torching rooms just to feel the heat.
You never turned in a resignation letter. You did, however, rewrite your job description in a way that made HR blink and then sign it because nobody wanted to be the one to tell Soldier Boy he couldn’t have the handler he’d finally started listening to.
It's August 1st and I just finished my series WIP...that means time to start working on a series that's spoooooky! Because it's basically October now, right? @the-wayward-robot have already been talking about ideas!
I know I'm still standing on the shore screaming about a ship that sunk damn near a decade ago, but I got time... So on my 1,223,456,245 rewatch of Supernatural I continue to find parallels that were made between Sam and his love interest and Dean and his "friend" (love interest). I'm not exclusively talking about Cass here either... I mean did he have to see cass walking down the road the same way Sam say Jess?
Mid season 8 Dean is constantly giving Sam shit about being distracted by Amelia, on and on...eventually Dean tells him to make a choice fully in with her or hunting...Sam cuts her lose and then cut to the next scene and here's Dean, calling Benny to cut him loose after fighting for him all season against Sam's wishes.
What I don't really get is...if there were no intents to develop Dean's character into the Bisexual Baddie he became then why do all the things they kept doing?!?!
It still to this day pisses me off almost as much as the shit ending they gave Dean. No matter how many times we watch I will NEVER watch that episode again.
In this household we abhor such atrocities as Endgame, SPN 15 x 20 or Netflix's inability to renew any good, weird shows with gays and theys. I swear they cancel every single show that is interesting.
I’ve only watched once, having just discovered Supernatural earlier this year, and I know I missed a lot of subtext because about halfway through the the second season it became totally about Dean, and I have a tendency to go deaf when watching someone I’ve become attracted to so a rewatch is definitely in my future. No guarantees I’ll hear any more of it this go round though. I do agree that the ending was awful, both Winchester brothers deserved better.
I’m personally not a Destiel shipper but hey, to each their own. I don't know if the writers go bored with ideas before they finished them or what the situation was but it did seem that they abandoned both storylines and characters. But I also feel that in fifteen years not every episode is going to be a winner.
I’m definitely going to watch again, probably more than once. I feel like it’s going to become a comfort show that I’ll watch again and again.
You have so many experiences to go through with this show yet!! Feel free to scream to me about any of them...there will probably be a lot! The first few seasons have a different feel to them, so enjoy them, but personally I LOVE the dynamic after Cass comes. I love his character development so much.
The feel of the seasons and their storyline commitment changes in my opinion with the specific writers. Kripke in 1-5 was more about storytelling. Some people don't love Gamble's seasons 6/7 but I do, 8-11 was carver which I feel like was when a lot of choices about how to portray dean was made but then in comes Dabb and he's like actually I'm gonna carry it for a little while, let everyone think one thing then HA nevermind.
It is a perfect comfort show, and I hope you keep liking it... if it feels slow in spots, just keep pushing lol even us long time lovers have spots where our interest dips lol
After writing all this I realize you've already done one watch through lol but still feel free to scream to me about it😂💕
I really want to get the DVD’s before my first rewatch, I want the original music that I didn’t get watching on Amazon. Also want to watch at least once with the commentary.
I like how ultimately it’s really a story about family, the one you’re born into and the one you build. There are so many great characters that I really liked, Charlie, Gabriel and Crowley come to mind first. I really liked Crowley-all that snark with an English accent-how could you not love him. It’s a shame they really didn’t know what to do with him. Crowley and Demon Dean interaction are some of my favorite moments.
Anyway, I’m hoping to be able to get the DVD’s soon, they are quite pricey for someone on a fixed income. Maybe in the next few months I can start again.
So last week's survey showed voters wanted a Dean x reader freaky friday switch! It's set to be posted next Monday Aug. 3rd! Soooo, what would everyone be interested in seeing next? I'm still working on my big series I hope to share in a month or so as well!
What's next my favored freaks?
Dean x reader - you and the boys go on an honest to goodness summer vacation
Bucky x reader- Your upset call from a girl's trip prompts bucky to show up
Steve x reader x Bucky- caught in a summer thunderstorm
I know I'm still standing on the shore screaming about a ship that sunk damn near a decade ago, but I got time... So on my 1,223,456,245 rewatch of Supernatural I continue to find parallels that were made between Sam and his love interest and Dean and his "friend" (love interest). I'm not exclusively talking about Cass here either... I mean did he have to see cass walking down the road the same way Sam say Jess?
Mid season 8 Dean is constantly giving Sam shit about being distracted by Amelia, on and on...eventually Dean tells him to make a choice fully in with her or hunting...Sam cuts her lose and then cut to the next scene and here's Dean, calling Benny to cut him loose after fighting for him all season against Sam's wishes.
What I don't really get is...if there were no intents to develop Dean's character into the Bisexual Baddie he became then why do all the things they kept doing?!?!
It still to this day pisses me off almost as much as the shit ending they gave Dean. No matter how many times we watch I will NEVER watch that episode again.
In this household we abhor such atrocities as Endgame, SPN 15 x 20 or Netflix's inability to renew any good, weird shows with gays and theys. I swear they cancel every single show that is interesting.
I’ve only watched once, having just discovered Supernatural earlier this year, and I know I missed a lot of subtext because about halfway through the the second season it became totally about Dean, and I have a tendency to go deaf when watching someone I’ve become attracted to so a rewatch is definitely in my future. No guarantees I’ll hear any more of it this go round though. I do agree that the ending was awful, both Winchester brothers deserved better.
I’m personally not a Destiel shipper but hey, to each their own. I don't know if the writers go bored with ideas before they finished them or what the situation was but it did seem that they abandoned both storylines and characters. But I also feel that in fifteen years not every episode is going to be a winner.
I’m definitely going to watch again, probably more than once. I feel like it’s going to become a comfort show that I’ll watch again and again.
Summary: Assigned to manage Soldier Boy, you become the only person who can keep him under control. But as tension turns into dangerous attraction, keeping things professional becomes impossible.
-requested-
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut(slightly), Angst, Language
Word Count: 6206
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You barely slept. Instead you’d stared at the ceiling. When you did drift off, it was shallow and anxious with images looping in your head of your lips on his. Or the heat of his palm at your waist. The feel of him when your hand slipped lower ad the look on his face when you bolted.
You showered twice, because you couldn’t get the smell of him off your skin, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You had put the green dress back in the garment bag and folded the diamonds into a sock drawer.
For work you pulled on your favourite cardigan and a black skirt that hit below the knee. Nothing that hugged or shone or could be mistaken for “trying”.
During that, Marmalade watched you from the kitchen table, very judgmental and unimpressed.
“Don’t look at me like that”, you muttered while buttering half a bagel. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—”. You cut yourself off, remembering the press of Ben’s lips and the way his hands had trembled when he held you. Your stomach twisted and you shoved the bagel aside.
Half an hour later, you got to Vought Tower early than Caldwell, earlier than the security desk was used to seeing you. You hid at your desk, answering emails, rescheduling Soldier Boy’s gym slot, triple-checking press releases, anything to stay busy, anything to avoid the memory of last night. Any time a bootstep echoed in the hall, your heart leapt and fell in the same second.
Eventually Trish’s bag hit her desk with a thud big enough to make your pens roll and you jump.
“Morning, sunshine”, she said, dropping into her chair across from you and immediately unlocking her computer with one hand while peeling off her coat with the other. “You look like you saw a ghost”.
You kept your eyes on your monitor. “Just… tired”.
She squinted at you. “You’re never this early. Did the museum call you in at dawn? Did he make you polish his shield or something?”.
Your brain helpfully chose that exact moment to flash you an image of your hand on something very much not his shield and heat shot up your neck. “No. It was just… a long night”.
“Aha”, Trish rolled herself closer. She lowered her voice. “Okay, enough. Spill. You went to the gala with him. I saw the pictures. You looked hot, by the way, don’t argue with me. So? Was he awful? Did he punch the VP? Did you have to tase him?”.
You swallowed, eyes glued to an email you weren’t reading. “He didn’t punch anybody”.
“That’s… honestly disappointing”, she said. “But good for Legal, I guess. Did he at least embarrass himself? I’ve got twenty bucks on ‘calls someone a fucking pussy’ at a charity event”.
“Not really”, you murmured.
Her eyes lit up. “And? You’re being weird, why are you being weird? Oh my God, did he hit on you? Like, actually, not just the usual harassment?”.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Only your fingers tightened on your mouse until it squeaked.
Trish’s jaw dropped. “No way”.
“Nothing happened”, you said quickly. Way too quickly.
She leaned all the way over her desk now, invading your personal space with zero shame. “Okay, now I know something happened. You get all pink whenever you lie”.
“I do not—”.
Whatever you were about to deny died on your tongue, because the energy in the bullpen shifted all at once, like someone had flipped a breaker. The hum of conversation dipped, the keyboard clacking slowed. Even people who pretended they were too cool to care went still in that particular way that meant supe in the vicinity.
Bootsteps. Your whole body recognized them before your brain did.
Trish’s eyes widened over your shoulder. “Oh, shit”, she whispered. “There we go".
You didn’t turn. You stared at your inbox like if you clicked fast enough you could open a portal and fall through it.
He stopped at the end of the aisle.
“Morning”, Ben said.
A couple of people actually flinched. You made yourself look up.
He wasn’t in full gear, but he might as well have been. Dark green tactical jacket over a fitted black shirt, dark pants and some heavy boots. No shield, no gloves. It was the softer version of the suit they put on posters, the one for “serious interviews” where they wanted him dangerous but not too dangerous.
His eyes were clear enough to tell you he hadn’t hit anything too hard this morning. His gaze landed on you and stayed there.
“Hi”, you managed, but your voice came out thinner than you liked.
Trish swiveled in her chair so fast it squeaked, pasting on a bright, professional smile. “Good morning, sir”.
Ben’s eyes slid to her for half a second. “Yeah”, he said. “You’re… the friend, right”.
Trish blinked. “Uh. Yes?”.
He hummed, filed that away, and promptly lost interest in her. His attention snapped back to you like it hadn’t actually left. “Didn’t see you upstairs yet”, he said way too casual.
You swallowed. “I, um… wanted to get through the late night emails”.
He let his gaze flick down and back up, taking in the cardigan and the way you were about three inches shorter without the heels. “Back to uniform, huh”, he said. “Shame”.
You felt your face get hot. “It’s… work”.
“Last night was work”, he countered easily. “This is… overtime”.
Trish made a strangled sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Ben ignored it and leaned his hip against the corner of your desk, close enough that you could smell the familiar mix of smoke and cologne.
“We got shit to go over”, he said.
You clung to that word like a lifeline. “Debrief. Right. I can send you a calendar invite for—”.
“Now”, he said.
Your heart misfired. “Now?”.
He tilted his head, studying your face. “You too busy, doll?”.
You opened your mouth. You had emails, drafts. A to-do list long enough to drown in. But none of that mattered.
“No”, you whispered.
He straightened and pushed off your desk. “Then let’s go”.
You hesitated with your fingers still on your keyboard.
He dropped his voice, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that only you could hear the next part. “You ran outta my car like I had a fucking bomb strapped to my dick”, he murmured. “We’re not pretendin’ that didn’t fucking happen”.
Your lungs forgot their job for a second. You darted a glance around. No one was close enough to hear, but they were close enough to watch and half the bullpen was doing a terrible job of pretending not to. And by now, Trish’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.
Ben straightened again. “Bring your little tablet, sweetheart. We’ll talk upstairs”.
You fumbled for your tablet, hit save on a document you hadn’t edited and stood on legs that felt like borrowed furniture.
Ben stepped back just enough to let you out from behind the desk, then fell into step beside you without waiting to see if you’d keep up. You did. The alternative was… worse.
“Shit”, Trish mouthed as you passed. You wished you could disappear into your cardigan.
You walked side by side toward the elevator while you stared straight ahead. “We don’t… have to talk about it”, you said, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah”, he said. “We do”.
He hit the call button with two knuckles, and the elevator instantly slid open. Ben stepped inside, his broad frame filling the doorway as if it had been built around him. Then he turned just enough to glance back at you. His hand came out casually, as though he were simply steadying you as you crossed the gap, but his palm brushed the small of your back as you stepped past.
Two women by the bullpen entrance sucked in matching little breaths, like they’d just seen something indecent. Their eyes went wide, one’s mouth actually dropped open a little.
You shuddered as Ben let his hand fall away, then hit the top-floor button. The doors slid shut, cutting off the murmur of voices outside. You stared straight ahead at the brushed metal panel, your reflection warped and pale with eyes too big.
Your heart was racing. Not just fast, wild. Your chest hurt with it. Your palms were damp on the smooth plastic of the tablet. Your throat burned. And he could hear it. You knew he could hear it.
You tried to swallow it down. Tried to breathe quiet, even breaths like HR videos told you to. Instead, your lungs stuttered, catching on the tight, ugly knot of fear and humiliation and leftover heat in your chest.
What if he was mad?
What if last night had just been another story for him, and now you’d messed up the only thing you were good at, your job?
What if he decided you were more trouble than you were worth?
Your eyes blurred. No. No, no, not here. You blinked hard, looking up at the little red numbers ticking higher: 73, 74, 75. They doubled, smeared. You dragged in a breath that shook on the way out.
“Jesus”, he muttered, not unkindly. “You gonna fucking pass out on me?”.
You shook your head. It was all you could manage. If you opened your mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came out. It would be the panic sitting in your throat like a fist. Your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet. The air felt too thin and too thick at the same time.
“Hey”, he said. Just that. But your lungs locked. Every ugly what if slammed into you at once. What if he is mad. What if he does hurt you. What if you pushed too far and now you’re just another story, another body, another fun little incident report for PR to spin.
You pressed back against the wall without meaning to, shoulders flattening against cool metal. Your breath started coming faster, shorter, catching on the jagged edge of fear. Your eyes burned and the red numbers blurred again.
Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
“Whoa”, he said softer. “Hey. Look at me”.
Your gaze skittered sideways, then up, like it had been yanked on a string.
He wasn’t smirking. No lazy amusement, no mean little curl of his mouth. His brows were drawn together and his eyes sharp in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with alarm.
“You think I’m gonna hit you or somethin’?”, he asked low but weirdly careful.
You didn’t answer. But your body did. Your shoulders drew in even tighter, chin dipping, every muscle trying to make you smaller.
“Fuck”. He lifted his hand and you flinched so hard it made a tiny sound in the back of your throat. He froze with his hand still in the air, palm out like I surrender.
“Okay”, he said, more to himself than to you. He dropped his hand deliberately, fingers spreading at his side. “Alright. I’m not touching you. Just listen”.
The elevator hummed past another floor. You stared at him with your chest shuddering, and tears finally spilling hot over your lower lashes.
“I’m not gonna fucking hurt you”, he said, enunciating each word like he was pushing it into your skull. “You hear me? I’m not mad. I don’t kill people for kissing me. That’s not a fucking thing”.
Your breath hitched. “You— you do kill people”.
“Yeah. Not you”.
He shifted his stance, bracing one hand against the opposite wall so the car rocked just barely. Not trapping you, he kept his arm high, giving you a clear path if you wanted it. Just grounding himself.
“You think I’d drag you into my car, put diamonds on you, walk you around in front of every rich cocksucker in New York and then snap your neck over one little panic run?”, he asked, something rough and incredulous in his voice. “C’mon, doll. Give me a little credit”.
A wet, choked sound escaped you that might’ve been half a laugh, half a sob. You pressed your wrist to your mouth, mortified.
His eyes tracked that and softened around the edges.
"You’re really leakin’, huh”.
You sniffed, mortified. “I’m s-sorry, I just—”.
“Don’t apologize for cryin’”, he cut in, frowning like that was what offended him most. “You’re allowed to freak out, sprinkler”.
You blinked. “Sprin…kler?”.
His mouth twitched. “Yeah. Turn the pressure up a little and you start mistin’ everywhere”.
“That’s… a terrible nickname”, you managed.
“I didn’t say it was good branding”, he said. “But it fits”.
You huffed out a wet little almost-laugh and wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand. Your mascara smudged on your skin and his gaze tracked it, mouth flattening like he wanted to go back downstairs and rearrange some jaws.
He let out a breath instead. “Alright. Listen up, ‘cause I’m only sayin’ this once”.
You went still.
“I am not going to kill you”, he said, slow and clear, like he was reading cue cards. “Not for crying, not for panicking, not for kissing me, not for—”, his mouth ticked, “—grabbing my dick like you were checking if it came fucking standard”.
Heat detonated in your face. “Ben”, you choked mortified. “Please don’t— don’t say it like that”.
“What?”, he asked. “You want me to call it somethin’ else? ‘Equipment’? ‘Patriotic hardware’?”.
You made a strangled noise and tried to disappear into the elevator wall. “Can we not talk about your… anything… in confined spaces?”.
He watched you for a second, the way your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet.
“Relax”, he said. “I’m messin’ with you. Mostly”.
“Mostly?”, you repeated weakly.
“Yeah. ’Cause I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen”, he said. “You touched me. I liked it". His eyes flicked over your face, your swollen eyelids, the wet flush on your cheeks. “But I’m sure as hell not gonna punish you for it”.
Your throat clenched around whatever you meant to say. “I just… I shouldn’t have—”.
“Why not?”, he cut in. “You wanted to”.
You stared at a spot over his shoulder. “That’s not the point”.
“Yeah, it is”, he said. “That’s exactly the point. You wanted to. I wanted you to. Nobody forced anybody. Nobody got fucking hurt. That’s what matters”.
You shook your head, a tiny, helpless gesture. “I’m your assistant”.
“And?”, he said. “You think the job description says ‘no touching dicks’? Pretty sure it just says ‘answer emails and keep the supe from saying fuck on air’”.
“Ben”, you whispered clearly overwhelmed.
He watched your eyes shine again and the way you bit down on your lower lip like you could hold everything in if you just tried hard enough.
“Hey”, he said quietly. “Sprinkler”.
You sniffed, hating how the nickname made your chest ache and ease at the same time. “…yeah?”.
“I’m not mad”, he said. “You hearin’ me? You’re shaking like you think I’m about to rip your head off. Only thing that pissed me off last night was you running before I could ask if you were okay”.
Your vision blurred again. “I panicked”.
“I know”, he said. “I got the message when you bailed like your fucking ass was on fire”.
You let out another tiny laugh.
The doors slid open on 87. He didn’t touch you this time. Just tipped his chin toward the hallway and waited until your feet remembered how to move. You stepped out and he followed.
Inside his suite you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Okay. He wasn’t mad. You weren’t dead. He’d said it, out loud, in full sentences. You’d survived the elevator. In your head, that was the end of it.
So you moved automatically toward your usual spot, the armchair across from the couch, setting your tablet down on the coffee table.
You were halfway into your seat when his voice came from behind you.
“So”.
You froze, half-perched on the edge of the chair. He didn’t sound done. You turned slightly. He was just inside the door, hands braced on his hips, watching you like you were a problem set he was determined to solve.
Your stomach dipped. “So…?”.
He jerked his chin in the vaguest possible gesture. “Was it the size?”.
Your brain blue-screened. “What?”.
He shrugged, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “You kiss me, you crawl into my lap, you get a handful—”, his eyebrows twitched, “—then you go full cartoon dust cloud out the door. I’m connectin’ dots, sweetheart”.
Blood roared in your ears. “Ben”.
He ignored the warning in your tone, taking a few unhurried steps closer. “Look, if that’s what freaked you—kinda fair. I’ve scared grown women who knew what they were doin’”.
“Can you not—”, you pressed your palms over your face, “—say things like that”.
“Why?”, he asked. “I’m tryin’ to troubleshoot here”.
You dragged your hands down your face and left them over your mouth, like that might hold the words in. “It’s not just…”, you flapped one hand vaguely in his direction, “that”.
His brows tipped up. “Uh-huh”.
“It’s everything”, you blurted, staring at the tablet instead of him. “You. Me. My job. The… car. The fact that you’re—”, your voice dipped, “—you”.
“Try again”, he said. “Use the big girl words”.
You sucked in a breath. It tasted like dust and his cologne and your own nerves.
“You’re a supe”, you said quietly. “You’re… big, and loud, and everyone’s afraid of you, and you don’t care. And I’m…”. Your throat tightened. “I’m not built for that”.
He snorted. “You been in the same building as me the last eight weeks? You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch outta my way”.
“I flinch all the time”, you argued.
“Yeah”, he said. “And then you stay”.
That shut you up for a second. You twisted your fingers together in your lap.
“I’m your assistant”, you said finally. “I schedule your interviews. I bring you coffee. I’m supposed to be… safe. Background. Not…”. Heat crept up your neck. “…not climbing into your lap like I know what I’m doing”.
“You think I expected you to?”. His mouth tugged. “You damn near knocked my soul out of my body with those little training-wheel kisses”.
You made a strangled sound. “Please don’t call them that”.
“Point is, you’re not the problem”.
You laughed once. “I really think I am”.
“Why?”, he pressed. “’Cause you blush if someone says ‘fuck’ too close to your coffee? That’s not a flaw, doll. That’s just…”, he searched for the word, grimaced, “…how you’re wired”.
You hesitated. Your chest squeezed.
“If it were just that”, you said slowly, “maybe it’d be… less terrifying. But it’s not. It’s everything. You’re not just some guy at a bar. You’re Soldier Boy”. The name tasted ridiculous and heavy at once. “And I’m the girl who makes your calendars color-coded. It’s—”. You broke off. “It’s stupid”, you muttered. “And I really, really don’t want to talk about it anymore”.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You light a fuse and then you wanna walk away before it hits the charge”.
“I’m not—”, you started.
“You are”, he said, but there wasn’t much heat in it. More… frustration. “You think I’m used to people freakin’ out before they really touch me? This is new. I’m tryin’ to figure out if it’s worth not… fucking this up”.
You dragged in a breath, steadier this time, and made yourself meet his eyes. “That’s exactly why”, you said softly. “Because if you get bored or annoyed or decide this was stupid, you’ll just… walk away. And I’ll still have to be here. With a job I need and a boss I can’t look at without remembering that I… that I climbed into his lap in a car like a… prostitute”.
His jaw clenched. “You’re not a prostitute”.
“That doesn’t change the math”, you said. “So I think—”. You swallowed. “I think we should keep it professional from now on”, you whispered.
He went still in that particular way you’d learned meant danger for other people. For you it just meant every ounce of focus came crashing down on your face.
“Professional”, he repeated, flat.
You nodded with hands white-knuckled in your lap. “No… more of that. No touching. No kissing. No… whatever that was. Just work”.
His mouth did a strange little twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a flinch. “You’re really sayin’ that after you tried to crawl down my fucking throat last night”.
Your cheeks flared hot once more. “That’s why I’m saying it. It was a mistake. I can’t— I don’t want things to get messier than they already are”.
“So that’s it?”, he asked. “You freak out, you bolt, and the solution is you pretend you don’t want it and I pretend I don’t remember?”.
“Yes”, you said, too fast. “That’s exactly it. We can… move on. I can be useful without—”.
“Without touching the fucking merchandise”, he cut in.
“That’s not funny”.
“Not trying to be”, he snapped. Then bit it back, shutting his mouth like he’d almost let something slip he couldn’t afford.
You watched his throat work. His hands had curled into loose fists on his thighs. You could tell he was keeping his voice down on purpose. For you.
“Professional”, he said again, testing the shape of it in his mouth like it was a word in a language he didn’t speak. “You sure that’s what you want?”.
It was… the only thing that felt remotely safe, anyway. And also the last thing some traitorous part of you wanted.
You nodded. “Yes”.
For a heartbeat, his ego flared across his face offended and wounded. No one said no to him. Not like this. His gaze darkened, heat flashing there, but it wasn’t desire this time. It was temper, bruised and coiling. He sucked in a breath and you saw the split second where he could choose to be the asshole the files said he was.
But he didn’t. He exhaled slow instead, like it hurt. “Fine”, he said. “You want professional? You got it”.
Your chest loosened a fraction. “Okay. Thank you”.
-
Two weeks later, “professional” had turned into something weird and sideways.
You stuck to the rules. No more kisses. No more wandering hands. You never sat closer than one chair away in his suite if you could help it.
But your body did not stick to the rules. It betrayed you constantly.
A hand on the small of your back to steer you through a crowd? Your cheeks went hot. His thigh brushing yours on a studio couch? Your breath hitched. Him saying “good girl” when you got a network to agree to his terms? You had to pretend to cough so he wouldn’t hear how your heartbeat jumped.
If anything, it was worse than before. At least before you hadn’t known how his mouth felt.
He didn’t push. He didn’t touch more than he’d always touched. But he sure as hell didn’t keep his distance. If anything, he got clingier.
He wanted you in the gym when he did “controlled demos”, just in case PR had notes. He had you sit in on calls he didn’t need you for, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed while you did all the talking. He dragged you on a studio visit he could’ve done with three handlers and a driver, and then spent the ride back asking why the hell that anchor looked at you like that. He didn’t like people looking at you.
You’d thought the Silvernet thing was a one-off. It wasn’t. Any time a supe’s eyes lingered a beat too long on your legs, or “accidentally” brushed your elbow and didn’t move fast enough, Ben moved. A look, a shoulder bump, a hand landing on your waist with casual precision—all it took. Space opened around you like a force field.
No one said anything directly. They didn’t have to. The bullpen did it for them.
“Guaranteed, he’s fucking her”, someone from Legal whispered near the coffee machine one morning.
“I heard she’s just there to keep him from losing it”, someone else said.
"No one would fuck that", a third snorted.
You pretended not to hear. You got good at pretending.
-
One afternoon you lost track of time. You had four different email chains open, three drafts half-written and Caldwell on Slack sending you passive-aggressive “any update?” messages every twenty minutes about a press release Legal kept gutting. After lunch you’d told yourself you’d run upstairs in “just a sec”. “Just a sec” turned into an hour. Then ninety minutes.
You were buried enough that you didn’t feel the shift in the room until it was already too late. The bullpen noise thinned out, like always. “Uh oh”, Trish murmured under her breath. And you didn’t look up fast enough.
“Where the fuck have you been?”.
His voice rolled over your shoulder, close enough that your skin prickled.
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. Slowly, like you were rewinding a horror movie, you turned.
He was standing at the end of your desk, one hand braced on the divider, the other on his hip.
“Hi”, you said, small. “I was just—”.
“You were just not upstairs”, he said. “Again”.
You could feel your coworkers’ eyes ping-ponging between you and him. No one even pretended to work anymore.
“I had emails”, you said swallowing. “Caldwell needed—”.
“Caldwell can send you an email in the morgue when his fucking heart gives out”, Ben cut in, rolling his eyes. “You’re supposed to come up after lunch”.
You tried again, keeping your voice small and careful.
“Ben, I really just needed to finish—”.
He huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You really just needed to finish pretending you’re invisible”. His gaze swept across your desk. “You hiding from me now, sprinkler?”.
That nickname, said right there, in front of half the floor, made the blood drain from your face. “Please don’t call me that here”, you whispered.
He ignored that completely. “You got a whole tower full of handlers and PR hacks”, he said. “But when I ask where my girl is, nobody’s got an fucking answer”.
The words landed in the room with the force of a thrown grenade. My girl.
Two people across from Legal made actual sounds, a sharp little inhale and a muffled “holy shit”. Trish’s head snapped up, mouth open in a silent scream of gossip. Even the guy from Comms dropped his water bottle.
You felt it like heat under your skin, blooming up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, even tingling at the tips of your ears. You could feel your own blush rising, full-force and impossible to hide. Your face was on fire.
Ben caught your blush. His gaze locked on your face, tracking the color as it crept up your cheeks, then down your neck. The way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way you shifted in your chair and tried to disappear behind your tablet.
And it hit him hard. Right there in the PR bullpen, with half the floor watching, the flush that spread across your skin went straight to his groin. So sudden it almost made him bite down on a curse. You were all wide eyes and trembling hands and he wanted you. Fiercely. Now. More than anything, he wanted to drag you out of that desk chair and into his lap, to bury his face in the heat of your neck and make you blush even deeper.
He could feel himself thickening in his jeans. He shifted his weight, jaw flexing, trying to will himself back under control. The last thing he needed was a tent in his pants in the middle of your office.
But you didn’t notice. You were too busy staring at the keyboard, trying to breathe, your lips parted on a sound that never made it out. Ben almost groaned out loud at just the sight of you like this, all flustered and pink.
And his patience, never the most stable thing to begin with, snapped. He leaned in, his voice pitched low. “Get the fuck up. Five minutes. My suite”.
It wasn’t a bark, but it was the closest he’d ever come to raising his voice at you. The tone vibrated down your spine, all grit and barely leashed hunger. The air between you felt electric, dangerous, charged with something that wasn’t anger but still made your nerves light up like a warning.
He didn’t wait for a reply. Just straightened, jaw tight, eyes lingering on your blush as if memorizing it for later and then he turned and stalked out.
The bullpen stayed silent for a second longer. You couldn’t move. Your mind spun, scrambling to parse what you’d done wrong, if this was it, if he’d finally lost patience, if you’d actually crossed some invisible line. You had no idea it was because you’d undone him so badly he could barely see straight.
Trish mouthed something at you, probably are you okay?, but your ears were still ringing. Your hands shook as you grabbed your tablet, eyes burning with humiliation, confusion and a wild pulse of heat you didn’t know what to do with.
You stepped inside his suite, pulse still skipping from the elevator ride, hands locked tight around your tablet. You weren’t sure what you expected. Maybe him barking orders or maybe cold silence, maybe another snapped command.
Ben’s eyes landed on your face, your blush still high, your lashes still wet from the rush and your mouth parted in some lost attempt at an apology. He just crossed the room, caught your chin and tipping your face up rough, but not unkind. His mouth came down on yours with a force that made your knees buckle, a hungry, desperate kind of kiss that told you everything words couldn’t. His hand dropped your tablet to the couch, the other sliding around your waist, hauling you up on your toes.
You whimpered soft, caught-off-guard. He groaned into your mouth, his body pressing you back against the door so you could feel every inch of him, especially the heavy heat of his cock straining against his jeans.
“Fuck”, he growled, voice muffled in your hair. “You’re killin’ me, you know that? Look at you—still blushing’. You have any idea what that does to me?”.
Your answer was another soft, desperate noise, fingers curling in his shirt for balance as he kissed you again, deeper, licking into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. Every little shiver, every whimper, only seemed to stoke the fire in him. His hands growing hungrier and his restraint thinning with every breath you let out against his lips.
You tried to pull back, just a fraction, just enough to catch your breath and murmur the word bubbling up in your throat. “Ben, st—”. But the syllable dissolved into nothing as he shifted his hips, grinding forward with deliberate pressure, his dick pressing right against your clit through the thin layers of fabric between you.
The sensation hit you, blooming into heat that made your whole body arch involuntarily. You’d never felt a someone else there before. The ridge of him rubbing exactly where you ached most. It was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once, and instead of “stop”, what escaped your lips was a sweet, breathless moan that sounded nothing like protest.
Ben froze for a split second, his breath hot against your ear, then he let out a ragged chuckle. “Yeah? That’s what I thought”.
He rolled his hips again, slower this time, savoring the way you trembled, the way your fingers dug into his shoulders like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer.
Three slow rolls of his hips and your knees nearly gave out. Your whole body locked up, trembling so hard he had to tighten the arm banded around your waist to keep you upright.
“For fuck´s sake", he rasped, voice shredded with raw awe. “You’re gonna come just like this, aren’t you? On my cock through your little skirt. Not even had me inside you yet”.
You whimpered mortified, heat flooding your face, and tried to turn it into the pillow of his shoulder, hiding. Your hands flew from his chest to cover your own mouth, like you could smother the sounds, like you could pretend this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t about to shatter in the entryway of his penthouse from nothing more than dry humping like a teenager.
But Ben wasn’t having it. He caught your wrists in one big hand and pinned them above your
head against the door, gentle but immovable. His other hand slid down to grip your hip, angling you exactly where he wanted, forcing you to feel every inch of the next slow grind.
“Look at me”, he ordered.
When you shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning, he leaned in and dragged his open mouth up the column of your throat. “Baby. Look at me while you fall apart on my dick. Want to see those pretty eyes when you come for me”.
Another roll of his hips, harder, the seam of his pants catching just right, and you broke with a broken little cry you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body seized, thighs shaking, hips jerking helplessly against him as the orgasm tore through you.
He groaned like he was the one coming, forehead dropping to yours, watching every second of it, drinking in the way your lips parted, the way tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity.
“Fuck, that’s it”, he whispered wrecked. "So fucking sweet. Never seen anything more beautiful than you creaming your fucking panties just from this”.
You were still trembling in the aftershocks, hiding your face against his neck now, small and overwhelmed and trying to curl in on yourself. Your face was buried in the warm crook of his neck, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it against his chest, when a few knocks cracked against the door right beside your head.
“Soldier Boy!”. A man’s voice. “Sir, we’ve got a situation downtown. Multiple hostiles, possible supe involvement. You are requested".
You went rigid. The haze of your orgasm snapped. You were still pinned between Ben and the door with your skirt rucked up, thighs trembling and his cock still hard against your soaked panties. If anyone opened that door right now…
You shoved at his chest with both hands, panic flooding every vein. “Ben—let me go, let me—”.
He didn’t, not at first. His arms only tightened, a low growl rumbling in his throat like the interruption offended him.
“Ben!”, you whispered, frantic, trying to wrench your wrists free. “They can’t see me like this. Please”.
That got through. The muscle in his jaw flexed. Something raw and furious flashed across his face at the timing, at the world daring to drag him away the second he finally had you shaking in his arms.
Another knock, harder. “Sir! We have to move!”.
Ben’s forehead dropped to yours for one fierce, stolen second. “This isn’t over”, he said with his voice so low only you could hear the tremor in it. “Not even fucking close”.
Then he stepped back, letting you slide down the door until your feet touched the floor. Your legs almost gave out, but he caught your elbow, steadying you while you frantically smoothed your skirt, wiped at your wet eyes and tried to look like a professional human being and not a girl who’d just come on Soldier Boy´s clothed dick thirty seconds ago.
He yanked the door open.
summary: dean lets a specific word slip out for the first time, causing his flustered state and your delight
─────────｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡────────
Dean and you were sitting in the bunker kitchen late at night, leftovers of the takeout he brought on the table while Dean shamelessly kept reaching over to steal food from your plate after already finishing his own.
You smacked his hand away for what had to be the fifth time.
“Dean”
“What?” He said, unbothered by your smack, reaching out again.
“You have your own food”
“Had” He corrected “Past tense”
“That sounds like a you problem”
Dean groaned dramatically like you’d deeply wounded him “Wow. Cold”
You snorted and pulled your plate farther away.
That only encouraged him.
Next thing you knew, Dean was literally leaning across the table trying to snatch a fry while you blocked him with your arm, laughing.
“Stop stealing my food!”
“Sharing is caring, sweetheart”
“I already shared enough. You are robbing me now”
Dean managed to steal another fry and looked at you with a triumphant grin.
You narrow your eyes at him “You’re annoying”
“You love me anyway” He says smugly.
You snort “Questionable choice on my part”
Dean grinned lazily, green eyes bright with amusement. Then, because apparently annoying you was like a hobby to him, he reached for one of your onion rings.
You slapped his hand again “Seriously, why do you always think you’re entitled to my food?”
Dean scoffed dramatically like the answer was obvious.
“‘Cause I’m your boyfriend” He said easily, chewing “It’s literally my right”
Silence.
Dean blinked, and then his eyes widened a bit when realization hit him.
Oh.
Oh, he said it out loud.
You two had never really cared much about labels. You were together. Committed. You both knew exactly what you were to each other, and everyone around you two knew it too. There was never any doubt about that. But neither of you really said words like ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’.
Until now that he said it.
You blinked back at him. Then slowly, your mouth turned into a playful grin.
“Did you just use the b word?”
Dean immediately got flustered. Not dramatically, but enough that the tips of his ears turned red while he grabbed his beer and tried very hard to look casual.
“No”
“You did” You chuckle “Boyfriend”
Dean rolled his eyes dramatically “Yeah, alright” He grumbled “What about it?”
“You’ve never called yourself that before”
“Okay, first of all” He said “You’re enjoying this way too much” He points a finger at you defensively.
“A little” You say with a soft laugh “I mean, you called yourself my boyfriend” You repeat with a grin.
“Because I am” He said back instantly “We’ve been exclusive since forever, you live in my bunker, you ride shotgun in my Baby. I’m just stating facts here. Don't make it weird"
“I’m not making it weird” You laughed “I just think it was cute”
“It’s not cute”
“You said it so naturally too” You grin.
He rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed.
“Look, I’m regularly risking my life for you and driving you around while you criticize my music choices…”
“I do not criticize your music choices”
“…So I think I’ve earned my boyfriend status” He finished.
“Mhm” You laughed again before adding teasingly “So should I start looking for matching outfits now?”
“Shut up” Dean groaned immediately.
“You started this, boyfriend”
He suddenly grabbed your wrist, tugged you closer and kissed you to shut you up.
You let out a muffled laugh against his lips.
“Conversation’s over” He muttered against your mouth.
When he pulled away slightly, you were still grinning.
Dean narrowed his eyes “You’re annoying”
“And you’re my boyfriend” You repeated with a grin yet again.
Summary: When you have needs to be met all you need is the perfect stranger.
WC: 2k Pairing: Bucky x reader Warnings: Illusions of adult activity, weird bar patrons without boundaries, language, Bossy Bucky😏
A/N: I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!
The floor is packed as you slip through the crowd, sliding up to the bar, already ready to go home. The bodies moving against each other to the rhythmic bumping bass gives the illusion that the building itself was alive, breathing in and out with the beat of the music.
This was not a place you would typically find yourself, standing alone at a honky-tonk bar on the busiest night of the week. However, tonight you had a mission and you weren’t going home until it was accomplished. Life had been so hectic lately that tonight called for drastic measures, and your needs were going to be met before you went to sleep tonight.
A double shot of courage and you turn, leaning your back against the cool wood to stake your claim to the spot, in case you needed another round. Your eyes scan the crowd, taking in your options. A few people of interest catch your eyes, while most only earn a quick dismissal, a sad few even garnering a hell no.
A few songs later and you’re no closer to finding what you came for, the few you even enjoyed looking at already paired up. With a sigh you turn, signaling the worker behind the counter for another round. Your feet were hurting, your eyes itched from the eyeliner you liberally applied, and even though this dress did wonders for you it was uncomfortable as hell. You needed to make this quick.
You feel a presence before you hear him, his voice drowning in the mix of music and boots. “You from around here?”
In an attempt to seem uninterested you wait for your drink before you turn. It was worth it, because when you turn you find yourself both disappointed and face to face with a highly ranking hell no.
“Not interested.” You offer curtly, hoping he’ll get the hint. He doesn’t, instead squeezing in between you and the girl next to you so he could signal the bartender. “Two shots of jagermeister.” He turns to you, tapping your shoulder to regain your attention. “And for the lady?”
“A Quick Death.” You moan, but it’s lost to the rhythmic stomps of a lively line dance taking place inches from your exchange.
“ Crème de menthe?” He asks uncertainly, leaning in even closer.
You try again, turning to face him so he will get the hint, adding a firm head shake to seal the deal. “I’m fine.”
“Oh I know you’re fine, that’s a given.” He reaches out to grab your waist, your attempt to escape thwarted by the wall of bodies behind you. A chorus of expletives come as you collide, even more following as bottles hit the floor.
“Don’t touch me!” You yell, pushing his hand away before it makes contact. “I said-”
The words get cut off as a hand materializes on his shoulder, jerking him away from you with enough force to cause an immediate and wide berth to be given by everyone around. He seemed out of place here, dressed in shades of gray and black, sunglasses holding back his long hair even though it was well past nine pm.
“What the fuck?” Your would be tormentor yells, attempting to stand from the floor as his captor still holds his shirt tight.
Eyes, a dangerous shade of blue, look up from the man at his feet and find yours. You shiver, even though it feels like your entire body is on fire.
Bingo.
“Did he touch you?” He asks, free hand in a balled fist, ready to be put to use.
“No, he was just going to buy me a drink.”
A slight flicker of confusion skirts across his face, but it’s fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a tight lipped seriousness.
“See! The lady’s fine. I was here first, so fuck off!”
The cry from the floor earns him nothing but a tightened grip on his shirt and a quick lift, leaving him scrambling to secure footing upon his landing. He jumps when he manages to find it, finally coming as close to face to face as he could manage while being almost two heads shorter than his challenger.
“Look man, I was just buying her a drink, what’s it to you?”
“You tried to touch her without asking, so I thought you’d like to know how that felt.”
The threat leaves him wide eyed as you sip your drink happily, at the very least you’ll go home amused.
“Hey man I’m sorry, I’ll just go.”
“I’m not the one you own an apology. I’m not the one whose hips you wanted to grab; but I can be the one to grab yours.” He moves closer to his now squirming prey.
“What the hell? Fuck off man.”
Stormy eyes dance as a wicked smile pulls across his lips as he leans in, almost nose to nose. “You all done touchin’ women without consent?”
“Yessir.”
“Now what do you say to the lady?”
“Sorry Ma’am.”
“Do you accept?” The tall one asks, cutting his eyes towards you to maintain his proximity to the problem.
All you offer is a shrug, but you’re fighting against giggling like a school girl.
“Get outta here. Don’t let me see you again or God himself couldn’t stop me from stompin’ your ass.”
As soon as he’s allowed to, he scrambles off, running towards the stairs under carefully watching eyes.
“My hero.” You quip, but he cuts his eyes at you and words escape you.
Once he’s sure the threat is gone his whole body relaxes, and he moves closer to you with a smile. “Hi. What are you having?”
You down your shot and give him an enjoyable once over. “If I get my way, you.”
A hearty laugh meets your confession, but he doesn’t look surprised. “I can respect a woman who knows what she wants. I’m happy to oblige, but what’s the hurry, you got somewhere to be?”
You check your watch and look up to find him looking at you with his own hungry look of desire. “Well It’s 9:35 and I’d like to be home by 10, so yeah, kinda in a bit of a hurry. I’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s that’s calling my name.”
He seems amused and intrigued. “What flavor?”
“Cookie dough.”
A frown as he moves closer, hands on your waist to pull you in. “No Half Baked?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Too Bad.” He grins, taking your hand to pull you away from the bar. He moves you through the crowd, heading to the back corner.
“Here?” You ask, a bit trepidatiously, as he opens the door to a unisex restroom.
“I do my best work in public restrooms.” He shrugs, locking the door behind himself. “I’ll have you happy at home in no time.”
“I’ll be the judge of tha-” But your words get cut off as he turns, a wild look taking over his face. He crosses the space in a step. You instinctively withdrawl, back hitting the wall behind you with a thud. A breath and he’s sliding his hand under your chin to gain control, his other arm by your ear as he steadies himself on the wall. You’re trapped between him and the wall, looking into eyes that are nearly black from blown pupils.
This is gonna be fun.
He tightens his grip, lifting your face to look at him, apparently pleased by the long suppressed giggle that escapes you.
“Hush.” It’s a demand, one given with a tone that leaves your knees weak. They work to betray you, but his grip is tight, sliding down to grasp your neck instead. “What kinda dirty girl does this, with a stranger in a filthy public restroom?”
Your eyes instinctively move to scan the state of the bathroom, his words momentarily breaking the spell.
“Hey.” He steadies himself and slips his free hand into your hair, a pull that knocks your head on the wall regains your attention. “Focus.”
“You could find yourself in dangerous situations out here. I won’t always be there to protect you, save you from real creeps. A hero like me should be thanked.”
An attempt at a nod is all you can manage, still under his grip.
“Would you like to thank me?” He releases you, moving to cross his arms.
“Yes, please.”
A knock comes from outside the door.
“Go away.” He says in a tone that quells the knocking. “Better make it fast, pretty girl.”
Five minutes, one hand dryer shaped bruise on your back, a broken sink, and two possible concussions later and he’s walking you down the steps to the sidewalk.
He leans in, softer now in the glow of the street lamps, and steals a kiss.
“Can I call you?”
“The only thing you better call is the babysitter Bucky Barnes, because we’re late as hell.”
A laugh, warm and familiar, fills your ears as he slips his hand into yours and leads you towards the car.
“It’s not my fault we’re late, you never play by the rules. You went off script. I wasn’t planning on jealousy being a contender tonight." A playful tug causes you to bump into him. He steals another kiss before you regain your balance.
“I’m not the only one who went off script. I requested cowboy boots, pearl button shirt, tight jeans,and a cowboy hat to go with the vibe, and you roll in all John Wick. It kinda did it for me though, I’m not gonna lie.”
He chuckles at your pout. “Did you really wanna spend $500 for a one night bit?”
“Remember when it was your turn to pick last June? Those flights were $300 each and my foot went in that airplane toilet, it ruined my favorite boots.”
A memory plays for him in his mind and he smiles, agreeing once it finishes. “Fair enough.”
“Tonight was an interesting experience, but I'm not sure I care to revisit it.”
“Me either. Speaking of, do you have any sanitizer? It really was gross and I thought you’d see it there for a minute. I knew I’d lose you if you started thinking with your brain again.”
He pauses beside you as you search your purse, laughing at your gag when you process his confession. “I have a chapstick with no top, forty three cents, a half eaten granola bar, six cheerios, and a paci.”
“Oh, a snack! I’m famished.” He takes the bar, picking off lint before sticking it whole into his mouth.
“You’re disgusting.” You chide, wrinkling your nose at him before taking his hand, swinging it as you walk beside him.
“And yet this was your turn to pick and look at what you made me do.”
“Oh yeah, Bucky, it took so much convincing.”
A few moments pass, and you finally reach the car. He is going to shut your door but stops, leans over, and meets your eyes with a look like he’s about to make a serious confession.
“My love, can I ask you a question? It’s really been bothering me.”
“Of course baby, what is it?”
“Did you really not get me my ice cream?”
His intense worry at the trivial matter makes you laugh, your hand finding his with a squeeze.
“I got you a big one.”
“Yay!”
He closes the door and you watch him dance around the back of the car to his side. He slides in and reaches immediately for the console, lifting it to pull out a huge bottle of painkillers.
“Your head hurt as bad as mine?”
A nod, and you take a few from him. “And I think you broke my rib.”
“Sorry.” It’s soft, and sheepish as he pulls the car into reverse. “I’ll make it up to you next time.”
“I’m holding you to that, Bucky. Let’s go home and pay the babysitter her overtime. We would have made it on time if you didn’t bring out the enforcer.”
“I’ll take care of the babysitter’s late fees… and please, you love the enforcer, it’s in all the feedback reports.
“You keep those? I thought it was a joke you nerd.”
The tone from the bathroom is back, its accompanying look illuminated by shadows.
“Hush.”
And so, as usual, you do, sitting silently as he drives you home with a satisfied grin.
